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diff --git a/42730.txt b/42730.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 5f67332..0000000 --- a/42730.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6670 +0,0 @@ - STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON! (VOLUME II) - - - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost -no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license. - - - -Title: Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume II) -Author: William Black -Release Date: May 17, 2013 [EBook #42730] -Language: English -Character set encoding: US-ASCII - - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON! -(VOLUME II) *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines. - - - STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON! - - A Novel - - - BY - - WILLIAM BLACK, - - AUTHOR OF - "A DAUGHTER OF HETH," "MACLEOD OF DARE," ETC. - - - - _IN THREE VOLUMES._ - VOL. II. - - - - LONDON: - SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON, LIMITED - St. Dunstan's House - FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C. - 1891. - - [_All rights reserved._] - - - - - LONDON: - PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, - STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. - - - - - CONTENTS OF VOL. II. - -CHAPTER - - I. Doubts and Dreams - II. By Northern Seas - III. "Holy Palmer's Kiss" - IV. Interposition - V. The Gnawing Fox - VI. Put to the Proof - VII. Renewing is of Love - VIII. On the Brink - IX. "And hast thou played me this!" - - - - - STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON! - - - - CHAPTER I. - - DOUBTS AND DREAMS. - - -And at first Vincent was for rebelliously thrusting aside and ignoring -this information that had reached him so unexpectedly. Was he, on the -strength of a statement forwarded by an unknown correspondent in New -York, to suspect--nay, to condemn unheard--this proud and solitary old -man with whom he had all this while been on terms of such close and -friendly intimacy? Had he not had ample opportunities of judging -whether George Bethune was the sort of person likely to have done this -thing that was now charged against him? He went over these past weeks -and months. Was it any wonder that the old man's indomitable courage, -his passionate love of his native land, and the constant and assiduous -care and affection he bestowed on his granddaughter, should have aroused -alike the younger man's admiration and his gratitude? What if he talked -with too lofty an air of birth and lineage, or allowed his enthusiasm -about Scotland and Scottish song to lead him into the realms of -rodomontade: may not an old man have his harmless foibles? Any one who -had witnessed Maisrie's devotion to her grandfather, her gentle -forbearance and consideration, her skilful humouring of him, and her -never-failing faith in him, must have got to know what kind of man was -old George Bethune. - -And yet, when Vincent turned to the letter, it seemed terribly simple, -and straightforward, and sincere. There was no vindictiveness in it at -all; rather there was a pained surprise on the part of the writer that a -loyal Scot--one, too, who had been admitted into that fraternity of -song-writing exiles over the water--should have been guilty of such a -flagrant breach of trust. Then Lord Musselburgh's patronage, as the -young man knew very well, had taken the form of a cheque; so that the -charge brought by the writer of this letter practically was that George -Bethune had obtained, and might even now be obtaining, money by fraud -and false pretences. It was a bewildering thing--an impossible -thing--to think of. And now, as he strove to construct all sorts of -explanatory hypotheses, there seemed to stand in the background the -visionary form of Mrs. Ellison; and her eyes were cold and inquiring. -How had she come to suspect? It was not likely that she could be -familiar with the Scotch-American newspaper offices of the United -States. - -No, he could make nothing of it; his perplexity only increased. All -kinds of doubts, surmises, possible excuses went chasing each other -through his brain. Perhaps it was only literary vanity that had -prompted the old man to steal this project when it was placed before -him? Or perhaps he thought he had a better right to it, from his wide -knowledge of the subject? Vincent knew little of the laws and bye-laws -of the literary world; perhaps this was but a bit of rivalry carried too -far; and in any case, supposing the old man had erred in his eagerness -to claim this topic as his own, surely that did not prove him to be a -charlatan all the way through, still less a professional impostor? But -then his making use of this scheme to obtain money--and that not only -from Lord Musselburgh? Oh, well (the young man tried to convince -himself) there might not be so much harm in that. No doubt he looked -forward to issuing the volume, and giving his patrons value in return. -Old George Bethune, as he knew, was quite careless about pecuniary -matters: for example, if the bill for those little dinners at the -various restaurants was paid by some one, that was enough; the old -gentleman made no further inquiries. He was content to let his young -friend settle these trivial details; and Master Vin was willing enough. -In fact, the latter had devised a system by which the awkwardness of -calling for the bill in Maisrie's presence was avoided; this system -worked admirably; and Mr. Bethune asked no questions. Doubtless, if he -had remembered, or taken the trouble, he would have paid his shot like -anyone else. - -But amid all these conflicting speculations, there was one point on -which the mind of this young man remained clear and unswerving; and that -was that whatever might be the character or career of old George -Bethune, his principles or his practice, Maisrie was as far apart and -dissociated from them as if worlds intervened. If there had been any -malfeasance in this matter, she, at least, was no sharer in it. And the -more he pondered, the more anxious he became to know whether Maisrie had -any idea of the position in which her grandfather was placed. How much -would he be entitled to tell her, supposing she was in ignorance? And -when could he hope for an opportunity? And then again, failing an -opportunity, how was he to go and spend the evening with those two -friends of his, pretending to be entirely engrossed by their little -amusements and occupations outdoors and in, while all the time there was -lying in his pocket this letter, unanswered and perhaps unanswerable? - -Fortune favoured him. Towards evening, a little before six o'clock, he -heard a door shut on the other side of the street; and, lifting his -head, he perceived that it was Mr. Bethune who had just come out of the -house, alone. Here was a chance not to be missed. Waiting for a couple -of minutes, to make sure that the coast was clear, he passed downstairs, -crossed the little thoroughfare, and knocked. The landlady told him -that Miss Bethune was upstairs, and upstairs he went. The next moment a -voice that he knew well invited him to enter, and therewithal the two -young people found themselves face to face. - -"You are early," she said, with a little smile of welcome, as she -stopped in her sewing. - -"Yes," said he, and he added quite frankly, "I saw your father go out, -and I wished to speak with you alone. The fact is, Maisrie," he -continued, taking a chair opposite her, "I have heard from America -to-day about that proposal I made--to get some one to collect materials -for your grandfather's book; and the answer is rather a strange one--I -don't quite understand--perhaps you can tell me something about it." He -hesitated, and then went on: "Maisrie, I suppose it never occurred to -you that--that some one else in America might be proposing to bring out -a similar book?" - -She looked up quickly, and with a certain apprehension in her eyes. - -"Oh, yes, I knew. My grandfather told me there had been talk of such a -thing. What have you heard?" - -He stared at her. - -"You knew?" said he. "Then surely you might have told me!" - -There was something in his tone--some touch of reproach--that brought -the blood to her face; and yet she answered calmly and without -resentment---- - -"Did I not tell you?--nor my grandfather? But perhaps neither of us -thought it of much importance. It was only some vague talk, as I -understood; for everyone must have known that no one was so familiar -with the subject as my grandfather, and that it would be foolish to try -to interfere with him. At the same time I have always been anxious that -he should get on with the book, for various reasons; and if you have -heard anything that will induce him to begin at once, so much the -better." - -It was clear that she was wholly in ignorance of the true state of the -case. - -"No," said he, watching her the while. "What I have heard will not have -that effect, but rather the reverse. To tell you the plain truth, the -American or Scotch-American writer has finished his book, and it will be -out almost directly." - -She sprang to her feet with an involuntary gesture, and stood still for -a moment, her lips grown suddenly pale, and her eyes bewildered: and -then she turned away from him to hide her emotion, and walked to the -window. Instantly he followed her. - -"Maisrie, what is the matter!" he exclaimed in astonishment, for he -found that tears had sprung to her eyes. - -"Oh, it is a shame--it is a shame," she said, in broken accents, and her -hands were clenched, "to steal an old man's good name from him, and that -for so small a thing! What harm had he ever done them? The book was -such a small thing--they might have left it to him--what can they gain -from it----" - -"But Maisrie----!" - -"Oh, you don't understand, Vincent, you don't understand at all," she -said, in a despairing sort of way, "how my grandfather will be -compromised! He undertook to bring out the book; he got friends to help -him with money; and now--now--what will they think?--what can I say to -them?--what can I do? I--I must go to them--but--but what can I say?" - -Her tears were running afresh now; and at sight of them the young man -threw to the winds all his doubts and conjectures concerning George -Bethune's honesty. That was not the question now. - -"No, you shall not go to them!" said he, with indignant eyes. -"You?--you go to any one--in that way? No, you shall not. I will go. -It is a question of money: I will pay them their money back. Tell me -who they are, and the amounts; and they shall have every farthing of -their money back, and at once: what can they ask for more?" - -For a second she regarded him with a swift glance of more than -gratitude; but it was only to shake her head. - -"No, how could I allow you to do that? What explanation could you make? -There must be some other way--often I have wished that ray grandfather -would let me try to earn something--I am willing enough--and I am never -sure of my grandfather, because he can believe things so easily." She -had grown calmer now; and over her face there had come the curious look -of resignation that he had noticed when first he saw her, and that -seemed so strange in a young girl. "I might have expected this," she -went on, absently and sadly. "My grandfather can persuade himself of -anything: if he thinks a thing is done, that is enough. I am sure I -have urged him to get on with this book--not that I thought anybody -could be so mean and cruel as to step in and forestall him--but that he -might get free from those obligations; but I suppose when he had once -arranged all the materials in his own mind he felt that the rest was -easy enough and that there was no hurry. He takes things so -lightly--and now--the humiliation--well, I shall have to bear that----" - -"I say you shall not," he said, hotly. "I claim the privilege of a -friend, and you cannot refuse. Who are the people to whom your -grandfather is indebted over this volume?" he demanded. - -"For one, there is Lord Musselburgh," she said, but indifferently, as if -no hope lay that way. "And there is Mr. Carmichael, who owns an -Edinburgh paper--the _Chronicle_." - -"Very well," said he, promptly. "What is to hinder my explaining to -them that circumstances have occurred to prevent Mr. Bethune bringing -out the volume he had projected; and that he begs to return them the -money they had been good enough to advance?" - -She shook her head again and sighed. - -"No. It is very kind of you: You are always kind. But I could not -accept it. I must try some way myself--though I am rather helpless: it -is so difficult to get my grandfather to see things. I told you before: -he lives in a world of imagination, and he can persuade himself that -everything is well, no matter how we are situated. But it was shameful -of them," she said, with her indignation returning, and her lips -becoming at once proud and tremulous, "to cheat an old man out of so -poor and small a thing! Why, they all knew he was going to write this -book--all the writers themselves--they were known to himself -personally--and glad enough they were to send him their verses. Well, -perhaps they are not to blame. Perhaps they may have been told that he -had given up the idea--that is quite likely. At all events, I don't -envy the miserable creature who has gone and taken advantage of my -grandfather's absence--" - -She could say no more just then, for there was a sound below of the door -being opened and shut; and the next minute they could hear old George -Bethune coming with his active step up the flight of stairs, while he -sang aloud, in fine bravura fashion, "'Tis the march--'tis the -march--'tis the march of the Cameron men!" - -The little dinner in the restaurant that evening was altogether unlike -those that had preceded it. The simple and innocent gaiety--the sense of -snugness and good-comradeship--appeared to have fled, leaving behind it -a certain awkwardness and restraint. Vincent was entirely perplexed. -The story he had heard from America was in no way to be reconciled with -Maisrie's interpretation of her grandfather's position; but it was -possible that the old man had concealed from her certain material facts; -or perhaps had been able to blind himself to them. But what troubled -the young man most of all was to notice that the old look of pensive -resignation had returned to Maisrie's face. For a time a brighter life -had shone there; the natural animation and colour of youth had appeared -in her cheeks; and her eyes had laughter in them, and smiles, and -kindness and gratitude; but all that had gone now--quite suddenly, as it -seemed--and there had come back that strange sadness, that look of -unresisting and hopeless acquiescence. Alone of the little party of -three George Bethune retained his usual equanimity; nay, on this -particular evening he appeared to be in especial high spirits; and in -his careless and garrulous good-humour he took little heed of the -silence and constraint of the two younger folk. They made all the -better audience; and he could enforce and adorn his main argument with -all the illustrations he could muster; he was allowed to have everything -his own way. - -And perhaps Vincent, thinking of Maisrie, and her tears, and the -hopelessness and solitariness of her position, may have been inclined to -resent what he could not but regard as a callous and culpable -indifference. At all events, he took the first opportunity that -presented itself of saying-- - -"I hope I am not the bearer of ill-news, Mr. Bethune; but I have just -heard from New York that someone over there has taken up your subject, -and that a volume on the Scotch poets in America is just about ready, -and will be published immediately." - -Maisrie glanced timidly at her grandfather; but there was nothing to -fear on his account; he was not one to quail. - -"Oh, indeed, indeed," said he, with a lofty magnanimity. "Well, I hope -it will be properly and satisfactorily done: I hope it will be done in a -way worthy of the subject. Maisrie, pass the French mustard, if you -please. A grand subject: for surely these natural and simple -expressions of the human heart are as deeply interesting as the more -finished, the more literary, productions of the professional poet. A -single verse, rough and rugged as you like--and the living man stands -revealed. Ay, ay, so the book is coming out. Well, I hope the public -will be lenient; I hope the public will understand that these men are -not professional poets, who have studied and written in leisure all -their lives; it is but a homely lilt they offer; but it is genuine; it -is from the heart--and it speaks to the heart----" - -"But, grandfather," said Maisrie, "you were to have written the book!" - -"What matters it who compiles the pages?--that is nothing at all; that -is in a measure mechanical. I am only anxious that it should be well -done, with tact, and discretion, and modesty," he continued--and with -such obvious sincerity that Vincent was more than ever perplexed. "For -the sake of old Scotland I would willingly give my help for nothing--a -little guidance here and there--a few biographical facts--even an -amended line. But after all the men must speak for themselves; and well -they will speak, if the public will but remember that these verses have -for the most part been thought of during the busy rush of a commercial -life, and written down in a chance evening hour. It will be a message -across the sea, to show that Scotland's sons have not forgotten her. -MacGregor Crerar--Donald Ramsay--Hugh Ainslie--Evan MacColl--Andrew -Wanless--I wonder if they have got Wanless's address to the robin that -was sent to him from Scotland--you remember, Maisrie? - - 'There's mair than you, my bonnie bird, - Hae crossed the raging main, - Wha mourn the blythe, the happy days, - They'll never see again. - Sweet bird, come sing a sang to me, - Unmindfu' o' our ills; - And let us think we're ance again - 'Mang our ain heather hills!' - -The book will be welcomed by many a proud heart, and with moist eyes, -when it gets away up among the glens, to be read by the fireside and -repeated at the plough; and I think, Maisrie, when you and I take a walk -along Princes-street in Edinburgh we may see more than one or two copies -in the bookseller's windows. Then I hope _Blackwood_ will have a -friendly word for it; and I am sure Mr. Carmichael will allow me to give -it a hearty greeting in the _Weekly Chronicle_." - -"But, grandfather," said Maisrie, almost piteously, "surely you forget -that you undertook to bring out this book yourself!" - -"Yes, yes," said he, with perfect good humour. "But 'the best laid -schemes o' mice and men, gang aft agley.' And I do not grudge to some -other what might have been mine--I mean the association of one's name -with such a band of true and loyal Scotchmen. No; I do not grudge it; -on the contrary I am prepared to give the volume the most generous -welcome in my power; it is not for a brother Scot to find fault in such -a case, or to be niggard of his praise. I hope we are capable of -showing to the world that 'we're a' John Thampson's bairns.'" - -Maisrie was growing desperate. Her grandfather would not understand; -and how was she to speak plain--with Vincent listening to every word? -And yet she knew that now he was aware of all the circumstances; -concealment was impossible; and so she forced herself to utterance. - -"Grandfather," said she--and her face was flushed a rose-red, though she -seemed to take no heed of her embarrassment, so earnest and imploring -was her speech, "You cannot forget the obligations you put yourself -under--to Lord Musselburgh and Mr. Carmichael, and perhaps others. You -undertook to write the book. If that is impossible now, it is a great -misfortune; but at least there is one thing you must do; you must -explain to them what has happened, and give them back the money." - -The old man could no longer shelter himself behind his gay and -discursive optimism; he frowned impatiently. - -"I have already told you, Maisrie," said he, in severely measured -accents, "--and you are grown up now, you might understand for -yourself--that there are times and seasons when the introduction of -business matters is uncalled for, and, in fact, unbecoming; and one of -these is, surely, when we come out to spend a pleasant evening with our -young friend here. I do not think it necessary that we should discuss -our business affairs before him--I presume he would consider such a -thing somewhat inappropriate at a dinner-table." - -Maisrie's lips quivered; and her grandfather saw it. Instantly he -changed his tone. - -"Come, come," said he, with a cheerful good nature. "Enough, enough. I -can quite comprehend how the _res angusta domi_ may tend to give money, -and questions of money, an over-prominence in the minds of women. But -money, and the obligations that money may place us under, are surely a -very secondary affair, to one who looks at human nature with a larger -view. I thank God," he went on, with much complacency, "that I have -never been the slave of avarice, that even in times of great necessity I -have kept subsidiary things in their proper sphere. I do not boast; our -disposition is as much a matter of inheritance as the shape of our -fingers or feet; and that disposition may be handed down without the -accompanying circumstances that developed it. You follow me, Mr. -Harris?" - -"Oh, yes," said the younger man, gloomily; that quiver of Maisrie's lips -was still in his mind. - -For the first time since he had known them Vincent was glad to get away -from his companions that night: the situation in which he found them and -himself alike involved was altogether so strange that he wanted time to -think over it. And first of all he put aside that matter of the -Scotch-American book as of minor importance: no doubt some kind of -explanation was possible, if all the facts were revealed. It was when -he came to consider the position and surroundings of Maisrie Bethune -that the young man grew far more seriously concerned; indeed, his heart -became surcharged with an immeasurable pity and longing to help. He -began to understand how it was that a premature sadness and resignation -was written on that beautiful face, and why her eyes so rarely smiled; -and he could guess at the origin of that look of hopelessness, as though -she despaired of getting her grandfather to acknowledge the realities -and the responsibilities of the actual life around him. To Vincent the -circumstances in which this young girl was placed seemed altogether -tragic; and when he regarded the future that might lie before her, it -was with a blank dismay. - -Moreover, he now no longer sought to conceal from himself the nature of -this engrossing interest in all that concerned her, this fascination and -glamour that drew him towards her, this constant solicitude about her -that haunted him day and night. Love had originally sprung from pity, -perhaps; her loneliness had appealed to him, and her youth, and the -wistful beauty of her eyes. But even now that he knew what caused his -heart to leap when he heard her footfall on the stairs, or when he -happened to look up at the table to find her regard fixed on him, there -was no wild desire for a declaration of his fond hopes and dreams. -Rather he hung back--as if something mysteriously sacred surrounded her. -He had asked her for a flower: that was all. Probably she had -forgotten. There seemed no place for the pretty toyings of love-making -in the life of this girl, who appeared to have missed the gaiety of -childhood, and perhaps might slip on into middle-age hardly knowing what -youth had been. And yet what a rose was ready to blow there--he said to -himself--if only sunshine, and sweet rains, and soft airs were -propitious! It was the wide, white days of June that were wanted for -her, before the weeks and the months went by, and the darkness and the -winter came. - -No, he did not speak; perhaps he was vaguely aware that any abrupt -disclosure on his part might startle her into maiden reserve; whereas in -their present relations there existed the frankest confidence. She made -no secret of the subdued and happy content she experienced in this -constant companionship; her eyes lit up when he approached; oftentimes -she called him 'Vincent' without seeming to notice it. She had given -him a flower?--yes, as she would have given him a handful at any or -every hour of the day, if she fancied it would please him, and without -ulterior thought. They were almost as boy and girl together in this -daily intercourse, this open and avowed comradeship, this easy and -unrestricted familiarity. But sometimes Vincent looked ahead--with dim -forebodings. He had not forgotten the murmur of that wide sea of -separation that he had beheld as it were in a vision; the sound of it, -faint, and sad, and ominous, still lingered in his ears. - -It was in one of these darker moments that he resolved, at whatever -risk, to acquaint old George Bethune with something of his irresolute -hopes and fears. The opportunity arrived quite unexpectedly. One -morning he was as usual on his way to his lodgings when, at the corner -of Upper Grosvenor Street, he met Mr. Bethune coming into Park Lane -alone. - -"Maisrie is well?" Vincent asked, in sudden alarm, for it was the rarest -thing in the world to find grandfather and granddaughter separated. - -"Oh, yes, yes," the old man said. "She has some household matters to -attend to--dressmaking, I think. Poor lass, she has to be economical; -indeed, I think she carries it to an extreme; but it's no use arguing -with Maisrie; I let her have her own way." - -"I wanted to speak to you--about her," Vincent said, and he turned and -walked with the old man, across the street into Hyde Park. "I have -often wished to speak to you--and--and of course there was no chance -when she herself was present--" - -He hesitated, casting about for a beginning; then he pulled himself -together, and boldly flung himself into it. - -"I hope you won't take it for impertinence," said he. "I don't mean it -that way--very different from that. But you yourself, sir, you may -remember, you spoke to me about Maisrie when we were down at Henley -together--about what her future might be, if anything happened to -you--and you seemed concerned. Well, it is easy to understand how you -should be troubled--it is terrible to think of a young girl like -that--so sensitive, too--being alone in the world, and not over -well-provided for, as you have hinted to me. It would be so strange and -unusual a position for a young girl to be in--without relations--without -friends--and having no one to advise her or protect her in any way. Of -course you will say it is none of my business----" - -"But you would like to have it made your business," said old George -Bethune, with a bland and good-natured frankness that considerably -astounded his stammering companion. "My dear young friend, I know -perfectly what you would say. Do you think I have been blind to the -friendly and even affectionate regard you have shown towards my -granddaughter all this while, or to the pleasure she has enjoyed in -having you take part in our small amusements? No, I have not been -blind. I have looked on and approved. It has been an added interest to -our lives; between you and her I have observed the natural sympathy of -similar age; and I have been glad to see her enjoying the society of one -nearer her own years. But now--now, if I guess aright, you wish for -some more definite tie." - -"Would it not be better?" the young man said, breathlessly. "If there -were some clear understanding, would not a great deal of the uncertainty -with regard to the future be removed? You see, Mr. Bethune, I haven't -spoken a word to Maisrie--not a word. I have been afraid. Perhaps I -have been mistaken in imagining that she might in time--be inclined to -listen to me----" - -He stopped: then he proceeded more slowly--and it might have been -noticed that his cheek was a little paler than usual. "Yes, it may be -as you say. Perhaps it is only that she likes the companionship of one -of her own age. That is natural. And then she is very kind and -generous: I may have been mistaken in thinking there was a possibility -of something more." - -He was silent now and abstracted: as he walked on he saw nothing of what -was around him. - -"Come, come, my friend!" George Bethune exclaimed, with much benignity. -"Do not vex yourself with useless speculations; you are looking too far -ahead; you and she are both too young to burden yourselves with grave -responsibilities. A boyish and girlish attachment is a very pretty and -engaging thing; but it must not be taken too seriously----" - -And here for a second a flash of resentment fired through Vincent's -heart: was it well of this old man to speak so patronisingly of Maisrie -as but a child when it was he himself who had thrust upon her more than -the responsibilities and anxieties of a grown woman? - -"Take things as they are! Do you consider that you have much cause to -complain, either the one or the other of you?" old George Bethune -resumed, in a still lighter strain. "You have youth and strength, good -health, and a constant interest in the life going on around you: is not -that sufficient? Why, here am I, nearing my three score years and ten; -and every morning that I awake I know that there lies before me another -beautiful, interesting, satisfactory day, that I am determined to enjoy -to the very utmost of my power. To-morrow?--to-morrow never yet -belonged to anybody--never was of any use to anybody: give me to-day, -and I am content to let to-morrow shift for itself! Yes," he continued, -in firm and proud and almost joyous accents, and he held his head erect, -"you may have caught me in some unguarded moment--some moment of nervous -weakness or depression--beginning to inquire too curiously into the -future; but that was a transient folly; I thank God that it is not my -habitual mood! Repining, complaining, anticipating: what good do you -get from that? Surely I have had as much reason to repine and complain -as most; but I do not waste my breath in remonstrating with 'fickle -Fortune.' 'Fickle Fortune!'" he exclaimed, in his scorn--"if the -ill-favoured jade were to come near me I would give her a wallop across -the buttocks with my staff, and bid her get out of my road! 'Fickle -Fortune!' She may 'perplex the poor sons of a day;' but she shall never -perplex me--by God and Saint Ringan!" - -He laughed aloud in his pride. - -"Why," said he, suddenly changing into quite another vein, "have you not -yet come to know that the one priceless thing to think of in the -world--the one extraordinary thing--is that at this precise moment you -can see? For millions and millions of years these skies have been -shining, and the clouds moving, and the seas running blue all round the -shores; and you were dead and blind to them; unknowing and unknown. -Generation after generation of men--thousands and thousands of -them--were looking at these things; they knew the hills and the clouds -and the fields; the world existed for them; but you could see nothing, -you were as if lying dead. Then comes your brief instant; it is your -turn; your eyes are opened; and for a little while--a passing -second--the universe is revealed to you. Don't you perceive that the -marvellous thing is that out of the vast millions of ages it should be -this one particular moment, this present moment, that happens to be -given to you? And instead of receiving it with amazement and wonder and -joy, why, you must begin to fret and worry and lay schemes, as if you -were unaware that the gates of the empty halls of Pluto were waiting to -engulf you and shut you up once more in darkness and blindness. Look at -those elm-trees--at the water down there--at the moving clouds: isn't it -wonderful to think that in the immeasurable life of the world this -should happen to be the one moment when these things are made visible to -you?" - -Vincent perceived in a kind of way what the old man meant; but he did -not understand why this should make him less concerned about Maisrie's -position, or less eagerly covetous of winning her tender regard. - -"Well, well," said old George Bethune, "perhaps it is but natural that -youth should be impatient; while old age may well be content with such -small and placid comforts as may be met with. I should have thought -there was not much to complain of in our present manner of life--if you -will allow me to include you in our tiny microcosm. It is not exciting; -it is simple, and wholesome; and I hope not altogether base and gross. -And as regards Maisrie, surely you and she have enough of each other's -society even as matters stand. Let well alone, my young friend; let -well alone; that is my advice to you. And I may say there are especial -and important reasons why I should not wish her to be bound by any -pledge. You know that I do not care to waste much thought on what may -lie ahead of us; but still, at the same time, there might at any moment -happen certain things which would make a great difference in Maisrie's -circumstances----" - -Vincent had been listening in a kind of absent and hopeless way; but -these few words instantly aroused his attention: perhaps this was the -real reason why the old man wished Maisrie to remain free? - -"A great and marvellous change indeed," he continued, with some increase -of dignity in his manner and in his mode of speech. "A change which -would affect me also, though that would be of little avail now. But as -regards my granddaughter, she might be called upon to fill a position -very different from that she occupies at present; and I should not wish -her to be hampered by anything pertaining to her former manner of life. -Not that she would ever prove forgetful of past kindness; that is not in -her nature; but in these new circumstances she might find herself -confronted by other duties. Enough said, I hope, on that point. And -well I know," he added, with something of a grand air, "that in whatever -sphere Maisrie Bethune may be placed, she will act worthily of her name -and of the obligations it entails." - -He suddenly paused. There was a poorly-clad woman going by, carrying in -one arm a baby, while with the other hand she half dragged along a small -boy of five or six. She did not look like a professional London beggar, -nor yet like a country tramp; but of her extreme wretchedness there -could be no doubt; while there was a pinched look as of hunger in her -cheeks. - -"Wait a bit!--where are you going?" old George Bethune said to her, in -blunt and ready fashion. - -The woman turned round startled and afraid. - -"I am making for home, sir," she said, timidly. - -"Where's that?" he demanded. - -"Out Watford way, sir--Abbot's Langley it is." - -"Where have you come from?" - -"From Leatherhead, sir." - -"On foot all the way?" - -"Yes, indeed, sir," she said, with a bit of a sigh. - -"And with very little food, I warrant?" said he. - -"Little indeed, sir." - -"Have you any money?" - -"Yes, sir--a matter of a few coppers left. I gave what I had to my old -mother--she thought she was dying, and sent for me to bring the two -little boys to see her--but she's better, sir, and now I'm making for -home again." - -"Oh, you gave what you had to your mother? Well," said he, deliberately, -"I don't know whether what I have will amount to as much, but whatever -it is you are welcome to it." - -He dived into his trousers pockets and eventually produced about half a -handful of shillings and pence; then he searched a small -waistcoat-pocket and brought forth two sovereigns. It was all his -wealth. - -"Here, take that, and in God's name get yourself some food, woman!" said -he, unconsciously lapsing into a pronounced Scotch accent. "You look -starved. And this bit of a laddie, here--buy him some sweet things as -well as bread and butter when you get up to the shops. And then when -you're outside the town, you'll just give some honest fellow a shilling, -and you'll get a cast of an empty cart to help you on your road. Well, -good-day to ye--no, no, take what there is, I tell ye, woman!--bless me, -you'll need most of it before you get to your own fireside. On your -ways, now!--and when you reach the shops, don't forget the barley-sugar -for this young shaver." - -So he turned away, leaving the poor woman so overwhelmed that she had -hardly a word of thanks; and when he had gone for some little distance -all he said was--with something of a rueful laugh-- - -"There went my luncheon; for I promised Maisrie I should not return home -till near dinner-time." - -"And you have left yourself without a farthing?" the young man -exclaimed. "Well, that's all right--I can lend you a few sovereigns." - -"No, no," said old George Bethune, with a smile, and he held up his hand -in deprecation. "I am well pleased now; and if I should suffer any -pangs of starvation during the day, I shall be glad to think that I can -endure them better than that poor creature with the long tramp before -her. To-night," said he, rubbing his palms together with much -satisfaction, "to-night, when we meet at Mentavisti's, I shall be all -the hungrier and all the happier. Ah, must you go now?--good-bye, then! -We shall see you at half-past six, I suppose; and meantime, my friend, -dismiss from your mind those cares and anxious thoughts about the -future. 'To the gods belongs to-morrow!'" - -Now this little incident that had just happened in Hyde Park comforted -Vincent exceedingly. Here was something definite that he could proudly -set against the vague and unworthy suspicions of Mrs. Ellison. Surely -the man was no plausible impostor, no charlatan, no crafty schemer, who -could so readily empty his pockets, and look forward to a day's -starvation, in order to help a poor and unknown vagrant-woman? No doubt -it was but part and parcel of his habitual and courageous disregard of -consequences, his yielding to the generous impulse of the moment; but, -if the truth must be told, Master Vin was at times almost inclined to -envy old George Bethune his splendid audacity and self-confidence. Why -should the younger man be the one to take forethought for the morrow; -while the venerable gray beard was gay as a lark, delighted with the -present hour, and defiant of anything that might happen? And what if -the younger man were to follow the precepts of the elder, and lapse into -a careless content? Their way of living, as George Bethune had pointed -out, was simple, happy, and surely harmless. There were those three -forming a little coterie all by themselves; enjoying each other's -society; interested in each other's pursuits. The hours of the daytime -were devoted to individual work; then came the glad reunion of the -evening and the sallying forth to this or the other restaurant; -thereafter the little dinner in the corner, with its glimpses of foreign -folk, and its gay talk filled with patriotism and poetry and -reminiscences of other lands; finally the hushed enchantment of that -little parlour, with Maisrie and her violin, with dominoes, and -discussions literary and political, while always and ever there reigned -a perfect frankness and good-fellowship. Yes, it seemed a happy kind of -existence, for these three. And was not old George Bethune in the right -in thinking that the young people should not hamper themselves by any -too grave responsibilities? A boyish and girlish attachment (as he -deemed it to be) was a pretty and amusing and engaging thing; quite a -little idyll, in fact--but not to be taken too seriously. And where the -future was all so uncertain, was it not better to leave it alone? - -Specious representations, indeed! But this young man, who had his own -views and ways of thinking, remained stubbornly unconvinced. It was -because the future was so vague that he wanted it made more definite; -and as he thought of Maisrie, and of what might befall her when she was -alone in the world, and as he thought of his own far-reaching resolves -and purposes, he did not in the least consider the relationship now -existing between him and her as being merely a pretty little pastoral -episode, that would lead to nothing. No doubt their present way of -living had many charms and fascinations, if only it would last. But it -would not last; it was impossible it should last. Looking back over -these past months, Vincent was surely grateful enough for all the -pleasant and intimate companionship he had enjoyed; but his temperament -was not like that of George Bethune; the passing moment was not -everything to him. He had an old head on young shoulders; and it needed -no profound reflection to tell him that life could not always consist of -the Restaurant Mentavisti and _La Claire Fontaine_. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - - BY NORTHERN SEAS. - - -Here, in front of the great, square, old-fashioned Scotch mansion, which -was pleasantly lit up by the morning sun, stood the family waggonette -which had just been filled by those of the house-party who were bound -for church; and here, too, in the spacious porch, was Mrs. Ellison, -smiling her adieux with rather a sad air. - -"Good-bye, dear," said her kindly hostess. "I hope you will have got -rid of your headache by the time we get back." And therewith the -carriage was driven away along the pebbled pathway, through an avenue of -magnificent wide-spreading elms. - -Then the tall and graceful young widow, who carried a book in her hand, -glanced around her. There was no living thing near except a white -peacock that was solemnly stalking across the lawn. Mrs. Ellison -strolled towards a hammock slung between two maples, and stood there for -a moment, and considered. Should she attempt it? There was no onlooker, -supposing some slight accident befell. Finally, however, her courage -gave way; she returned to the front of the house; and took possession of -a long, low lounging-chair, where she could sit in the sun, and yet have -the pages of her book in shadow. - -There was a footfall behind her: Lord Musselburgh made his appearance, -smoking a cigarette. - -"Why," said she, with a prettily affected surprise, "haven't you gone to -church? I made sure you had walked on." - -"How could I leave you all by yourself," said the young man, with tender -sympathy, "and you suffering from a headache?" - -Then she professed to be vexed and impatient. - -"Oh, do go away to church!" she said. "You can be in plenty of time, if -you walk fast enough. If you stop here you know what will go on at -lunch. Those Drexel girls can look more mischief than any other twenty -girls could say or do." - -"Oh, no," said he, plaintively, "don't send me away! Let us go for a -walk rather. You know, a woman's headache is like her hat--she can put -it on or off when she likes. Come!" - -"I consider you are very impertinent," said she, with something of -offended dignity. "Do you think I shammed a headache in order to stay -behind?" - -"I don't think anything," said he, discreetly. - -"You will be saying next that it was to have this meeting with you?" - -"Why, who could dare to imagine such a thing!" - -"Oh, very well, very well," said she, with a sudden change to -good-nature, as she rose from the chair. "I forgive you. And I will be -with you in a second." - -She was hardly gone a couple of minutes; but in that brief space of time -she had managed to make herself sufficiently picturesque; for to the -simple and neat grey costume which clad her tall and slim and elegant -figure she had added a bold-sweeping hat of black velvet and black -feathers, while round her neck she had wound a black boa, its two long -tails depending in front. Thus there was no colour about her, save what -shone in her perfect complexion, and in the light and expression of her -shrewd, and dangerous, and yet grave and demure blue eyes. - -"And really and frankly," said she, as they left the house together, "I -am not sorry to have a chance of a quiet talk with you; for I want to -tell you about my nephew; I am sure you are almost as much interested in -him as I am; and you would be as sorry as I could be if anything were to -happen to him. And I am afraid something is going to happen to him. -His letters to me have entirely changed of late. You know how proud Vin -is by nature--and scornful, too, when you don't act up to his lofty -standard; and when I ventured to hint that he might keep his eyes open -in dealing with that old mountebank and his pretty granddaughter, oh! -the tempestuous indignation of my young gentleman! He seemed to think -that a creature such as I--filled with such base suspicions--was not fit -to live. Well, I did not quarrel with my handsome boy; in fact, I -rather admired his rage and disdain of me; it was part of the singleness -of his nature; for he believes everybody to be as straightforward and -sincere as himself; and he has a very fine notion of loyalty towards his -friends. And vindictive, too, the young villain was; I can tell you I -was made to feel the enormity of my transgression; I was left to wallow -in that quagmire of unworthy doubt in which I had voluntarily plunged -myself. So matters went on; and I could only hope for one of two -things--either that he might find out something about those people that -would sever his connection with them, or that his passing fancy for the -girl would gradually fade away. I made sure he would tire of that -oracular old humbug; or else he would discover there was nothing at all -behind the mysterious eyes and the tragic solemnity of that artful young -madam. Oh, mind you," she continued, as they walked along under the -over-branching maples, amid a rustle of withered October leaves, "mind -you, I don't suspect her quite as much as I suspect the venerable Druid; -and I don't recall anything that I said about her. I admit that she -beglamoured me with her singing of a French Canadian song; but what is -that?--what can you tell of any one's moral or mental nature from a -trick of singing--the thrill of a note--some peculiar quality of voice? -Why, the greatest wretch of a man I ever knew had the most beautiful, -innocent, honest brown eyes--they could make you believe anything--all -the women said he was so good, and so different from other men--well, I -will tell you that story some other time--I found out what the honesty -of the clear brown eyes was worth." - -Here she was interrupted by his having to open an iron gate for her. -When they passed through, they came in sight of a solitary little bay of -cream-white sand, touched here and there with russet weed, and ending in -a series of projecting rocky knolls covered with golden bracken; while -before them lay the wide plain of the sea, ruffled into the intensest -blue by a brisk breeze from the north. Still further away rose the great -mountains of Mull, and the long stretch of the Morven hills, all of a -faint, ethereal crimson-brown in the sunlight, with every glen and -water-course traced in lines of purest ultramarine. They had all this -shining world to themselves; and there was an absolute silence save for -the continuous whisper of the ripples that broke along the rocks; whilst -the indescribable murmur--the strange inarticulate voices--of the -greater deep beyond seemed to fill all the listening air. - -"And I might have known I was mistaken in Vin's case," she went on, -absently. "He was never the one to be caught by a pretty face, and be -charmed with it for a time, and pass on and forget. He always kept aloof -from that kind of thing--perhaps with a touch of impatient scorn. No; I -might have known it was something more serious: so serious, indeed, is -it, that he has at last condescended to appeal to me--fancy that!--fancy -Vin coming down from his high horse, and appealing to me to be -reasonable, to be considerate, and to stand his friend. And the pages -he writes to persuade me! Really, if you were to believe him, you would -think this old man one of the most striking and interesting figures the -world has ever seen--so fearless in his pride, so patient in his -poverty, so stout-hearted in his old age. Then his splendid enthusiasm -about fine things in literature; his magnanimity over the wrongs he has -suffered; his pathetic affection for his granddaughter and his tender -care of her--why, you would take him to be one of the grandest human -creatures that ever breathed the breath of life! Then about the girl: -don't I remember _La Claire Fontaine_? Oh, yes, I remember _La Claire -Fontaine_--and little else! You see, that is just where the trouble -comes in as regards my nephew. Hard-headed as he is, and brusque of -speech--sometimes, not always--he is just stuffed full of Quixotism; and -I daresay it is precisely because this girl is shy and reserved, and has -rather appealing eyes, that he imagines all kinds of wonderful things -about her, and has made a saint of her, to be worshipped. A merry lass, -with a saucy look and a clever tongue, would have no chance with Vin; he -would stare at her--perhaps only half-disguising his contempt; and then, -if you asked him what he thought of her he would probably say, with a -curl of the lip, 'Impertinent tomboy!' But when he comes to speak of -this one, why, you would think that all womanhood had undergone some -process of deification in her solitary self. Come here, and by this -divine lamp you shall read and understand whatever has been great and -noble and pure and beautiful in all the song and story of the world! And -yet perhaps it is not altogether absurd," the pretty Mrs. Ellison -continued, with a bit of a sigh. "It is pathetic, rather. I wish there -were a few more such men as that; the world could get on very well with -a few more of them. But they don't seem to exist nowadays." - -"Ah, if you only knew! Perhaps your experience has been unfortunate," -her companion said, wistfully: whereupon the young widow, without -turning her head towards him, perceptibly sniggered. - -"Oh, _you_!" she exclaimed, in derision. "You! You needn't pretend to -come into that exalted category--no, indeed----" - -"I suppose people have been saying things about me to you," said he, -with a certain affectation of being hurt. "But you needn't have -believed them all the same." - -"People!" she said. "People! Why, everybody knows what you are! A -professional breaker of poor young innocent girls' hearts. Haven't we -all heard of you? Haven't we all heard how you went on in America? No -such stories came home about Vin, I can assure you. Oh, we all know -what you are!" - -"You may have heard one story," said he, somewhat stiffly; "but if you -knew what it really was, you would see that it was nothing to joke -about. Some time I will tell you. Some other time when you are in a -more friendly, a more believing and sympathetic, mood." - -"Oh, yes," she said, laughing. "A very heart-rending story, no doubt! -And you were deeply injured, of course, being so extremely innocent! You -forget that I have seen you in a good many houses; you forget that I -have been watching your goings-on with Louie Drexel, in this very place. -Do you think I can't recognise the old hand--the expert--the artist? -Lord Musselburgh, you can't deceive me." - -"Probably not," said he, sharply. "If all tales be true you have -acquired some experience yourself." - -"Oh, who said that about me!" she demanded, with indignation (but her -eyes were not indignant, they were rather darkly amused, if only he had -made bold to look at them.) "Who dared to say such a thing? And of -course you listened without a word of protest: probably you assented! -What it is to have friends! But perhaps some day I, also, may have a -little story to tell you; and then you may understand me a little -better." - -Here there was another farm-gate for him to open, so that their talk was -again interrupted. Then they passed under a series of lofty grey crags -hung with birch, and hazel, and rowan, all in their gorgeous autumnal -tints; until they came in sight of another secluded little bay, with -silver ripples breaking along the sand, and with small outlying islands -covered with orange seaweed where they were not white with gulls. And -here was a further stretch of that wind-swept, dark blue, striated sea, -with the lonely hills of Morven and Kingairloch, sun-dappled and -cloud-dappled, rising into the fair turquoise sky. There was a scent of -dew-wet grass mingling with the stronger odour of the seaweed the breeze -was blowing freshly in. And always there came to them the long, -unceasing, multitudinous murmur of those moving waters, that must have -sounded to them so great and vast a thing beside the small trivialities -of their human speech. - -"Have you read Vin's article in the _Imperial Review_?" said Mrs. -Ellison, flicking at a thistle with her sun-shade. - -"Not yet. But I saw it announced. About American State Legislatures, -isn't it, or something of that kind?" - -"It seemed to me very ably and clearly written," she said. "But that is -not the point. I gather that Vin has been contemplating all kinds of -contingencies; and that he is now trying to qualify for the post of -leader-writer on one of the daily newspapers. What does that mean?--it -means that he is determined to marry this girl, and that he thinks it -probable there may be a break between himself and his father in -consequence. There may be?--there will be, I give you my word! My -amiable brother-in-law's theories of Socialism and Fraternity and -Universal Equality are very pretty toys to play with--and they have even -gained him a sort of reputation through his letters to the _Times_; but -he doesn't bring them into the sphere of actual life. Of course, Vin -has his own little money; and I, for one, why, I shouldn't see him -starve in any case; but I take it that he is already making provision -for the future and its responsibilities. Now isn't that dreadful? I -declare to you, Lord Musselburgh, that when I come down in the morning -and find a letter from him lying on the hall-table, my heart sinks--just -as if I heard the men on the stair bringing down a coffin. Because I -know if he is captured by those penniless adventurers, it will be all -over with my poor lad; he will be bound to them; he will have to support -them; he will have to sacrifice friends and fortune, and a future surely -such as never yet lay before any young man. Just think of it! Who ever -had such possibilities before him? Who ever had so many friends, all -expecting great things of him? Who ever was so petted and caressed and -admired by those whose slightest regard is considered by the world at -large an honour; and--I will say this for my boy---who ever deserved it -more, or remained all through it so unspoiled, and simple, and manly? -Oh, you don't know what he has been to me--what I have hoped for him--as -if he were my only brother, and one to be proud of! His father is well -known, no doubt; he has got a sort of academic reputation; but he is not -liked; people don't talk about him as if--as if they cared for him. But -Vincent could win hearts as well as fame: ah, do you think I don't -know?--trust a woman to know! There is a strange kind of charm and -fascination about him: I would put the most accomplished lady-killer in -England in a drawing-room, and I know where the girls' eyes would go the -moment my Vin made his appearance: perhaps it is because he is so -honestly indifferent to them all. And it isn't women only; it isn't -merely his good looks; every one, young and old, man and woman, is taken -with him; there is about him a sort of magic and glamour of -youth--and--and bright promise--and straightforward intention--oh, I -can't tell you what!--but--but--it's something that makes me love him!" - -"That is clear enough," said he; and indeed there was a ring of -sincerity in her tone, sometimes even a tremor in her voice--perhaps of -pride. - -"Well," she resumed, as they strolled along under the beetled crags that -were all aflame with golden-yellow birch and blood-red rowan, "I am not -going to stand aside and see all that fair promise lost. I own I am a -selfish woman; and hitherto I have kept aloof, as I did not want to get -myself into trouble. I am going to hold aloof no longer. The more I -hear the more I am convinced that Vin has fallen into the hands of an -unscrupulous sharper--perhaps a pair of them; and I mean to have his -eyes opened. Here is this new revelation about that American book, -which simply means that you were swindled out of L50----" - -"One moment," her companion said hastily, and there was a curious look -of mortification on his face. "I had no right to tell you that story. I -broke confidence: I am ashamed of myself. And I assure you I was not -swindled out of any L50. When the old man came to me, with his Scotch -accent, and his Scotch patriotism, and his Scotch plaid thrown over his -shoulder--well, 'my heart warmed to the tartan'; and I was glad of the -excuse for helping him. I did not want any book; and I certainly did -not want the money back. But when Vin came to me, and made -explanations, and finally handed me a cheque for L50, there was -something in his manner that told me I dared not refuse. It was -something like 'Refuse this money, and you doubt the honour of the woman -I am going to marry.' But seeing that I did take it, I have now nothing -to say. My mouth is shut--ought to have been shut, rather, only you and -I have had some very confidential chats since we came up here." - -"All the same, it was a downright swindle," said she, doggedly; "and the -fact that Vin paid you back the money makes it none the less a swindle. -Now I will tell you what I am about to do. I must be cruel to be kind. -I am going to enlist the services of George Morris----" - -"Sir George?" he asked. - -"No, no; George Morris, the solicitor--his wife and I are very great -friends--and I know he would do a great deal for me. Very well; he must -get to know simply everything about this old man--his whole history--and -if it turns out to be what I imagine, then some of us will have to go to -Vin and tell him the truth. It won't be a pleasant duty; but duty never -is pleasant. I know I shall be called a traitor for my share in it. -Here is Vin appealing to me to be his friend--as if I were not his -friend!--begging me to come and take this solitary and friendless girl -by the hand, and all the rest of it; and instead of that I go behind his -back and try to find out what will destroy his youthful romance for -ever. But it's got to be done," said the young widow, with a sigh. "It -will be a wrench at first; then six months' despair; and a life-time of -thankfulness thereafter. And of course I must give George Morris all -the help I can. He must make enquiries, for one thing, at the office of -the _Edinburgh Chronicle_: I remember at Henley the old gentleman spoke -of the proprietor as a friend of his. Then the man you know in New York, -who gave Mr. Bethune a letter of introduction to you: what is his name -and address?" - -"Oh, no," said Lord Musselburgh, shrinking back, as it were. "No; I -don't want to take part in it. Of course, you may be acting quite -rightly; no doubt you are acting entirely in Vin's interests; but--but I -would rather have nothing to do with it." - -"And yet you call yourself Vin's friend! Come, tell me!" she said, -coaxingly. - -Again he refused. - -"Mind you, I believe I could find out for myself," she went on. "I know -that he is the editor of a newspaper in New York--a Scotch newspaper: -come, Lord Musselburgh, give me his name, or the name of the newspaper!" - -He shook his head. - -"No--not fair," he said. - -Then she stopped, and faced him, and regarded him with arch eyes. - -"And yet it was on this very pathway, only yesterday morning, that you -swore that there was nothing in the world that you wouldn't do for me!" - -"That was different," said he, with some hesitation. "I meant as regards -myself. This concerns some one else." - -"Oh, very well," said she, and she walked on proudly. "I dare say I can -find out." - -He touched her arm to detain her. - -"Have you a note-book?" he asked. - -She took from her pocket a combined purse and note-book; and without a -word--or a smile--she pulled out the pencil. - -"'Hugh Anstruther, _Western Scotsman_ Office, New York,'" said he, -rather shamefacedly. - -"There, that is all right!" she said, blithely, and she put the -note-book in her pocket again. "That is as far as we can go in that -matter at present; and now we can talk of something else. What is the -name of this little bay?" - -"Little Ganovan, I believe." - -"And the other one we passed?" - -"Port Ban." - -"What is the legend attached to the robber's cave up there in the -rocks?" - -"The legend? Oh, some one told me the gardener keeps his tools in that -cave." - -"What kind of a legend is that!" she said, impatiently; and then she -went on with her questions. "Why doesn't anybody ever come round this -way?" - -"I suppose because they know we want the place to ourselves." - -"And why should we want the place to ourselves?" - -This was unexpected. He paused. - -"Ah," said he, "what is the use of my telling you? All your interest is -centred on Vin. I suppose a woman can only be interested in one man at -any one time." - -"Well, I should hope so!" the young widow said, cheerfully. "Shall we -go round by the rocks or through the trees?" - -For they were now come to a little wood of birch and larch and pine; and -without more ado he led the way, pushing through the outlying tall -bracken and getting in underneath the branches. - -"I suppose," said he, in a rather rueful tone, "that you don't know what -is the greatest proof of affection that a man can show to a woman? No, -of course you don't!" - -"What is it, then?" she demanded, as she followed him stooping. - -"Why, it's going first through a wood, and getting all the spider's-webs -on his nose." - -But presently they had come to a clearer space, where they could walk -together, their footfalls hushed by the carpet of withered fir-needles; -while here and there a rabbit would scurry off, and again they would -catch a glimpse of a hen-pheasant sedately walking down a glade between -the trees. And now their talk had become much more intimate and -confidential; it had even assumed a touch of more or less affected -sadness. - -"It's very hard," he was saying, "that you should understand me so -little. You think I am cold, and cynical, and callous. Well, perhaps I -have reason to be. I have had my little experience of womankind--of one -woman, rather. I sometimes wonder whether the rest are anything like -her, or are capable of acting as she did." - -"Who was she?" his companion asked, timidly. - -And therewith, as they idly and slowly strolled through this little -thicket, he told his tragic tale, which needs not to be set down here: -it was all about the James river, Virginia, and a pair of southern eyes, -and betrayal, and farewell, and black night. His companion listened in -the deep silence of sympathy; and when he had finished she said, in a -low voice, and with downcast eyes-- - -"I am sorry--very sorry. But at least there was one thing spared you: -you did not marry out of spite." - -He glanced at her quickly. - -"Oh, yes," she said, and she raised her head, and spoke with a proud and -bitter air, "I have my story too! I do not tell it to everyone. -Perhaps I have not told it to anyone. But the man I loved was separated -from me by lies--by lies; and I was fool and idiot enough to believe -them! And the one I told you about--the one with the beautiful, clear, -brown eyes--so good and noble he was, as everyone declared!--it was he -who came to me with those falsehoods; and I believed them--I believed -them--like the fool I was! Oh, yes," she said, and she held her head -high, for her breast was heaving with real emotion this time, "it is -easy to say that every mistake meets with its own punishment; but I was -punished too much--too much; a life-long punishment for believing what -lying friends had said to me!" She furtively put the tips of her -fingers to her eyes, to wipe away the tears that lay along the lashes. -"And then I was mad; I was out of my senses; I would have married -anybody to show that--that I cared nothing for--for the other one; -and--and I suppose he was angry too--he would not speak--he stood aside, -and knew that I was going to kill my life, and never a single word! -That was his revenge--to say nothing--when he saw me about to kill my -life! Cruel, do you call it? Oh, no!--what does it matter? A woman's -heart broken--what is that? But now you know why I think so of -men--and--and why I laugh at them----" - -Well, her laughing was strange: she suddenly burst into a violent fit of -crying and sobbing, and turned away from him, and hid her face in her -handkerchief. What could he do? This was all unlike the gay young -widow who seemed so proud of her solitary estate and so well content. -Feeble words of comfort were of small avail. And then, again, it hardly -seemed the proper occasion for offering her more substantial -sympathy--though that was in his mind all the while, and very nearly on -the tip of his tongue. So perforce he had to wait until her weeping was -over; and indeed it was she herself who ended the scene by exclaiming -impatiently-- - -"There--enough of that! I did not intend to bother you with my small -troubles when I stayed behind for you this morning. Come, shall we go -out on to the rocks, and round by the little bay? What do you call -it--Ganovan?" - -"Yes; I think they call it Little Ganovan," he said, absently, as he and -she together emerged from the twilight of larch and pine, and proceeded, -leisurely and in silence, to cross the semicircular sweep of yellow -sand. - -When they got to the edge of the rocks, they sat down there: apparently -they had nothing to do on this idle morning but to contemplate that -vast, far-murmuring, dark blue plain--touched here and there with a -sharp glimmer of white--and the range upon range of the Kingairloch -hills, deepening in purple gloom, or shining rose-grey and yellow-grey -in the sun. In this solitude they were quite alone save for the -sea-birds that had wheeled into the air, screaming and calling, at their -approach; but the terns and curlews were soon at peace again; a cloud of -gulls returned to one of the little islands just in front of them; while -a slow-flapping heron winged its heavy flight away to the north. All -once more was silence; and the world was to themselves. - -And yet what was he to say to this poor suffering soul whose tragic -sorrows and experiences had been thus unexpectedly disclosed? He really -wished to be sympathetic; and, if he dared, he would have reminded her -that - - 'Whispering tongues can poison truth; - And constancy lives in realms above; - And life is thorny; and youth is vain; - And to be wroth with one we love - Doth work like madness in the brain.' - -only he knew how difficult it is to quote poetry without making one's -self ridiculous; and also he knew that the pretty young widow's eyes had -a dangerous trick of sudden laughter. However, it was she who first -spoke. - -"I wonder what those who have gone to church will say when they discover -that we have spent all the morning here?" - -"They may say what they like," he made answer, promptly. "There are -things one cannot speak about in drawing-rooms, among a crowd. And how -could I ever have imagined that you, with your high spirits and merry -temperament, and perpetual good-humour, had come through such trials? I -wonder that people never think of the mischief that is done by -intermeddling----" - -"Intermeddling?" said she proudly. "It wasn't of intermeddling I had to -complain: it was a downright conspiracy--it was false stories--I was -deceived by those who professed to be my best friends. There is -intermeddling and intermeddling. You might say I was intermeddling in -the case of my nephew. But what harm can come of that? It is not lies, -it is the truth, I want to have told him. And even if it causes him -some pain, it will be for his good. Don't you think I am right?" - -He hesitated. - -"I hope so," he said. "But you know things wear such a different -complexion according to the way you look at them----" - -"But facts, Lord Musselburgh, facts," she persisted. "Do you think a -man like George Morris would be affected by any sentimental -considerations one way or the other? Won't he find out just the truth? -And that is all I honestly want Vin to know--the actual truth: then let -him go on with his eyes open if he chooses. Facts, Lord Musselburgh: -who can object to facts?" Then she said--as she gave him her hand that -he might assist her to rise-- - -"We must be thinking of getting back home now, for if we are late for -lunch, those Drexel girls will be grinning at each other like a couple -of fiends." - -Rather reluctantly he rose also, and accompanied her. They made their -way across a series of rough, bracken-covered knolls projecting into the -sea until they reached the little bay that is known as Port Ban; and -here, either the beauty and solitude of the place tempted them, or they -were determined to defy sarcasm, for instead of hastening home, they -quietly strolled up and down the smooth cream-white beach, now and again -picking up a piece of rose-red seaweed, or turning over a limpet-shell, -or watching a sandpiper making his quick little runs alongside the -clear, crisp-curling ripples. They did not speak; they were as silent -as the transparent blue shadows that their figures cast on the -soft-yielding surface on which they walked. And sometimes Lord -Musselburgh seemed inclined to write something, with the point of his -stick, on that flawless sand; and then again he desisted; and still they -continued silent. - -She took up a piece of pink seaweed, and began pulling it to shreds. He -was standing by, looking on. - -"Don't you think," said he at last, "that there should be a good deal of -sympathy--a very unusual sympathy--between two people who have come -through the same suffering?" - -"Oh, I suppose so," she said, with affected carelessness--her eyes still -bent on the seaweed. - -"Do you know," said he, again, "that I haven't the least idea what your -name is!" - -"My name? Oh, my name is Madge," she answered. - -"Madge?" said he. "I wonder if you make the capital M this way?" and -therewith he traced on the sand an ornamental _M_ in the manner of the -last century. - -"No, I don't," she said, "but it is very pretty. How do you write the -rest?" - -Thus encouraged, he made bold to add the remaining letters, and seemed -rather to admire his handiwork when it was done. - -"By the way," she said, "I don't know your Christian name either!" - -"Hubert." - -"Can you write that in the same fashion?" she suggested, with a simple -ingenuousness. - -So, grown still bolder, he laboriously inscribed his name immediately -underneath her own. But that was not all. When he had ended he drew a -circle right round both names. - -"That is a ring to enclose them," said he: and he turned from the scored -names to regard her downcast face. "But--but I know a much smaller ring -that could bring them still closer together. Will you let me -try--Madge?" - -He took her hand. - -"Yes," she said, in a low voice. - -And then--Oh, very well, then: then--but after a reasonable delay--then -they left those creamy sands, and went up by the edge of the blue-green -turnip-field to the pathway, and so to the iron gate; and as he opened -the gate for her, she said-- - -"Oh, I don't know what happened down there, and what I've pledged myself -to; but at all events there will now be one more on my side, to help me -about Vin, and get him out of all this sad trouble. You will help me, -won't you--Hubert?" - -Of course he was eager to promise anything. - -"And you say he is sure to get in for Mendover? Why, just think of him -now, with everything before him; and how nice it would be for all of us -if he had a smart and clever wife, who would hold her own in society, -and do him justice, and make us all as proud and fond of her as we are -of him. And just fancy the four of us setting out on a winter-trip to -Cairo or Jerusalem: wouldn't it be simply too delicious? The four of -us--only the four of us--all by ourselves. Louie Drexel is rather -young, to be sure; yet she knows her way about; she's sharp; she's -clever; she will have some money; and she has cheek enough for anything. -And by the way--Hubert--" said she (and always with a pretty little -hesitation when she came to his Christian name) "I must really ask -you--with regard to Louie Drexel--well--you know--you have been--just a -little----" - -He murmured something about the devotion of a lifetime--the devotion -which he had just promised to her--being a very different thing from -trivial drawing-room dallyings; whereupon she observed-- - -"Oh, yes, men say so by way of excuse----" - -"How many men have said so to you?" he demanded, flaring up. - -"I did not say they had said so to me," she answered sweetly. "Don't go -and be absurdly jealous without any cause whatever. If any one has a -right to be jealous, it is I, considering the way you have been going on -with Louie Drexel. But of course if there's nothing in it, that's all -well and done with; and I am of a forgiving disposition, when I'm taken -the right way. Now about Vin: can you see anybody who would do better -for him than Louie Drexel?" - -Be sure it was not of Vin Harris, much as he was interested in him, that -Lord Musselburgh wished to talk at this moment; but, on the other hand, -in the first flush of his pride and gratitude, any whim of hers was law -to him; and perhaps it was a sufficient and novel gratification to be -able to call her Madge. - -"I'm afraid," said he, "that Vin is not the kind of person to have his -life arranged for him by other people. And besides you must remember, -Madge, dear, that you are assuming a great deal. You are assuming that -you can show Vin that this old man is an impostor----" - -"Oh, can there be any doubt of it!" she exclaimed. "Isn't the story you -have told me yourself enough?" - -Lord Musselburgh looked rather uncomfortable; he was a good-natured kind -of person, and liked to think the best of everybody. - -"I had no right to tell you that story," said he. - -"But now I have the right to know about that and everything else, -haven't I--Hubert?" said she, with a pretty coyness. - -"And besides," he continued, "Vin has a perfect explanation of the whole -affair. There is no doubt the old man was just full of this subject, -and believed he could write about it better than anyone else, even -supposing the idea had occurred to some other person; he was anxious -above all things that his poetical countrymen over there in the States -and Canada should be done justice to; and when he heard that the volume -was actually published he immediately declared that he would do -everything in his power to help it----" - -"But what about the L50--Hubert?" - -"Oh, well," her companion said, rather uneasily, "I have told you that -that was a gift from me to him. I did not stipulate for the publication -of any book." - -She considered for a moment: then she said, with some emphasis---- - -"And you think it no shame--you think it no monstrous thing--that our -Vin should marry a girl who has been in the habit of going about with -her grandfather while he begged money, and accepted money, from -strangers? Is that the fate you wish for your friend?" - -"No, I don't wish anything of the kind," said he, "if--if matters were -so. But Vin and you look at these things in a very different light; and -I can hardly believe that he has been so completely imposed on. I -confess I liked the old man: I liked his splendid enthusiasm, his -magnificent self-reliance, yes, and his Scotch plaid; and I thought the -girl was remarkably beautiful--and more than that--refined and -distinguished-looking--something unusual about her somehow----" - -"Oh, yes, you are far too generous, Hubert," his companion said. "You -accept Vin's representations without a word. But I see more clearly. -And that little transaction about the book and the L50 gives me a key to -the whole situation. You may depend on it, George Morris will find out -what kind of person your grandiloquent old Scotchman is like. And then, -when Vin's eyes are opened----" - -"Yes, when Vin's eyes are opened?" her companion repeated. - -"Then he will see into what a terrible pit he was nearly falling." - -"Are you so sure of that?" Musselburgh said. "I know Vin a little. It -isn't merely a pretty face that has taken his fancy, as you yourself -admit. If he has faith in that girl, it may not be easy to shake it." - -"I should not attempt to shake it," she made answer at once, "if the -girl was everything she ought to be, and of proper upbringing and -surroundings. But even if it turned out that she was everything she -should be, wouldn't it be too awful to have Vin dragged down into an -alliance with that old--that old--oh, I don't know what to call -him!----" - -"Madge, dear," said he, "don't call him anything, until you learn more -about him. And in the meantime," he continued, rather plaintively, -"don't you think we might talk a little about ourselves, considering -what has just happened?" - -"There is such a long time before us to talk about ourselves," said she. -"And you know--Hubert--you've come into our family, as it were; and you -must take a share in our troubles." - -They were nearing the house: five minutes more would bring them in sight -of the open lawn. - -"Wait a minute, Madge, dear," said he, and he halted by the side of a -little bit of plantation. "Don't be in such a hurry. I wish to speak to -you about----" - -"About what?" she asked, with a smile. - -"Oh, a whole heap of things! For example, do you want the Somervilles -to know?" - -"I don't particularly want them to know," she answered him, "but I fear -they will soon find out." - -"I should like you to tell Mrs. Somerville, anyway." - -"Very well." - -"Indeed, I don't care if all the people in the house knew!" said he, -boldly. - -"Hubert, what are you saying!" she exclaimed, with a fine simulation of -horror. "My life would be made a burden to me! Fancy those Drexel -girls: they would shriek with joy at the chance of torturing me! I -should have to fly from the place. I should take the first train for -the South to-morrow morning!" - -"Really!" said he, with considerable coolness. "For I have been thinking -that those names we printed on the sands----" - -"That you printed, you mean!" - -"----were above high-water mark. Consequently they will remain there -for some little time. Now it is highly probable that some of our friends -may be walking along to Port Ban this afternoon; and if they were to -catch sight of those hieroglyphics----" - -"Hubert," said she, with decision. "You must go along immediately after -luncheon and score them out. I would not for the world have those -Drexel girls suspect what has happened!" - -"Won't you come with me, Madge, after luncheon?" - -"Oh, we can't be haunting those sands all day like a couple of -sea-gulls!" - -"But I think you might come!" he pleaded. - -"Very well," said she, "I suppose I must begin with obedience." - -And yet they seemed in no hurry to get on to the house. A robin perched -himself on the wire fence not four yards away, and jerked his head, and -watched them with his small, black, lustrous eye. A weasel came trotting -down the road, stopped, looked, and glided noiselessly into the -plantation. Two wood-pigeons went swiftly across an opening in the -trees; a large hawk soared far overhead. On this still Sunday morning -there seemed to be no one abroad; and then these two had much to say -about a ring, and a locket, and similar weighty matters. Moreover, -there was the assignation about the afternoon to be arranged. - -But at length they managed to tear themselves away from this secluded -place; they went round by the front of the big grey building; and in so -doing had to pass the dining-room window. - -"Oh my gracious goodness!" Mrs. Ellison exclaimed--and in no stimulated -horror this time. "They're all in at lunch, every one of them, and I -don't know how long they mayn't have been in! What shall I do!" - -And then a sudden thought seemed to strike her. - -"Hubert, my headache has come back! I'm going up to my room. Will you -give my excuses to Mrs. Somerville? I'd a hundred times rather starve -than--than be found out." - -"Oh, that is all nonsense!" said he--but in an undertone, for they were -now in the spacious stone-paved hall. "Go to your room, if you like; -and I'll tell Mrs. Somerville, and she'll send you up something. You -mustn't starve, for you're going round with me to Port Ban in the -afternoon." - -And, of course, the gentle hostess was grieved to hear that her friend -had not yet got rid of her headache; and she herself went forthwith to -Mrs. Ellison's room, to see what would most readily tempt the appetite -of the poor invalid. The poor invalid was at her dressing-table, taking -off her bonnet. She wheeled round. - -"I am so sorry, dear, about your headache--" her hostess was beginning, -when the young widow went instantly to the door and shut it. Then she -came back; and there was a most curious look--of laughter, perhaps--in -her extremely pretty eyes. - -"Never mind about the headache!" she said to her astonished friend, who -saw no cause for this amused embarrassment, nor yet for the exceedingly -affectionate way in which both her hands had been seized. "The headache -is gone. I've--I've something else to tell you--oh, you'd never guess -it in the world! My dear, my dear," she cried in a whisper, and her -tell-tale eyes were full of confusion as well as laughter. "You'd never -guess--but--but I've gone and made a fool of myself for the second -time!" - - - - - CHAPTER III. - - "HOLY PALMER'S KISS." - - -This was a bright and cheerful afternoon in November; and old George -Bethune and his granddaughter were walking down Regent-street. A -brilliant afternoon, indeed; and the scene around them was quite gay and -animated; for the wintry sunlight was shining on the big shop-fronts, -and on the busy pavements, and on the open carriages that rolled by with -their occupants gorgeous in velvet and silk and fur. Nor was George -Bethune moved to any spirit of envy by all this display of luxury and -wealth; no more than he was oppressed by any sense of solitariness amid -this slow-moving, murmuring crowd. He walked with head erect; he paid -but little heed to the passers-by; he was singing aloud, and that in a -careless and florid fashion-- - - "The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, - Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry, - The ship rides by the Berwick Law, - And I maun leave my bonnie Mary." - - -But suddenly he stopped: his attention had been caught by a window, or -rather a series of windows, containing all sorts of Scotch articles and -stuffs. - -"Maisrie," said he, as his eye ran over these varied wares and fabrics, -"couldn't you--couldn't you buy some little bit of a thing?" - -"Why, grandfather?" she asked. - -"Oh, well," he answered, with an air of lofty indifference, "it is but a -trifle--but a trifle; only I may have told you that my friend Carmichael -is a good Scot--good friend and good Scot are synonymous terms, to my -thinking--and--and as you are going to call on him for the first time, -you might show him you are not ashamed of your country. Isn't there -something there, Maisrie?" he continued, still regarding the articles in -the window. "Some little bit of tartan ribbon--something you could put -round your neck--whatever you like--merely to show that you fly your -country's colours, and are not ashamed of them--" - -"But why should I pretend to be Scotch, grandfather, when I am not -Scotch?" she said. - -He was not angry: he was amused. - -"You--not Scotch? You, of all people in the world, not Scotch? What -are you, then? A Bethune of Balloray--ay, and if justice were done, the -owner and mistress of Balloray, Ballingean, and Cadzow--and yet you are -not Scotch? Where got you your name? What is your lineage--your -blood--your right and title to the lands of Balloray and Ballingean? -And I may see you there yet, Maisrie; I may see you there yet. Stranger -things have happened. But come away now--we need not quarrel about a -bit of ribbon--and I know Mr. Carmichael will receive you as his -countrywoman even if you have not a shred of tartan about you." - -Indeed he had taken no offence: once more he was marching along, with -fearless eye and undaunted front, while he had resumed his gallant -singing-- - - "But it's not the roar o' sea or shore - Wad mak' me langer wish to tarry, - Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar-- - It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!" - - -They went down to one of the big hotels in Northumberland Avenue; asked -at the office for Mr. Carmichael; and after an immeasurable length of -waiting were conducted to his room. Here Maisrie was introduced to a -tall, fresh-coloured, angular-boned man, who had shrewd grey eyes that -were also good-humoured. Much too good-humoured they were in Maisrie's -estimation, when they chanced to regard her grandfather: they seemed to -convey a sort of easy patronage, almost a kind of good-natured pity, -that she was quick to resent. But how could she interfere? These were -business matters that were being talked of; and she sate somewhat apart, -forced to listen, but not taking any share in the conversation. - -Presently, however, she heard something that startled her out of this -apathetic concurrence, and set all her pulses flying. The tall, -raw-boned, newspaper proprietor, eyeing this proud-featured old man with -a not unkindly scrutiny, was referring to the volume on the Scottish -Poets in America which George Bethune had failed to bring out in time; -and his speech was considerate. - -"It is not the first case of forestalling I have known," said he; "and -it must just be looked on as a bit of bad luck. Better fortune next -time. By the way, there is another little circumstance connected with -that book--perhaps I should not mention it--but I will be discreet. No -names; and yet you may like to hear that you have got another friend -somewhere--somewhere in the background--" - -It was at this point that Maisrie began to listen, rather breathlessly. - -"Oh, yes, your friend--your unknown friend--wanted to be generous -enough," Mr. Carmichael continued. "He wrote to me saying he understood -that I had advanced a certain sum towards the publication of the work; -and he went on to explain that as certain things had happened to prevent -your bringing it out, he wished to be allowed to refund the money. Oh, -yes, a very generous offer; for all was to be done in the profoundest -secrecy; you were not to know anything about it, lest you should be -offended. And yet it seemed to me you should be glad to learn that -there was someone interesting himself in your affairs." - -The two men were not looking at the girl: they could not see the pride -and gratitude that were in her eyes. "And Vincent never told me a -word," she was saying to herself, with her heart beating warm and fast. -But that was not the mood in which old George Bethune took this matter. -A dark frown was on his shaggy eyebrows. - -"I do not see what right anyone has to intermeddle," said, he, in tones -that fell cruelly on Maisrie's ear, "still less to pay money for me on -the assumption that I had forgotten, or was unwilling to discharge, a -just debt----" - -"Come, come, come, Mr. Bethune," said the newspaper proprietor, with a -sort of condescending good-nature, "you must not take it that way. To -begin with, he did not pay any money at all. I did not allow him. I -said 'Thank you; but this is a private arrangement between Mr. Bethune -and myself; and if he considers there is any indebtedness, then he can -wipe that off by contributions to the _Chronicle_.' So you see you have -only to thank him for the intention--" - -"Oh, very well," said the old man, changing his tone at once. "No harm -in that. No harm whatever. Misplaced intention--but--but creditable. -And now," he continued, in a still lighter strain, "since you mention -the _Chronicle_, Mr. Carmichael, I must tell you of a scheme I have had -for some time in mind. It is a series of papers on the old ballads of -Scotland--or rather the chief of them--taking one for each weekly -article, giving the different versions, with historical and philological -notes. What do you think of that, now? Look at the material--the -finest in the world!--the elemental passions, the tragic situations that -are far removed from any literary form or fashion, that go straight to -the heart and the imagination. Each of them a splendid text!" he -proceeded, with an ever-increasing enthusiasm. "Think of Edom o' -Gordon, and the Wife of Usher's Well, and the Baron o' Brackla; Annie of -Lochryan, Hynde Etin, the piteous cry of 'Helen of Kirkconnell,' and the -Rose of Yarrow seeking her slain lover by bank and brae. And what could -be more interesting than the collation of the various versions of those -old ballads, showing how they have been altered here and there as they -were said or sung, and how even important passages may have been dropped -out in course of time and transmission. Look, for example, at 'Barbara -Allan.' The version in Percy's Reliques is as bad and stupid as it can -be; but it is worse than that: it is incomprehensible. Who can believe -that the maiden came to the bedside of her dying lover only to flout and -jeer, and that for no reason whatever? And when she sees his corpse - - 'With scornful eye she looked downe, - Her cheek with laughter swellin''-- - -"Well, I say that is not true," he went on vehemently; "it never was -true: it contradicts human nature; it is false, and bad, and impossible. -But turn to our Scottish version! When Sir John Graeme o' the West -Countrie, lying sore sick, sends for his sweetheart, she makes no -concealment of the cause of the feud that has been between them--of the -wrong that is rankling at her heart: - - 'O dinna ye mind, young man,' said she, - 'When the red wine ye were filling, - That ye made the healths gae round and round, - And slighted Barbara Allan?' - -And proud and indignant she turns away. There is no sham laughter here; -no impossible cruelty; but a quarrel between two fond lovers that -becomes suddenly tragic, when death steps in to prevent the possibility -of any reconciliation. - - He turned his face unto the wa', - And death was with him dealing: - 'Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a', - Be kind to Barbara Allan!' - -Can anything be more simple, and natural, and inexpressibly sad as well? -It is the story of a tragic quarrel between two true lovers: it is not -the impossible and preposterous story of a giggling hoyden grinning at a -corpse!" - -And here it was probable that old George Bethune, having warmed to his -subject, and being as usual wildly enamoured of his latest scheme, would -have gone on to give further instances of the value of collation and -comparison, but that Mr. Carmichael was forced to interrupt. The -proprietor of the _Edinburgh Chronicle_ was a busy man during his brief -visits to town. - -"Very well, Mr. Bethune," said he. "I think your idea a very good -one--an excellent one, in fact, for the weekly edition of a Scotch -paper; and I will give you _carte blanche_ as to the number of articles. -Who knows," he added, with a condescending smile, "but that they may -grow to a book--to take the place of the one that was snatched out of -your hands?" - -And again, as his visitors were leaving, he said in the same -good-humoured way-- - -"I presume it is not necessary for us to discuss the question of terms, -especially before a young lady. If you have been satisfied with us so -far--" - -"I am quite content to leave that with you: quite," interposed the old -man, with some little dignity. - -"I was only going to say," Mr. Carmichael resumed, "that a series of -articles such as you suggest may require a good deal of research and -trouble: so that, when the reckoning comes, I will see you are put on -the most favoured nation scale. And not a word more about the American -book: we were disappointed--that is all." - -This latter admonition was wholly unnecessary. When George Bethune got -out into the street again, with Maisrie as his sole companion and -confidante, it was not of that lost opportunity he was talking, it was -all of this new project that had seized his imagination. They had to -make one or two calls, in the now gathering dusk; but ever, as they came -out again into the crowded thoroughfares, he returned to the old ballads -and the opportunities they presented for a series of discursive papers. -And Maisrie was about as eager in anticipation as himself. - -"Oh, yes, grandfather," she said, "you could not have thought of a -happier subject. And you will begin at once, grandfather, won't you? -Do you think I shall be able to help you in the very least way?--it -would please me so much if I could search out things for you, or copy, -or help you in the smallest way. And I know it will be a labour of love -for you; it will be a constant delight; and all the more that the days -are getting short now, and we shall have to be more indoors. And then -you heard what Mr. Carmichael said, grandfather; and if he is going to -pay you well for these articles, you will soon be able to give him back -the money he advanced to you about that unfortunate book--" - -"Oh, don't you bother about such things!" he said, with an impatient -frown. "When I am planning out an important work, I don't want to be -reminded that it will result in merely so many guineas. That is not the -spirit in which I enter upon such an undertaking. When I write, it is -not with an eye to the kitchen. Unless some nobler impulse propels, -then be sure the result will be despicable. However, I suppose women -are like that; when you are thinking of the literature of your native -land--of perhaps adding some little tributary wreath--they are looking -towards grocers' bills. The kitchen--the kitchen is before them--not -the dales and vales of Scotland, where lovers loved, and were -broken-hearted. The kitchen--" - -But Maisrie was not disconcerted by this rebuke. - -"And you will begin at once, grandfather," she said, cheerfully. "Oh, I -know it will be so delightful an occupation for you. And I don't wonder -that Mr. Carmichael was glad to have such a chance. Then it won't -involve any expense of travelling, like the other book you thought of, -about the Scotland of Scotch songs. The winter evenings won't be so -dull, grandfather, when you have this to occupy you; you will forget it -is winter altogether, when you are busy with those beautiful scenes and -stories. And will you tell Vincent this evening, grandfather? he will -be so interested: it will be something to talk of at dinner." - -But Vincent was to hear of this great undertaking before then. When -Maisrie and her grandfather reached the door of their lodgings, he said -to her-- - -"You can go in now, Maisrie, and have the gas lit. I must walk along to -the library, and see what books they have; but I'm afraid I shall have -to get Motherwell, and Pinkerton, and Allan Cunningham, and the rest of -them from Scotland. Aytoun they are sure to have, I suppose." - -So they parted for the moment; and Maisrie went upstairs and lit the gas -in the little parlour. Then, without taking off her bonnet, she sate -down and fell into a reverie--not a very sad one, as it seemed. She was -sitting thus absorbed in silent fancies, when a familiar sound outside -startled her into attention; she sprang to her feet; the next instant -the door was opened; the next again she was advancing to the tall and -handsome young stranger who stood somewhat diffidently there, and both -her hands were outstretched, and a light of joy and gratitude was -shining in her eyes. - -"Oh, Vincent, I am so glad you have come over!" she said, in a way that -was far from usual with her, and she held both his hands for more than a -second or two, and her grateful eyes were fixed on his without any -thought of embarrassment. "I was thinking of you. You have been so -kind--so generous! I wanted to thank you, and I am so glad to have the -chance--" - -"But what is it, Maisrie?--I'm sure there is nothing you have to thank -me for!" said he, as he shut the door behind him, and came forward, and -took a seat not very far away from her. He was a little bewildered. In -her sudden access of gratitude, when she took both his hands in hers, -she had come quite close to him; and the scent of a sandal-wood necklace -that she wore seemed to touch him as with a touch of herself. He knew -those fragrant beads; more than once he had perceived the slight and -subtle odour, as she passed him, or as he helped her on with her cloak; -and he had come to associate it with her, as if it were part of her, -some breathing thing, that could touch, and thrill. And this time it -had come so near-- - -But that bewilderment of the senses lasted only for a moment. Maisrie -Bethune was not near to him at all: she was worlds and worlds away. It -was not a mere whiff of perfume that could bring her near to him. -Always to him she appeared to be strangely unapproachable and remote. -Perhaps it was the loneliness of her position, perhaps it was the -uncertainty of her future, and those vague possibilities of which her -grandfather had spoken, or perhaps it was the reverence of undivided and -unselfish love on his part; but at all events she seemed to live in a -sort of sacred and mysterious isolation--to be surrounded by a spell -which he dared not seek to break by any rude contact. And yet surely -her eyes were regarding his with sufficient frankness and friendliness, -and even more than friendliness, now as she spoke. - -"This afternoon we called on Mr. Carmichael," said Maisrie, "Mr. -Carmichael of the _Edinburgh Chronicle_. He told us someone had offered -to repay the money he had advanced to my grandfather on account of that -American book: and though he did not mention any name, do you think I -did not know who it was, Vincent? Be sure I knew--in a moment! And you -never said a word about it! I might never have known but for this -accident--I might never have had the chance of thanking you--as--as I -should like to do now--only--only it isn't quite easy to say everything -one feels--" - -"Oh, but that is nothing at all, Maisrie!" said he, coming quickly to -her rescue. "You have nothing to thank me for--nothing! It is true I -made the offer; but it was not accepted; and why should I say anything -about it to you?" - -"Ah, but the intention is enough," said she (for she knew nothing about -his having paid Lord Musselburgh the L50). "And you cannot prevent my -being very, very grateful to you for such thoughtfulness and kindness. -To save my grandfather's self-respect--to prevent him being -misunderstood by--by strangers--because--because he is so forgetful: do -you think, Vincent, I cannot see your motive, and be very, very -grateful? And never saying a word, too! You should have told me, -Vincent! But I suppose that was still further kindness--you thought I -might be embarrassed--and not able to thank you--which is just the -case--" - -"Oh, Maisrie, don't make a fuss about nothing!" he protested. - -"I know whether it is nothing or not," said she, proudly. "And--and -perhaps if you had lived as we have lived--wandering from place to -place--you would set more store by an act of friendship. Friends are -little to you--you have too many of them--" - -"Oh, Maisrie, don't talk like that!" he said. "You make me ashamed. -What have I done?--nothing! I wish there was some real thing I could do -to prove my friendship for your grandfather and yourself--then you might -see--" - -"Haven't you proved it every day, every hour almost, since ever we have -known you?" she said, in rather a low voice. - -"Ah, well, perhaps there may come a chance--" said he; and then he -stopped short; for here was old George Bethune, with half-a-dozen -volumes under his arm, and himself all eagerness and garrulity about his -new undertaking. - -At the little dinner that evening in the restaurant, there was quite an -unusual animation, and that not solely because this was the ninth of -November, and they were proposing to go out later on and look at the -illuminations in the principal thoroughfares. Vincent thought he had -never seen Maisrie Bethune appear so light-hearted and happy; and she -was particularly kind to him; when she regarded him, there still seemed -to be a mild gratitude shining in the clear and eloquent deeps of her -eyes. Gratitude for what!--he asked himself, with a touch of scorn. It -was but an ordinary act of acquaintanceship: why should this beautiful, -sensitive, proud-spirited creature have to debase herself to thank him -for such a trifle? He felt ashamed of himself. It was earning -gratitude by false pretences. The very kindness shining there in her -eyes was a sort of reproach: what had he done to deserve it? Ah, if she -only knew what he was ready to do--when occasion offered! - -And never before had he seen Maisrie so bravely confident about any of -her grandfather's literary projects. - -"You see, Vincent," she said, as if he needed any convincing, when she -was satisfied! "in the end it will make a far more interesting book than -the Scotch-American one; and in the meantime there will be the series of -articles appearing from week to week, to attract attention to the -subject. And then, although grandfather says I take a low and mercenary -view of literature, all the same I am glad he is to be well-paid for the -articles; and there are to be as many as he likes; and when they are -completed, then comes the publication of the book, which should be as -interesting to Mr. Carmichael, or Lord Musselburgh, or anyone, as the -Scotch-American volume. And grandfather is going to begin at once; and -I am asking him whether I cannot be of any use to him, in the humblest -way. A glossary, grandfather; you must have a glossary of the Scotch -words: couldn't I compile that for you?" - -"I have been wondering," the old man said, absently, and without -answering her question, "since I came into this room, whether it would -be possible to classify them into ballads of action and ballads of the -supernatural. I imagine the former belong more to the south country; -and that most of the latter had their origin in the north. And yet even -in the Battle of Otterburn, the Douglas says - - 'But I hae dreamed a dreary dream, - Ayont the Isle o' Skye,-- - I saw a deid man win a fight, - And I think that man was I.' - -Well, that may have been an interpolation; at all events, it is a -Highland touch; the strong, brisk, matter-of-fact Border ballad has -seldom anything of that kind in it. The bold Buccleuch and Kinmont -Willie were too much in the saddle to have time for wraiths. You -remember, Maisrie, when they brought word to 'the bauld Keeper' that -Kinmont Willie was a captive in Carlisle Castle?-- - - He has ta'en the table wi' his hand, - He garred the red wine spring on hie-- - 'Now a curse upon my head,' he cried, - 'But avenged on Lord Scroop I'll be! - - O is my basnet a widow's curch, - Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree, - Or my arm a lady's lily hand, - That an English lord should lichtly me?' - -That is more like the ballad of the south: sharp and vivid, full of -action and spirit, and the audacious delight of life: when you want -mystery and imagination and supernatural terrors you must turn to the -brooding and darkened regions of the north. The Demon Lover is clearly -of northern origin; its hell is the Scandinavian hell; not the fiery -furnace of the eastern mind, but a desolation of cold and wet. - - 'O what'n a mountain's yon,' she said, - 'Sae dreary wi' frost and snow?' - 'O yon is the mountain o' hell,' he cried, - 'Where you and I maun go!'" - - -"The Demon Lover?" said Maisrie, inquiringly; and Vincent could not but -notice how skilfully and sedulously she fanned the old man's interest in -this new scheme by herself pretending to be deeply interested. - -"Don't you know it, Maisrie?" said he. "It is the story of two lovers -who were parted; and he returns after seven years to claim the -fulfilment of her vows; and finds that in his absence she has taken -someone else for her husband. It is a dangerous position--if he wishes -her to go away with him; for a woman never forgets her first lover; what -is more, she attributes all the natural and inevitable disillusionment -of marriage to her husband, whilst the romance attaching to her first -love remains undimmed. Therefore, I say let Auld Robin Gray -beware!--the wife is not always so loyal to the disillusioniser as was -the Jeannie of the modern song. Well, in this case, she who has been a -false sweetheart, proves a false wife-- - - 'If I was to leave my husband dear, - And my twa babes also, - O where is it you would tak' me to, - If I with thee should go?' - -And the lover becomes the avenger; together they sail away on a strange -ship, until they descry the mountains of hell; and the lover turned -demon warns her of her doom. - - And aye when she turned her round about, - Aye taller he seemed for to be, - Until that the tops o' that gallant ship - Nae taller were than he. - - He struck the topmast wi' his hand, - The foremast wi' his knee; - And he brak that gallant ship in twain, - And sank her in the sea." - - -"Will there be illustrations, sir?" asked Vincent (in humble imitation -of Maisrie). "And an _edition de luxe_? For that, I imagine, is where -my co-operation might come in. Maisrie seems so anxious to help; and I -should like to take my part too." - -"It is a far cry to the completion of such an undertaking as that," said -the old man, rather wistfully. - -But Maisrie would not have him lapse into any despondent mood. - -"You must not look so far ahead, grandfather," she said, cheerfully. -"You must think of your own pride and satisfaction in beginning it; and -I know you will be delighted; for who can do it as well as you? And if -I am so very mercenary, I can't help it; only I shall be all the better -pleased to remember that you are being properly paid for your work. -Supposing the kitchen is my department?--Oh, very well!--somebody must -look to that. It will be a labour of love for you, grandfather, all the -way through; and then, when the book is nearing completion, just think -of the pride you will have in choosing someone, some distinguished -person, for the dedication. It will be far more your own work than -merely giving specimens of the Scottish-American poets; indeed it will -be all your own; for the ballads are only to be texts, as you say. And -I think we should go home now, and you will look over some of the books. -I don't care about the illuminations--not I. What is the Lord Mayor's -Day to Vincent or me--when you might be telling us about Katherine -Janfarie and May Collean?" - -"No, no, Maisrie," said he, as he rose from the table. "Give me a -little time for preparation. We promised to show you the streets lit -up. And mind you wrap yourself well, Maisrie, for the evenings are -getting cold now." - -But little did Vincent Harris, as he helped her on with her cloak, and -made ready to go out into the dusky and glaring thoroughfares, foresee -what was going to befall him that night. - -When they issued forth into Regent-street, there was as yet no very -dense crowd, though here and there the front of a tall building flamed -in yellow fire; but nevertheless Maisrie said-- - -"We must not get separated, grandfather. Let me go between you two; and -I will take your arm on the one side and Vincent's on the other; and if -we have occasionally to go sideways, we can always keep together." - -"Oh, I shan't let you be dragged away, Maisrie," the younger man said. -"And if you don't mind, I think this will be a better way of holding on -to you--" and therewith he made bold to pass his hand underneath the -hanging sleeve of her cloak, and there he took hold of her arm from the -inside--rather timidly, perhaps, but then his grasp could be tightened, -if needs were. - -"Yes," said she, placidly, and she made a little movement as though she -would draw both her companions closer to her. "This is very -comfortable. Which way, grandfather?" - -And so the little group of friends, knit together by many intimate -interests and much association, adventured out into the great world of -London that was all astir now with a vague and half-subdued excitement. -There was no need for them to talk; they had but to look at the blazing -stars, and feathers, and initial letters, and to make their way through -the murmuring throng. There was no jostling; the crowd was entirely -good-natured; and if these three could not always go abreast, they then -went diagonally for a second or so, and were not separated. Of course, -Vincent had to hold Maisrie a little more firmly now; his arm was -parallel with hers, and his hand had hold of her wrist; and there was an -intoxicating sense of warmth as well as of close companionship in this -mutual clinging. Thus they slowly and idly passed away down -Regent-street, well content with their own silence and the brilliant -sights around them. Then a little incident occurred. A vehicle was -coming along one of the smaller thoroughfares they had to cross; there -was a brief bit of a scrimmage; and Maisrie, the better to keep hold of -her companion, slipped her hand from the muff that was slung round her -neck, and seized his hand, that was ready enough, be sure, to respond. -They got over without further trouble; they mixed once more in this -vast, slow-moving assemblage--only he retained the hand she had given -him, and that with no uncertain grasp. - -It was a wonderful, mysterious, secret thing to be happening in the -midst of all this great, careless, dusky crowd. Her hand, that was -ungloved, was soft and warm after coming out of its cosy resting-place; -and it was not likely to get cold, when it was held so tight, under the -concealment of the hanging sleeve. And then--well, probably the girl -did not know what she was doing; she was affected by all this excitement -around her; it was "Look, grandfather, look!" from time to time; most -likely she thought no more of her hand being held than if she were -crossing a meadow in the spring-time with some careless -girl-companion--but however that may be, what must she do but open her -fingers, so that his should interclasp with hers! Nay, she opened them -again, and shut them again, the better to adjust that gentle clasp; and -every touch thrilled through him, so that he walked as one in a dream. -He dared hardly breathe, he durst not speak, lest some stray word of his -might startle her into consciousness, and shatter this miracle. She did -not seem to be in the least aware: it was "Which way, grandfather?" or -"Take care, grandfather!" and her eyes were turned to the brilliant and -parti-coloured devices in front of the Pall Mall clubs, and not at all -to the handsome lad who walked so close to her that now and again he -could detect some faint trace of the odour of sandal-wood that seemed to -hover around her neck and her hair. What did he see or hear of the -crowd now, or of the garish lights along the houses? He walked in an -enchanted land: there were only two people in it: and they were bound -together, in subtle intercommunion, by this magic grasp. There was -wonder as well as joy in his mind; the sensation was so new and strange. -Did he remember that "palm to palm" was "holy palmer's kiss"? No, he -remembered nothing; he only knew that he held Maisrie's hand interlocked -with his, in this secret fashion; and that all the wild phantasmagoria -around them was something unreal and visionary with which neither he nor -she had any concern. - -And even now his cup of bliss and bewilderment was not yet full, on this -marvellous night. When at last they drew away from the crowded streets -and found themselves in quieter thoroughfares on their way home, the old -man drew a breath of relief. - -"This is better, Maisrie," he said. "It seems as if we had been out on -a roaring sea, and had at length drifted into stillness and peace." - -"And we were not separated once, grandfather," said she, cheerfully. -"Not once all the time." - -And then it was Vincent who spoke. - -"I don't see why we should ever separate," said he. "Friends are few -enough in this world." - -"Yes, indeed, good friends are few," Maisrie said; and therewithal--ere -he could tell what was happening--she had taken his hand that she held -in hers and raised it, and for one brief moment pressed it against her -heart. The little impulsive movement--of gratitude perhaps; perhaps of -affection; perhaps of both combined--could not have been perceived by -any passer-by; and yet the young man seemed to be struck by a sudden -shock of fear; he could not speak; his own heart was beating so that -speech was impossible. For it appeared to him in that swift second as -if the scales had fallen from his eyes. To him she was no longer an -elusive phantom--a mirage--a vision--pensive, and mysterious, and -remote; now he saw her a beautiful young creature of flesh and blood, -whose hands and heart were warm, who could cling for help and -companionship and sympathy, who was not afraid to speak and act, when -love or gratitude prompted her. No longer the strangely isolated -maiden: the unapproachable had all at once come near; so near that the -scent of sandalwood touched him from time to time; so near that her soft -fingers were interclasped with his, pulsating there, nestling there, not -relaxing their hold, nor inclined to do that. This was no piece of -statuary, to be worshipped from afar: this was Maisrie Bethune, whose -arm lay close and caressing against his, under the friendly shelter of -that hanging sleeve, whose step went with his step as they walked -together, whose breathing he could almost overhear, in the silence of -this gracious night. And what had she not confessed, in that artless -way? - -And then amid his bewilderment and breathless exultation a horrid fancy -shot across his brain. Perhaps that was no confession at all; but a -quite simple, unpremeditated, even unconscious, act of mere friendliness -and sympathy? Did she know that she had done it? Would she repeat it? -Would she give him further assurance? Might she not herself wish to be -certain that he had understood--that he had received a message that was -to change all his life? - -Well, he had hold of her hand. Gently and with trembling and eager -touch he tried to raise it--he would have her replace his own hand where -that had been for one delirious moment: perhaps to ask if her heart had -still, and for ever and always, the same message to send. Alas! she did -not yield to the mute invitation. Perhaps she did not comprehend it. -For here they were at the corner of the little street in which they -lived; and she unclasped her fingers, so that his also might be released -from their too happy imprisonment; and she was talking to her -grandfather when the door of the house was reached. Nor did her eyes -say anything as he bade her good-bye for the night. Perhaps it was all a -mistake, then?--some little involuntary act of kindness, and nothing -more? - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - - INTERPOSITION. - - -Yes, she had come near--so near that she seemed to absorb his very life. -He could think of nothing but her. As he walked away down through the -dark streets, he imagined her to be still by his side; he tried to fancy -he could detect some faint perfume of sandal-wood in the surrounding -air; his right hand tingled yet with the touch of her warm, -interclasping fingers. And if at one moment his heart beat high with -the assurance that she had confessed her love and given herself to him, -the next he tortured himself with vague alarms, and wondered how the -long night was to be got through, before he could go up to her in the -morning, and challenge her to speak. All the future was filled with -her; and there again he saw himself by her side, her strong and -confident protector. And yet if he had mistaken that mute declaration -of hers? What if, after all, it were merely a timid expression, -involuntary and unpremeditated, of her friendship, her kindness, her -gratitude? - -Well, he knew he could get no confirmation of either his audacious hopes -or his depressing fears until the next day; and as the alternation -between the two moods was altogether a maddening thing, he resolved to -seek relief and distraction. As soon as he got to his own room down in -Grosvenor Place he took out a foolscap sheet of paper which had certain -pencillings on it. These formed, in fact, an outline sketch of a -lecture which he had undertaken to deliver before the Mendover Free -Library Association; and it was high time he was getting on with it, for -the meeting was to be held in the following week. But strange things -happened with this sheet of paper. Apparently the pencilled heading was -"_The Unscrupulousness of Wealth_;" but the longer he looked at the -title, the more clearly did it spell out "_Maisrie Bethune_." The -sub-headings, too, began to reveal hidden mysteries. Here was one which -on the face of it read "_Circumstances in which the capitalist may -become a tyrant in spite of himself_." But behold! that scrawl slowly -disappeared, and in its place a picture grew into existence. He seemed -to recognise the big grey building--was it not the mansion-house of -Balloray?--and well he knew the figure of the tall young girl with the -long-flowing hair who, in riding-habit, came out on to the terrace, -above the wide stone steps. Is that her grandfather, proud-featured, -lion-hearted, with the same undaunted demeanour as of old, come to wave -her good-bye? The splendour of the morning is all around her; there is -a white road outside the grounds, and an avenue of beech trees dappled -with sun and shade: when she vanishes into that wonderland of foliage, -she seems to take the light of the day away with her. And again, what -further miracle is this? Another vision interposes, and at length -becomes dominant; and this one is very different; this one is of a -street in Toronto. And here also is a young girl; but now she is all in -black; and she is alone--she knows not one of those passers-by. Pale -and pensive she walks on; her eyes are downcast; perhaps she is thinking -of wide intervening seas, and of her loneliness, and of one who used to -be her friend. Tears?--but of what avail are these, here in this -strange city?--they are only a confession of helplessness--perhaps of -despair... - -Vincent Harris got up and walked about the room: at this rate the -members of the Mendover Free Library Association were not likely to -receive much instruction. And indeed he did not return to that sheet of -foolscap; his brain could conjure up quite sufficient visions of the -future without having recourse to any palimpsest discoveries; while as -for his hand--well, perhaps the hand that Maisrie had held over her -heart for one wild, startling moment, was a little too unsteady to use a -pencil. If only the hours would go by! He tried to read--and could not. -He got hold of a map of Scotland, and traced out the line of travel he -should like to follow if Maisrie and her grandfather and himself should -ever start on their long-projected tour. He turned to a map of the -United States, and sought out Omaha: Maisrie's birthplace was not -distinguished by any difference of type, and yet he regarded those five -letters with a curious interest and fascination. He recalled his having -stood on the heights of Council Bluffs, and looked across the yellow -Missouri; and now he marvelled that he could have contemplated the wide, -straggling city with comparative indifference. Perhaps, by diligent -seeking on the morrow--for the capital of Nebraska is an important -place--he might even in London discover a photograph or two to put on -his mantel-shelf; and then he could stand opposite them and say, "Why, -Maisrie must have passed that railway station many a time!" or "Maisrie -must often have looked up to the spire of the High School, there on the -hill." To think that he had been twice in Omaha--without -caring--without knowing! And so his eyes rested on this little word in -the middle of the big map; but his imagination was far away. - -Well, the longest night must have an end; and yet the new dawn brought -no surcease to his anxieties; for how was he to have an opportunity of -speaking with Maisrie alone? He was up in the little Mayfair street -betimes; and made some pretence of beginning work; but that was soon -abandoned. He could not keep his eyes on any book or paper when there -were those two windows over the way. When would she appear there to -water the chrysanthemums in the little balcony? If she accidentally -caught sight of him, might not some tell-tale flush reveal all he wanted -to know? Or she might be coming out on some errand--so that he could -quickly follow her? Or perhaps her grandfather might be going to the -library, leaving her at home by herself? The door of the house opposite -grew to be as fascinating as the windows; unknown possibilities might be -sprung upon him at any moment. - -It was quite a cheerful morning--for London in November. If pale mists -hung about the thoroughfares, at least some trace of blue was -discernible overhead; and on the panes of the higher windows the -sunlight shone here and there a dull gleaming gold. The butcher's boy -whistled loudly as he marched by; the cabman flicked at his horse out of -mere good humour; the ostlers in the adjacent mews made merry with -bandied jests. It seemed too fine a morning for the collation of Scotch -ballads; and so indeed it proved to be; for about eleven o'clock the -door across the way was opened, and out came Mr. Bethune and his -granddaughter into the wintry sunlight. Maisrie did not look up. The -two were talking together as they went along the little thoroughfare and -turned into Park Street. The next moment Vincent had snatched up his hat -and gloves, and was off in pursuit. - -But he did not seek to overtake them. On the contrary, he kept as wide -a space between them and him as he had done before he had ever dared to -address them; and yet the distance was not so great but that he could -observe Maisrie's every gesture and the graceful motion of every step. -She wore those hanging sleeves, too, that had hidden his arm on the -preceding night--those hanging sleeves that had allowed her to say -something in secret to him, even amid the noise and movement of a great -crowd. And now that he saw her actual self instead of the vague phantom -of his reveries, he plucked up courage. Yes, she must have known what -she was doing. Those were flesh and blood fingers that had taken hold -of his; when she raised his hand to her heart, it could not have been -altogether through inadvertence. Once or twice a wild fancy got into -his head that here and now he would hasten forward, and seize her arm, -as if by right, and say 'Maisrie, there is no need of words between us: -I am here at your side, and mean to remain here. Whatever that message -meant, I claim you as mine.' And then again he drew back. What if -there were some mistake? Hyde Park did not seem a fitting place for -explanations. And then, her grandfather might be more than astonished. - -Yet hour after hour of this terrible day went by, and brought him no -nearer to the discovery he longed for. When Maisrie and her grandfather -returned from their stroll through the Park, the young man went back to -the sheet of foolscap on which he meant to shadow forth the outlines of -his lecture. The effort was absurd. He might keep his eyes -mechanically fixed on the paper; but his brain refused to act. -Industry--capital--the proposed resumption by the workers of the world -of the mines, factories, docks, ships, canals, railways which their -labour had constructed--the impracticability of land -nationalisation--and so forth: what were these but mere lifeless -phrases, when his heart was listening for the smallest sound on the -other side of the street? And ill-luck pursued him. She did not come -once to the window. The chrysanthemums in the little balcony were quite -neglected. The afternoon passed, and neither she nor her grandfather -came out alone. Then, when he went over as usual about half-past six, -there was no chance of his speaking to her by herself; in fact, both she -and her grandfather were seated at the one table, with a heap of books -and papers before them. - -"Enough, Maisrie, enough," Mr. Bethune said blithely, and he rose at -once. "You have had your wish--though I don't see why you should -undertake any such drudgery--" - -She also rose to receive the visitor; and as she gave him her hand for a -moment, and regarded him with very friendly eyes, there was not the -least trace of self-consciousness in her manner. - -"Yes," said she, with a bright and frank smile, "grandfather has -conferred a new dignity on me. I am become his amanuensis. Not that I -am the slightest real use to him, I suppose; it is only done to please -me; still, I take it seriously, and pretend to be doing my share. Time -to go, is it?--very well, I shall be ready in a minute." - -He was amazed and mortified beyond measure by this perfect -self-possession. Had nothing whatever happened the night before, then? -There was no secret between them at all? She had made no -confession--given him no message? And then wounded pride stepped in and -spoke--with its usual violence and cruel injustice. Perhaps there were -people who dispensed their caresses so freely that they thought nothing -of them? What had startled him, a man, might be only a matter of course -to her, a girl? Nay,--for what will not a lover say in a passion of -jealous anger and disappointment?--perhaps he was not the first nor the -only one who had been similarly bewildered? - -He had no word for Maisrie on her return to the room. When the three of -them went out into the street, he forsook his usual post by her side, -and walked with her grandfather, to whom he talked exclusively. And of -course, as his questions were all about the projected compilation of -ballads, and as old George Bethune was always keenly enthusiastic about -any new undertaking, there was no stint to their conversation. Maisrie -walked on in silence and unheeded. When they reached the restaurant, -and as they were taking their seats at the little table, she glanced at -the young man; but his eyes did not happen to meet hers. And there was -no place for her in their talk. - -"No," old George Bethune was saying--and with considerable animation, -for he appeared to have been looking over some of the ballads during the -day, and his mind was still fired by the recollection of them, "I think -they are beyond the reach of illustration, even if there should be an -_edition de luxe_. I have considered your suggestion more than once; -but I fear the drawing would in almost every instance be an anticlimax -to the power and simplicity and pathos of the printed page. No picture -could be as vivid and clear and striking as the verses themselves: why, -just think of such lines as these-- - - ''Tis not the frost that freezes fell, - Nor blowing snaw's inclemencie; - 'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry, - But my love's heart grown cauld to me. - When we came in by Glasgow town, - We were a comely sight to see; - My love was clad i' the black velvet, - And I myself in cramoisie.' - -What picture could better that? What picture could do anything but -weaken it? You remember in 'Edom o' Gordon' how the young maiden is -lowered from the burning tower only to be slain by Edom o' Gordon's -spear-- - - 'They row'd her in a pair o' sheets, - And tow'd her owre the wa'; - But on the point o' Gordon's spear - She gat a deadly fa'. - - O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth, - And cherry were her cheeks, - And clear, clear was her yellow hair, - Whereon the red blood dreeps. - - Then wi' his spear he turned her owre; - O but her face was wan! - He said, "Ye are the first that e'er - I wish'd alive again." - - He turned her owre and owre again, - O but her skin was white! - "I might hae spared that bonnie face - To hae been some man's delight. - - "Busk and boun, my merry men a', - For ill dooms I do guess;-- - I cannot look on that bonnie face - As it lies on the grass,"'-- - -What illustration could improve on that?--why, it burns clear as flame! -Then, again, take the girl who was drowned by her sister in 'the bonnie -mill-dams o' Balloray'----" - -At this point the silent and neglected Maisrie suddenly looked -up--glancing from her grandfather to the young man in a curiously -appealing way. She seemed to say 'Grandfather, you forget: it is not -Balloray, it is Binnorie;' and again 'Vincent, he has forgotten: that is -all.' But neither of them took any notice of her; nay, the younger man, -in his insensate indignation and disappointment, would not look her way -at all; while old George Bethune, with his mind fixed on those imaginary -pictures, went on in a rapt fashion to repeat certain of the verses-- - - "Ye couldna see her yellow hair, - Balloray, O Balloray, - For gowd and pearls that were sae rare, - By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray. - - Ye couldna see her middle sma', - Balloray, O Balloray, - Her gowden girdle was sae braw, - By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray. - - Ye couldna see her lily feet, - Balloray, O Balloray, - Her gowden fringes were sae deep, - By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray. - - 'Sair will they be, whae'er they be, - Balloray, O Balloray, - The hearts that live to weep for thee!' - By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray!" - - -"It is like a picture by one of the pre-Raphaelites," Vincent said; and -then the old man proceeded to talk of paper and type and binding, as if -the new work were just ready for press. - -But silence was not to reign for ever between those two. On their way -home Mr. Bethune was talking of "The Demon Lover," of its alleged -Italian origin, and of a suggestion he had seen somewhere that it was no -forsaken sweetheart who had come to tempt the wedded wife, but a fiend -adopting that disguise. When they reached the little parlour he began -to search about for the volume in which "The Demon Lover" was thus -treated; but could not find it; whereupon he went off upstairs, to see -if it was not among his books and papers there. As soon as he had gone, -Maisrie rose and came over to where the young man was standing by the -fireplace. - -"What have I done, Vincent?" she said. - -"Oh, nothing," he made answer, avoiding her eyes. - -"I have a right to know," she said, proudly. - -"It is nothing," said he. "I--I made a mistake; that is all." - -She looked at him in mute reproach: then she turned away, and went back -to her seat. There was a paper-knife on the table beside her; she took -that into her hands, and began to finger it; her eyes were downcast; he -was free to go now, when he chose. - -But he did not go. On the contrary, after a second or two of -vacillation, he followed her. - -"Maisrie," said he, in a very different tone, "perhaps it's all a -mistake on my part. If so, I am sorry. I don't want to vex you-- - -"I don't want to vex you, Vincent," said she, in a somewhat low voice. -"Tell me what it is." - -"Well," said he, "I came here this afternoon thinking--hoping--there -might be some more definite understanding between you and me: yes, I was -hoping for much--and then--and then I found you quite careless and -thoughtless, just as if nothing at all had happened last night----" - -"Last night?" she repeated. - -"Yes," said he, rather reproachfully. "Don't you remember what happened -last night? Don't you know that you pressed my hand to your heart? But -perhaps that was nothing--perhaps that meant nothing at all----" - -"It meant a very great deal, Vincent," said she, warmly, looking up at -him with honest eyes. "We were talking of the value of true -friends--and I could not say much--yet I wished to tell you what I -thought of all your goodness and kindness. Indeed, indeed it meant a -great deal, Vincent--and I hoped you would understand----" - -"I have understood too much," said he, and he was silent for a second. -Then he went on. "I thought you had something more than that to say to -me, Maisrie. For why need I tell you what you must have guessed -already? You know I love you; you must have seen it all this time; -there was no need for me to speak. And when the future has but the one -hope for me, that some day or other you should be my wife, then perhaps -I was too eager to believe it had all come true--that you were giving me -a promise in that quiet way--and no need of a spoken word between us. -But I was mistaken, I see. You only meant friendship. You only wanted -to say 'Thank you!' to a friend----" - -But by this time she had risen from her chair; and there was in her eyes -the strangest look of pride, and joy, and perhaps, too, of sadness. - -"Do you know what you are saying, Vincent?" she said, quite gently. -"You--of all people in the world--" - -She hesitated: she regarded, with admiring, and grateful, and -affectionate eyes, this handsome lad on whom fortune had shed all good -things--and perhaps she could not quite confess all she thought. - -"You--of all people in the world--every one making much of you--every -one hoping such great things of you--and you come seeking a wife here." -She glanced round at the shabby little apartment. Then she turned her -eyes towards him again; and there was a smile in them, of an unstable -kind; and tears were gathering in the lashes. "Well," she said, "it -will be something for me to think of. It will be something for me to be -proud of. There can be no harm in that. I shall be able to say to -myself 'Vincent thought so well of you that he once asked you to be his -wife'----" - -"But I don't know what you mean, Maisrie!" he exclaimed, and in spite of -her he seized her hand and held it tight between his two. "What do you -mean? You are going to be my wife! Oh, I don't want you to make rash -promises; I don't want to frighten you; no, I want you to be of good -heart, and you will see things will turn out all right in the end. And -if you don't know your own mind yet--if you are afraid to say -anything--won't you let me guess? Surely we have not been all this time -together, and seeing so much of each other, without getting to know each -other pretty intimately? And if I did make a mistake last night--well, -that is a trifling matter--and I was too presumptuous----" - -She managed to release her hand. - -"Sit down, Vincent, and let me talk to you," she said. "Perhaps I may -not have another chance; and I do not wish you ever to look back and say -I was ungrateful, or unreasonable, or cold-hearted. Cold-hearted?--not -that--not that--towards you!" And then she went on in rather a sad way, -"I think the time has about come that we should part. It has been a -pleasant companionship: I am not likely ever to forget it. But your -future is so important, and ours so uncertain, that I am sure the sooner -we go separate ways the better. And I am anxious to make a change now. -I think if my grandfather and I went away somewhere where we could live -more cheaply--where there would be fewer temptations towards the -spending of money--I could do something to support him, and leave him -the luxury of his books. I am a woman now--I want to work----" - -"You work? Not while I can!" he said, hotly. - -She went on without heeding him. - -"That is why I have been glad to see him so eager about this book of -ballads. If he could only get rid of all indebtedness, to friends and -others, through this book, then we should start clear; and I should ask -him not to fret any more about his literary schemes. He is an old man. -He has done everything for me: why should I not do something for him -now? And I have no pride. The story about those Scotch estates was -always a kind of fairy tale to me; I never had any real belief in the -possibility of their coming to us; I was never a fine lady even in -imagination. So that it matters little to me what I turn my hand to; if -what little education I have had is useless, I would take to something -else; I would work about a farm-house as soon as anything--for I am a -great deal stronger than you may imagine----" - -"Oh, what are you talking about, Maisrie!" he said, with simulated -anger. "If you think I am going to allow any such folly, you are -mistaken. There are plenty of dairymaids in the world without you. And -I have the right to say something--I claim the right: I am going to -interfere, whether you like it or not. When you speak of your duty -towards your grandfather, that I understand. He has been everything to -you: who would ask you to forsake him? But, as you say, he is an old -man. If anything were to happen to him, think of your own position. -You have hardly a friend in the world--a few acquaintances in Canada, -perhaps--but what is that? You will want some one to protect you: give -me that right! If I let you go from me now, how am I to find you -again?--how am I to know what may happen? Maisrie, have courage!--be -frank!--tell me that the little message of last night meant something -more!" - -The eloquence was not in the words, but in the vibrating tones of his -voice; and there were tears in her eyes as she answered-- - -"Vincent, I cannot--I dare not! You don't know how grandfather and I -are situated: you are so generous, so open-minded, that--that you see -everything in so favourable a light; but then other people might step -in---- - -"Between you and me? Who?" he demanded, with set lips. - -"Ah," she said, with a sigh, "who can tell? And besides--besides--do -you not think I am as proud of you as any one?--do you not think I am -looking forward to all that is expected of you?--and when I hear of you -as this or that, I will say to myself 'I knew what Vincent was going to -do; and now he is glad that he did not hamper himself out of--out of -pity--for a friendless girl'----" - -But here she broke down altogether, and covered her face with her hands, -and sobbed without possibility of concealment. He was by her side in a -moment; he laid his hand on the down-bent head--on the soft hair. - -"Maisrie," he said, with the utmost gentleness, "don't make me angry. -If you have anything to say why you cannot, or will not, be my wife, -tell me; but do not be unreasonable and foolish. You speak of my -future: it is nothing to me without you. You talk of the expectations of -my friends: I tell you that my life is my own. And why should you be -any drag or hamper--you! I wish you would think of yourself a little: -not of me. Surely there is something better in the world than ambition, -and figuring before the public in newspapers." Then he stopped for a -second or two; and resumed in a lower and different tone. "Of course, -if you refuse me your love, that is different. That I can understand. I -have done nothing to deserve it: I have come to you as a beggar. If you -refuse me that, there is nothing more to be said. I do not blame you. -If I have made a mistake, so much the worse for me----" - -She rose. - -"Vincent," she said, between her half-stifled sobs, "you are not very -kind. But it is better so--much better. Now I must go and help -grandfather to find that book. And as this is to be the last -word--well, then--dear friend--don't be so ungenerous to me when in -after years you look back----" - -But he was not likely to let her go like that. He interposed between her -and the door; nay, he drew her towards him, and took her head between -his hands, and pushed back the hair from her brow, as though he would -read down to the very depths of those beautiful, tear-dimmed eyes. - -"You have not refused me your love, Maisrie--because you dare not!" he -said. "And what do I care whether you say it or not--when I know?" And -therewith he kissed her on the mouth--and again--and again. "Now you -are mine. You dare not deny your love--and I claim you as my wife----" - -She struggled backward to be free from him, and said almost wildly-- - -"No, no--Vincent, you do not understand--I have not been frank with -you--I cannot ever be your wife!--some day I will tell you----" - -There was no chance for any further entreaty or explanation, for at this -moment there was the sound of a footstep outside, the door was opened, -and old George Bethune appeared, carrying in his hands some half-dozen -books. When he saw those two standing opposite to each other, the young -man pale and agitated, the girl also pale and with her eyes streaming -over with tears, he glanced from the one to the other in silence. Then -he walked deliberately forward to the table, and laid down the books. -Maisrie escaped from the room. Vincent returned to the fireplace, too -bewildered by her last words to care much what construction might be -placed upon this scene by her grandfather. But he had to recall -himself: for the old man, just as if he had observed nothing, just as if -nothing had happened, but yet with a certain measured precision in his -tones, resumed his discussion of "The Demon Lover," and proceeded to -give his reasons for thinking that the story had migrated from the far -north to the south. - -But presently Mr. Bethune had turned from those books, and was staring -into the fire, as he said with a certain slow and significant emphasis-- - -"It will be an interesting subject; and yet I must guard against being -wholly absorbed by it. And that for my granddaughter's sake. I imagine -we have been living a much too monotonous life for some time back; and -that is not well for anyone, especially for a young girl. A limitation -of interests; that is not wholesome. The mind becomes morbid; and -exaggerates trifles. And in the case of Maisrie, she has been used to -change and travel; I should think the unvarying routine of our life of -late, both as regards our employments and amusements, extremely -prejudicial to her health and spirits----" - -"Why, she seems very well!" Vincent said, anxiously--for he knew not -what all this might mean. - -"A change will do her good--will do all of us good, perhaps," said the -old man. "Everyone knows that it is not wise for people to see too much -of each other; it puts too heavy a strain on friendship. Companionship -should be a volunteered thing--should be a reward, indeed, for previous -isolation and work----" - -Vincent's forehead flushed; and the natural man within him was crying -out 'Oh, very well, then; I don't press any further acquaintance on -you!' But for Maisrie's sake he curbed his pride. He said, as quickly -as might be-- - -"In our case I thought that was precisely how our companionship stood--a -little relaxation after the labours of the day. However, if you think -there has been too much of that----" - -"I was speaking of general principles," Mr. Bethune said, with -equanimity. "At the same time I confess that, as regards Maisrie, I -think that some alteration in our mode of existence might be beneficial. -Her life of late has been much too monotonous." - -"Again and again she has told me that she delights in the quietude of -it!" the young man protested--for it suddenly occurred to him that -Maisrie was to be dragged away from England altogether. "Surely she has -had enough of travel?" - -"Travel? That is not what I have in mind," old George Bethune said. -"We have neither the time nor the means. I should merely propose to -pack up a few books and things, and take Maisrie down to some sea-side -place--Brighton, perhaps, as being the most convenient." - -The young man's face flashed instant relief; Brighton--that was -something different from what he had been dreading. Brighton--Brighton -was not Toronto nor Montreal; there was going to be no wide Atlantic -between him and her; a trivial matter of an hour's railway journey or -something of the kind! - -"Oh, Brighton?" said he, quite gladly. "Yes, that will be very pleasant -for her. Brighton is brisk and lively enough at this time of the year; -and if there is any sunlight going, you are sure to get it there. I am -afraid you will find the hotels full----" - -"We shall not trouble the hotels," Mr. Bethune said, with grave dignity. -"Some very humble lodgings will suffice. And perhaps we might get rooms -in a house on the hill at the back of the town; that would give me -seclusion and quiet for my work. Yes, I think the change will be -wholesome; and the sooner we set about it the better." - -Well, to Vincent it did not seem that this proposal involved any great -alteration in their mode of life, except that he himself was obviously -and unmistakeably excluded; nevertheless, he was so glad to find that -the separation from Maisrie was of a mild and temporary nature that he -affected to give a quite cordial approval. He even offered to engage -the services of his aunt, Mrs. Ellison, in securing them apartments; but -Mr. Bethune answered that Maisrie and he were old travellers, and would -be able to shift for themselves. And when did they propose to go? -Well, to-morrow, if his granddaughter were content. - -While they were yet talking, Maisrie made her appearance. She had -bathed her eyes in water, and there was not much trace of her recent -agitation, though she was still somewhat pale. And Vincent--to show her -that he refused to be alarmed by her parting words--to show her that he -was quite confident as to the future--preserved his placid, not to say -gay, demeanour. - -"Do you know what your grandfather is going to do with you, Maisrie?" -said he. "He is going to take you down to Brighton for a time. Yes, -and at once--to-morrow, if you care to go." - -She glanced quickly from one to the other, as if fearing some conspiracy -between them. - -"And you, Vincent?" she asked, turning to him. - -He did not meet her look. - -"I? Oh, I must keep to work; I can't afford to go away down and idle -among those fashionable folk. My Mendover lecture isn't half sketched -out yet. And then, again, you remember the article I told you -about?--before beginning it I ought really to run down to Scotland, or -at least to Yorkshire, and see one of those Municipal Lodging-houses in -actual operation. They seem to me marvellous institutions," continued -this consummate hypocrite (as if the chief thought in his mind at this -moment was the housing of the industrious poor!), "and of the greatest -importance to the country at large; worked at a profit, too, that is the -amazing thing! Fancy at Huddersfield; threepence a day includes use of -cooking and table utensils, a smoking-room, reading-room, and -conversation-room, and then a bed at night--all for threepence! -Belonging to the rate-payers, themselves--under the management of the -Corporation--and paying a profit so that you can go on improving and -extending. Why, every big town in the kingdom ought to have a Municipal -Lodginghouse, or half a dozen of them; and it only needs to be shown how -they are worked for the example to be copied everywhere----" - -"And when do you go, Vincent?" she asked, with downcast eyes. - -"Oh, I am not sure yet," he made answer cheerfully. "Of course, I ought -in duty to go; but it will cost me half what I shall get for the -article. However, that is neither here nor there. But if this is to be -our last night together for a little while, Maisrie," he went on, to -keep up his complacent acquiescence in this temporary separation, "you -might give us a little music--won't you?--you haven't had the violin out -of its case for a long time." - -She was very obedient. She went and got the violin--though she was in -no playing or singing mood. - -"What, then, grandfather?" she said when she was ready. - -"Whatever you please." - -Then she began, and very slowly and tenderly she played the air of a -Scotch song--"Annie's Tryst." It is a simple air, and yet pathetic in -its way; and indeed so sensitive and skilful was her touch that the -violin seemed to speak; any one familiar with the song might have -imagined he could hear the words interpenetrating those vibrant notes-- - - "Your hand is cauld as snaw, Annie, - Your cheek is wan and white; - What gars ye tremble sae, Annie, - What maks your e'e sae bright? - The snaw is on the ground, Willie, - The frost is cauld and keen, - But there's a burnin' fire, Willie, - That sears my heart within. - - * * * * * - - Oh, will ye tryst wi' me, Annie, - Oh, will ye tryst me then? - I'll meet ye by the burn, Annie, - That wimples down the glen. - I daurna tryst wi' you, Willie, - I daurna tryst ye here, - But we'll hold our tryst in heaven, Willie, - In the springtime o' the year." - - -"That is too sad, Maisrie," her grandfather said, fretfully. "Why don't -you sing something?" - -She turned to Vincent: there was a mute question in her eyes. - -"Will you sing the _Claire Fontaine_, Maisrie?" said he. - -She seemed a little surprised: it was a strange song to ask for on a -night of farewell; but she did as she was bidden. She went and got the -book and placed it open before her on the table: then she drew her bow -across the strings. - -But hardly had she began to sing the little ballad than it became -evident that there was something added to the pure, clear tones of her -voice--some quality of an indefinable nature--some alien influence that -might at any moment prove too strong for her self-control. - - _Sur la plus haute tranche--_ - -this was the point at which she began-- - - _Le rossignol chantait;_ - _Chante, rossignol, chante,_ - _Toi qui as le coeur gai--_ - -And so far all was well; but at the refrain - - _Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,_ - _Jamais je ne t'oublierai_ - -her voice shook a little, and her lips were tremulous. Vincent cursed -his folly a hundred times over: why had he asked her to sing the _Claire -Fontaine_? But still she held bravely on: - - _Chante, rossignol, chante,_ - _Toi qui as le coeur gai;_ - _Tu as le coeur a rire,_ - _Moi je l' ai-t-a pleurer--_ - -And here she could go no further for those choking tears in her voice; -she stood for a moment all uncertain, trying to master herself; then she -laid the violin on the table, and with a broken "Good-night, -Vincent--and good-bye!" she turned and left the room, her hands hiding -her face, her frame shaken by the violence of her sobbing. - -There was an instant of silence. - -"Yes, it is time she was taken away," old George Bethune said, with a -deep frown on his shaggy eyebrows. "Her nerves are all wrong. Why -should she make such a to-do about leaving London for a fortnight?" - -But Vincent Harris knew better than that. It was not this unexpected -departure that was in Maisrie's mind: it was the words that he had -spoken to her, and she to him, earlier in the evening. It was of no -fortnight's absence she was thinking, but of a far wider and longer -farewell. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - - THE GNAWING FOX. - - -But he was not disheartened by those ominous words of hers, not even on -the following morning, when he found the little thoroughfare so -strangely silent and empty, and the two windows over the way become -vacant and devoid of charm. He had the high courage and impetuous will -of youth; seeing no difficulties or dangers ahead, he refused to believe -in any; Maisrie had not denied him her love, therefore she must be his -wife; and all the future shone fair. And so he set to work on his -Mendover lecture; and made good progress, even if his thoughts went -sometimes flying away down to Brighton. As for the lecture -itself--well, perhaps certain of its contentions and illustrations would -have surprised and even shocked that Communist-capitalist, his father; -but the young man was accustomed to think for himself. - -Yes, this little street was terribly empty, and those windows -indescribably blank. And the room was lonely, work or no work. But as -he was standing looking out, cigarette in hand, after his frugal -luncheon, a happy inspiration sprung into his head; for here was Hobson, -the husband of the landlady across the way, coming along the pavement; -and would it not be a comforting thing to have him in to talk about the -two lodgers who had just left? Vincent opened the window a bit, and -said into the street (there was no need to call)-- - -"Hobson!" - -The man looked up. - -"Yes, sir?" - -"I want you for a moment." - -Then Vincent went himself downstairs and opened the door; and here was -the shabby-genteel ex-butler, obsequiously waiting, with an excess of -imbecile amiability in his weak, prominent, nervous eyes. - -"Come in and have a smoke, Hobson," the young man said. "You must be -lonely over there now. Makes a difference, doesn't it?" - -"Wonderful, sir, wonderful;" and the docile Hobson obediently followed -up the stairs, and accepted a big cigar, and was prevailed on to draw in -a chair to the fire. Vincent took a seat opposite him, and lit another -cigarette--in a quite friendly fashion. - -"You've seen a good deal of Mr. Bethune since he came to live in your -house?" the young man began, in a sort of tentative and encouraging way. -And Hobson responded with instant enthusiasm---- - -"Ah, yes, indeed, sir, and proud of the same. A great man, sir--oh, a -very great man--and how he came to be where he is, sir, well, that beats -me, sir. And that haffable, sir!--if he ave somethink on the table, -he'll say, 'Hobson, bring two tumblers'--yes, sir--'Hobson, bring two -tumblers'--and I must take a seat, just as kind and condescending as you -are, sir. 'Fill your glass, Hobson,' he says, just that haffable -like--" - -"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Vincent, looking guiltily towards his -vacant sideboard. "The fact is, I haven't anything of the kind in these -rooms; but I can send out. Which would you like, gin or whiskey?" - -"Whichever you please," said Hobson, complacently, "being so kind as to -think of it, sir." - -The necessary fluid was soon procured; and Hobson was liberally helped. -And when at length he began to expatiate on the character and the -wonderful attainments and abilities of Maisrie's grandfather, there may -have been a little exaggeration (for gin tends towards exaggeration) in -his speech; but his aim and admiration were genuine enough at the core. -He grovelled in the dust before that impressive old man. He spoke in -almost a breathless way of his haffability. Why, that a great personage -in literature should condescend to read his, Hobson's, poor little -verses was extraordinary; but that he should give advice, too, and -encouragement, that was overwhelming. And as for the young lady--but -here Hobson's language failed him. With tears in his eyes he declared -that she was a hangel of sweetness--which did not convey much to -Vincent's eager-listening ears. But when he went on to tell about all -sorts of little acts of kindness and consideration--when he spoke of her -patience with the old gentleman's temper, of her cheerfulness over small -disappointments happening to herself, of her gentleness, and sunniness, -and invariable good humour--here he was on more intelligible ground; and -his delighted and grateful audience was not slow to press on him another -cigar, which was not refused. Indeed, what with so much courtesy shown -him, and what with the stimulating influence of the gin and water, -Hobson grew valiant; and began to broach wild and iconoclastic theories -about filthy lucre, and to describe in dark colours the character of any -one--presumably his own wife--who could be so base as to take every -farthing of her rent, fortnight after fortnight, from a grand and noble -old gentleman and a beautiful young lady both of whom seemed to have -known better days. - -"Do you know how long they are to be away?" Vincent asked. - -"Well, sir, the old gentleman, sir, he says perhaps two weeks and -perhaps three." - -"I see you've put up a notice that the rooms are to be let." - -"Yes, sir; but that ain't much use, not for so short a time, sir." - -And here another sudden fancy struck the young man. - -"But I know how you can get them let," said he. - -"How, sir?" - -"You can let them to me." - -"Law, sir!" - -There was a doubtful look about Hobson's big, vacuous eyes: being of a -poetic and sensitive nature he did not like jokes, and was suspicious. -However, the young gentleman, to judge by his manner, seemed fair and -honest and above-board. - -"I will take them," said Vincent, "until Mr. Bethune and his -granddaughter come back. Not to occupy them myself, you understand; but -I don't want any stranger to be going into these rooms, you see--that is -all." - -"How kind, sir--how thoughtful!" Hobson said, in a pathetic way. "That -it is to have good, kind friends!" - -"And as the rooms are now mine, I suppose I might go over and look at -them--if you will finish up your tumbler?" - -"Certainly, sir, certainly," Hobson said, jumping to his feet with -alacrity, and hastily draining his glass. "They're all tidied up, sir, -against the chance of a lodger. And won't the missus be surprised!--for -the women, sir, the women, you see, sir, they likes to haggle and -bargain, but with men, sir, begging your pardon, sir, it's a word and -done!" - -Indeed he seemed quite proud of the promptitude with which he had -conducted and concluded this negotiation; and it was with an unusual air -of authority and importance that he led the way upstairs and showed -Vincent into the little parlour, with which he was already abundantly -familiar. There were few alterations. The old man's books, Maisrie's -music, and similar personal belongings, had disappeared; and a hideous -purple vase stood for ornament in the middle of the table. The pallid -lithographs were still on the walls; Maisrie's chrysanthemums were out -there in the little iron balcony. - -"Would you like to see the rooms upstairs, sir?" - -The young man hesitated for a second. - -"Oh, very well." - -Hobson led the way up to the next landing; and there the first door he -came to he flung wide open. - -"The young lady's room, sir." - -But Vincent did not accept the implied invitation. He hung shamefacedly -back. - -"Oh, yes, that's all right," said he. "I--I only wished to--to have it -kept for her." - -And yet he lingered for another second at the door of this chamber--that -seemed so sacred--that seemed to shut him out. He could see the -dressing-table, the chest of drawers, the neatly folded bed, the rather -dingy window. - -"Look here, Hobson," said he, "if I were to get a few things to make the -room a little more cheerful, I suppose that could be done without -letting Miss Bethune know who sent them? The looking-glass there--you -know, that is not the right kind of thing at all; there should be a -pretty mirror on the dressing-table, with some lace round the top of -it----" - -Here he ventured in half a step or so, and rather timidly looked round. - -"That one gas-jet can't be half enough, when Miss Bethune is dressing to -go out in the evening," he said, complainingly--perhaps to conceal his -incomprehensible diffidence and shyness. "She must have candles--one on -each side of the mirror, for example. And that screen across the -window, why, it is so common!--it ought to be a piece of pale silk--to -let the light through." - -He ventured a few inches further, and again looked round. - -"What do you call that thing?--the coverlet--the counterpane--isn't it? -Well, it shouldn't be white, and cold, and cheerless like that; it -should be a deep crimson satin--and there should be pretty things at the -head of the bed--loops and bows of ribbon--my goodness, what is Mrs. -Hobson about!--a young lady's room shouldn't be like a cell in a -prison!" - -"Law, sir, I'm very sorry," Hobson said, in a bewildered way: a crimson -satin coverlet sounded a grand thing; but it also meant a heap of money. - -"But come away out and I will talk to you," Vincent said, just as if -they were in a mysteriously sacred shrine, where the discussion of -business affairs was a sort of profanation. Or perhaps he resented the -intrusion of the amiable but gin-odorous Hobson? At all events, he did -not resume the conversation until they were both downstairs again in the -parlour. - -"You understand, then," he said, and there was no more timidity about -his speech now, "I am willing to get a number of things for the room, -and to make you and Mrs. Hobson a present of them, on the distinct -condition that Miss Bethune is kept in absolute ignorance how they came -there. One word to her--and out they come again, every rag and stick. -Why, you can easily invent excuses! You can tell them you took the -opportunity of their absence to brighten up the place a bit. It is in -your own interest to keep the rooms smart: it doesn't imply any favour -conferred on your lodgers. Don't you see?" - -"Yes, sir. Very kind of you, sir, indeed," said Hobson, who seemed a -little confused. "And what did you want me to do?" - -"Do? I want you to do nothing: and I want you to say nothing. Don't -you understand? I am going to send in a few things to smarten up that -room; and they are yours so long as not any one of you hints to Miss -Bethune where they came from. Isn't that simple enough?" - -But far less simple was his own part in this transaction, as he was -speedily to discover. For when he went outside again, and made away -towards Regent-street, thinking he would go to a famous shop there, and -buy all sorts of pretty things, it gradually dawned on him that he had -undertaken a task entirely beyond his knowledge. For example, he could -purchase any quantity of crimson satin; but how or where was he going to -get it made up into a coverlet, or counterpane, or quilt, or whatever -the thing was called? Then supposing he had the mirror and the lace, -who was going to put the lace round the top of the mirror?--he could not -do that for himself. A little set of ornamental book-shelves he could -buy, certainly; but how was he going to ask for the bows of ribbon, or -the silk drapery, or whatever it was that ought to adorn the brass rods -at the head of the bed? The more he considered the matter the more -clearly he saw that he must consult a woman, and the only woman he could -consult in confidence was his aunt, Mrs. Ellison, who had now returned -to Brighton. And perhaps he strove to conceal from himself what it was -that so easily and naturally drew his thoughts to Brighton; perhaps he -was hardly himself aware how this secret hunger of the soul was minute -by minute and hour by hour increasing in its demands. Maisrie had not -been so long away; but already he felt that one brief glimpse of her, no -matter at what distance, would be a priceless thing. And then again it -would not be breaking any compact. He would not seek to go near her, if -there was this understanding that these two were for the present -separated the one from the other. She would not even know he was in the -town. And surely it would be a new and wonderful experience to look at -Maisrie from afar off, as if she were a stranger. - -So instead of going to Regent-street, he went to the nearest post-office -and telegraphed to Mrs. Ellison, asking if she could take him in for a -day or two. Then he walked on home; and by the time he had reached -Grosvenor Place, the answer was there awaiting him; he was to go down at -once. He put a few things in his bag; jumped into a hansom and drove to -Victoria-station; caught the four-thirty train; and eventually arrived -at Brunswick Terrace about six. He guessed that his aunt's afternoon -visitors would be gone; and he would have ample opportunity of a long -talk with her before dinner. - -His anticipations proved correct. When he was shown into the big -drawing-room--which looked very snug and warm amid its magnificence--he -found the tall and bright-eyed young widow in sole possession; and she -came forward to welcome him with great complaisance. - -"Very sensible of you, Vin. You know I can always make room for you, no -matter who is in the house." - -"If I had gone to a hotel, aunt, you would have made an awful row; and I -don't want to quarrel with you just at present: the fact is, I have come -to you for advice and help," said he. "But first--my congratulations! -I was hardly surprised when I got your letter; and I am sure no one can -wish you more happiness than I do----" - -"Oh, be quiet," she said; and she took a seat at a little distance from -the fire, by the side of a small table, and put a fan between her eyes -and the crimson-shaded lamp. "Congratulations? Well, I suppose there -are no fools like old fools. But if grown-up people will play at being -children, and amuse themselves by writing things in the sand--did I tell -you how it all happened?--they must take the consequences. And I, who -used to be so content! Haven't I often told you? Perhaps I boasted too -much----" - -"Oh, yes, pretend you regret it!" said he. "And you talk of your being -so old--you!--why, what girl of all your acquaintance has half your life -and spirit, or half your good looks, either----" - -"Vincent Harris," said she, and she turned round and faced him, "what do -you want?" - -He laughed. - -"It is a very simple matter, aunt." - -And then he began to tell her of the little predicament in which he was -placed; and to beseech her help. Would she come and choose the things -for him? There were plenty of bric-a-brac shops in Brighton: she would -know what was most appropriate: her own house was evidence of her taste. -But his ingenuous flattery was of no avail. Mrs. Ellison's face grew -more and more serious, until at length she exclaimed-- - -"Why, Vin, this is the very madness of infatuation! And I had been -hoping for far other things. I had imagined from the tone of your last -letter that perhaps there might be a change--that your eyes had been -opened at last. So this is going on just the same as ever?" - -"It is going on, as you call it, aunt; and is likely to go on--so long -as I live." - -"Then I, for one, wish to have nothing to do with it," she said, -sharply. "And this last proposal is really too audacious. What -business have you with that girl's room?--what right have you to go into -it?" - -He was rather taken aback--for a moment. - -"Business?--oh, none of course. None whatever--that is to say--oh, yes, -I have, though!--I have a perfect right to go into it. The room is not -hers. It is mine. I have paid for it. When she comes back it will be -hers; and where is the harm of her finding it a little prettier?--that -is all." - -"I must say, Vin," she continued, in a very reserved fashion, "that the -infatuation of a young man may excuse a good deal; but this is a -little--a little too much. Do you consider it quite nice--quite -becoming? A satin counterpane! I wonder what the girl would think -herself--if she has any refinement of feeling--if she has any -delicacy--" - -His face grew very pale. - -"'If she has any refinement of feeling--if she has any delicacy,'" he -repeated. - -Then he rose. - -"It is useless to say anything further, aunt; there is an end this -time." - -But she had risen too. He tried to pass her--and failed; nay, she went -to the door, and stood with her back against it, and faced him. - -"No, you shall not go," she said. "Why should there be any dissension? -You are my own dear boy; I would do anything for you--except in this one -direction----" - -"Except in this one direction!" he repeated, scornfully. - -"Why cannot we remain friends," she said, with appealing eyes, "good and -true friends--and agree to leave this one subject alone?" - -"This one subject--that is my life!" he said, vehemently. "What folly -you talk! You wish to cut away the very thing I live for; the very -thing that is my life; and to continue your friendship with what -remains--a senseless stick or stone! And why? Because of your insensate -prejudice, your cruel and baseless suspicions. Why do you talk to me as -if I were a boy? I have seen twice as much of the world as you have; I -have had better opportunities of learning how to judge strangers. But -you--you live in a narrow groove--you have your maid to talk to--your -acquaintances to call in the afternoon--your friends to dinner--and what -besides? That is your world. What do you know of the human beings -outside it? Must they all be dishonest--because they have not been -heard of by your handful of a set? Must they all be thieves and -swindlers--because they are not in the Court Directory? But it is -little matter. If this subject is debarred, then all is debarred, as -between you and me. You can go your own way, and I mine. I did expect, -now that you have your own happiness secured, you might show some little -generosity, some little sympathy; but I see it is different; and I will -not allow one who is dearer to me than all the world to be treated with -such enmity, while I am supposed to stand by and accept it as a natural -condition of affairs. I do not; I have had enough; and so here is an -end, as between you and me; and I hope you will have more happiness than -you seem to wish for other people." - -Well, Mrs. Ellison was not used to giving way; but she was very fond of -this proud and handsome boy; and she gave just one sob, and tears -gathered in her eyes. - -"You are not very kind, Vin," she said. - -And what marvellous thing was this that instantaneously smote his heart? -Why, Maisrie had made use of this very expression on the preceding -afternoon! And all of a sudden he seemed to recognise that his -adversary here was a woman; she was akin to his beloved--and therefore -to be treated gently; Maisrie's voice and eyes seemed to be pleading for -her: surely that was enough? He hesitated for a moment: then he said-- - -"Very well; let it be as you wish. We shall see how we get on, with the -one thing that is of more importance to me than anything else shut out -from mention. But I must say this to you, aunt: I do not see I am doing -anything that the most fastidious person can object to if I put a few -pretty things into the room of the girl who is to be my wife." - -"How do you know that she is to be your wife, Vin?" she said, rather -sadly. - -"I know," he made answer. - -"My poor boy!" she said; and then she took him by the hand and led him -back to the little table at which they had been sitting; and there they -had some further conversation about more or less indifferent things, -with the one all-important subject carefully avoided. And then it was -time for them to go away and dress for dinner. - -Lord Musselburgh dined with them that evening, and remained some time -after the other guests had gone. To Vincent it seemed a puzzling thing -that two betrothed people should make so merry. They appeared so well -content with their present estate; they were so assured as to the -future; no anxieties; no conflicting hopes and fears; they were in the -happiest mood. Next morning, too, Lord Musselburgh again made his -appearance; and the three of them went out for a stroll along the -promenade. All the world was shining fair and clear; Mrs. Ellison was -looking her best, and seemed to know it; her fiance was in a gay humour. -Why, they were almost like the 'lover and his lass' of whom Thomas -Morley sang nigh three hundred years ago--those 'pretty country folks' -who lived in a perpetual spring-time, with birds singing -hey-ding-a-ding-a-ding to them through all the jocund hours. The tall -and elegant young widow blushed and laughed like a maid; her eyes were -sarcastic, playful, amused, according to her varying mood; the sunlight -touched her pretty brown hair. There was, indeed, a sort of audacity of -comeliness about her, that set Vincent thinking of a very different kind -of beauty--the beauty that seems to be dowered with a divine and angelic -sadness. He was walking with these two; but he did not take part in -their frolic talk; nor did he pay much attention to the crowd of people, -the butterflies of fashion, who had come out into the pleasant sunshine. -He seemed to see before him a face that, with all its youth, and its -touch of colour, and its grace of outline, was strangely pensive and -wistful. And again he asked himself, as many a time he had asked -himself, what that expression meant: whether it had been brought there -by experience of the many vicissitudes of life, or by loneliness, or -whether it was not something more tragic still--the shadow of an -impending fate. There was more than that he could not understand: her -curious resignation, her hopelessness as to the future, her wish to get -away. And what was it she had concealed from him? And why had she -declared she could not ever be his wife? - -"You are very silent, Vin," his fair neighbour said, turning her merry -eyes towards him at last. "Here is Lord Musselburgh declaring that if he -were a Jew he would turn dentist, to have it out with the Christians for -what they did in the Middle Ages. A horrid revenge, wouldn't it -be?--and so mean--under pretence of affording relief. Oh, look at that -girl over there--I do believe the ruff is coming back--we shall all be -Elizabethans by-and-by." - -"But what business had women ever with ruffs?" Lord Musselburgh -interposed. "Why, when the dandies and bucks of Henry VIII.'s time -began to make themselves splendid by puffing themselves out round the -neck, of course it was in imitation of the stag--as the stag becomes -when he is supposed to captivate the fancy of the hinds; but you don't -find the hinds with any similar adornments. Such things are proper to -males: why should women try to look magnificent round the back of the -neck? Why should a hen covet a cockscomb? It's all wrong--it's against -natural laws." - -"Natural laws in a milliner's shop!" she said. "Oh, do look at those two -Italian girls; what English peasant-girl could choose colour like that? -I _should_ like to speak to them--for a moment." - -Lord Musselburgh did not seem inclined to interfere. - -"I dare say they may have been long enough in England," said he, "to -have picked up a little of the Italian that English ladies speak. You -may try them." - -But she refrained; for at this moment one of the girls began to play a -few bars of _Funiculi-funicula_ evidently as an introduction to the -singing of her companion; whereupon Lord Musselburgh proposed that Mrs. -Ellison should cross over to look at the windows of one or two -jewellers' shops--in which both of them happened to be much interested -just at this time. - -The morning went by, and Vincent had caught no glimpse of Maisrie -Bethune or her grandfather; but indeed he had not expected that; the old -man would be busy with his books, and it was not likely that Maisrie -would come wandering by herself through this fashionable throng. When -at last the three friends got back to Brunswick Terrace, it was close on -luncheon-time; though here Mrs. Ellison was much surprised to learn that -Lord Musselburgh had engaged Vincent to lunch with him at the Bedford -Hotel. - -"What's the matter?" said she. "Business or billiards?" - -"Neither," her fiance made answer, "I only wanted to give you a little -holiday, for an hour or two." - -"Not longer, then," she said. "For I am going out driving at three, and -I shall expect you both." - -Soon the two young men were seated at a little window-table in the -spacious and cheerful coffee-room; and again Vincent was struck by the -eminently practical manner in which his companion spoke of his -forthcoming marriage. It was going to be, he frankly intimated, a very -useful arrangement for both Mrs. Ellison and himself; and their combined -fortunes would enable them to do what hitherto had been impossible for -either of them. Mrs. Ellison was fond of society; he had always looked -forward to the formation of a political salon when once he got married; -and now he thought he could afford to have a much bigger house, which -would be necessary for that purpose, than his present one in Piccadilly. -Then there were speculations as to whether he, Musselburgh, ought to -accept office--some subsidiary office, of course, as befitting his -years--when his party came into power again: you see, Vin Harris was -being consulted now as if he were a friend of the family. But as for -Vincent's own affairs--not a word: Lord Musselburgh had received a hint; -and he was discretion itself. - -And yet if ever in his life the younger of those two friends had need of -a confidant, it was that afternoon; for something then happened that -seemed to strike at the very roots of his being. When it was about time -for them to go along to keep their appointment with Mrs. Ellison, -Vincent was standing in the hall of the hotel, waiting for Lord -Musselburgh, who had momentarily gone upstairs; and he was idly looking -out upon the passing crowd. Idly and absently; there was no one there to -interest him; very different it would be (he was saying to himself) -towards six or seven o'clock, when perhaps Maisrie and her grandfather -would come out for a stroll before going to dine at one of the -restaurants. At present he had no sort of concern with all those people -who went driving and walking past, in the dull wintry sunshine. It was -a pretty show; and that was all. - -But of a sudden his heart stood still; and his startled vision beheld -what seemed incredible, and yet was there, and actual, and beyond any -doubt. Ere he was aware, a vehicle had driven by--a tall dog-cart, with -two figures in front and one behind; but another glance revealed to him -that the one behind was old George Bethune: who could mistake at any -distance the powerful and striking head, the shaggy eyebrows, the -flowing white hair? And the two in front?--one was a young man, to -Vincent unknown: the other--a terrible misgiving told him that was -Maisrie, though they were now some way off. What did it all mean? He -had never heard of their knowing anyone in Brighton. They had come down -for seclusion, for work; yet here they were in the midst of the -fashionable crowd; and a young man--a stranger--was making ostentatious -display of his acquaintance with them. A thousand wild surmises, the -offspring of a very madness of jealousy, sprang into his brain. Why had -the old man so clearly intimated to him that he was not wanted--that -they wished to go to Brighton by themselves? And who was this person -who was making such open parade of his intimacy with them? Alas! there -was no answer to these burning and bewildering questions; and he stood -there breathless, alarmed, yet not daring to ask the cause of his alarm. - -Lord Musselburgh came along the hall. - -"Sorry to have kept you waiting, Vin----" - -"Oh, don't mind that," the young man said, striving to conceal his -agitation. "The fact is--I--I don't think I will go driving this -afternoon: will you make my excuses to my aunt----?" - -"What's the matter?" said Musselburgh, regarding him. "You look as if -you had seen a ghost or a creditor: what is it, man?" - -"Never mind--never mind--it is nothing," Vin said, hastily. "I will see -you later on. Will you make my excuses--thanks!" - -The hall porter swung the door open; and before his astonished companion -could remonstrate, he had passed out and down the stone steps. He -crossed over, to lose himself in the throng on the opposite promenade. -The dog-cart would be coming by again: he would see who this new friend -was. Could he not hide somewhere?----he felt like a spy, like a traitor, -with all those dire imaginings surging through his brain. And sudden -wrath, too: he would demand to know by what right any stranger was -allowed to make Maisrie Bethune so conspicuous. Why, it was too -public!--it was a boast; and hardly decent, either; ought not respect -for age and white hair to have placed the old man in front, instead of -inviting all the world to witness the flattering of a young girl? And -as for Maisrie--well, even in his wildest and blackest surmises he could -think no serious harm of Maisrie; but she was too yielding; she was too -generous with her favours; she ought to make distinctions; she ought not -to permit this great, idle crowd to draw false conclusions. It was ill -done of her--behind his back: had she so soon forgotten that he had -pledged his life to her not so very many hours ago? - -By-and-bye he knew rather than saw that they were returning. He was on -the seaward side of the road; there were a good many people passing to -and fro; moreover, he was partly concealed by an open fly that stood -close to the railings. The tall dog-cart came swiftly along: an -unprejudiced spectator would have said that the young man who was -driving was rather a good-looking young fellow, of the pink and white -type, with a small yellow moustache carefully waxed at the ends, and -clear grey eyes. He wore a buff-coloured coat, with a velvet collar of -similar hue; he had a flower in his button-hole. Then, again, his -turn-out was faultless--a neatly-appointed cart--a beautiful, -high-stepping roan. All this was visible at a glance. - -But it was on Maisrie Bethune that Vincent's gaze was bent; and as she -drew near, his heart was smitten at once with remorse and with -gratitude. Had he expected, then, that she would be smirking and smiling -and coquetting with this new acquaintance? On the contrary, Maisrie sate -there grave and silent and reserved; her eyes were neither observant nor -conscious: once or twice they were turned towards the sea. To Vincent -she seemed so distinguished-looking, so refined, and noble, and -self-possessed, as contrasted with that fresh-complexioned country clown -who had the monstrous audacity to claim her as his companion! Then, as -the dog-cart went by, he caught sight of George Bethune. He was sitting -rather side-ways, to permit of his addressing an occasional remark to -the young gentleman who was driving: no doubt that was why Maisrie was -allowed to remain silent. Perhaps she was thinking--of someone whom she -thought to be far away----? - -Strangely enough, as soon as they had disappeared from view, his doubts -and imaginings grew black again. For a moment, that vision of Maisrie's -sweet face had charmed him out of himself; but now these hideous -questions rushed back upon him, demanding an answer where there was no -answer. He did not attempt to reason himself out of this paroxysm of -jealousy; that would have been useless; he could but submit to this -gnawing torture of anxiety and suspense, while walking up and down, and -waiting, and fearing to find them coming within sight once more. - -They did not return. Shortly after four the dusk began to fall; by -half-past five black night had enveloped sky and sea, and the town was -all ablaze with golden stars. There were hardly any carriages now; the -people had betaken themselves to the other side of the road, to look in -at the glaring shop-windows on their way home. Vincent found himself -more alone than ever; and knew not what to do or which way to turn. In -his present frame of mind he dared not go near the house in Brunswick -Terrace; he could not submit to cross-examining eyes. It would drive -him mad to talk, while those rankling conjectures were busy at his -heart. He wanted to see Maisrie again; and yet dreaded to see her, lest -he should find her once more in the society of that man. - -But about half-past six his aimless perambulation of the streets became -circumscribed. He drew nearer to the neighbourhood of the restaurants. -If old George Bethune had brought his London habits down with him, as -many people did, would not he soon make his appearance, along with his -granddaughter? Here in East-street, for example, were _cafes_, both -French and Italian, where they could have a foreign dinner if they -chose. Would he venture to address them? Would he confess he had seen -them driving--in the hope they might volunteer information for which he -dared not ask? He could not tell; his brain was in a bewilderment of -anxiety and unreasoning misery; and this grew worse, indeed, as the slow -minutes went by, and there was no sign of the two figures for whom he -was so eagerly watching. - -And then a sickening thought occurred to him. What if those two had been -invited to dine at a hotel by the country clod--by the young man from -the plough--by the rustic dandy with the velvet collar? At the Old -Ship, most likely--a private room--a profusion of flowers--plenty of -champagne--Hodge Junior gay and festive--cigarettes between the -courses--Arry having learnt so much from the cheap society journals; and -will not Miss Bethune be persuaded to join? Ah, well, perhaps after -dinner, when the liqueurs come to be handed round? There is a piano in -the room: will Miss Bethune oblige with an accompaniment?--here is a -smart little thing--"Kiss me on the sly, Johnnie!"--the latest draw at -the music halls.... - -Seven by the big clock over the stationer's shop; and still no sign of -them. Clearly they were not coming to any restaurant hereabouts. So at -length he left East Street, and went down to the King's-road, and -wandered slowly along, glancing furtively into this or that -hotel--especially where some coffee-room window happened to have been -left with the blind up. It was a vain quest, and he was aware of it; -but something, he knew not what, drew him on. And meanwhile his mind -was busy with pictures--of a private room, and flowers, and three -figures seated at table. _Ach weh! mein Liebchen war die Braut!_ - -At a quarter to eight, Lord Musselburgh was shown into Mrs. Ellison's -drawing-room. - -"Haven't you seen anything of Vin?" she said, with astonished eyes. - -"No--nor you?" - -"Nothing at all--and now he won't have time to dress for dinner." - -"I shouldn't wonder if he did not turn up for dinner," Musselburgh said. -"Something very peculiar happened to him to-day--I could not precisely -gather what--but he was obviously upset." - -"Yes," said Mrs. Ellison, and her face was graver than its wont. -"Something has indeed happened to him to-day--though he himself is not -aware of it as yet." - -She went to a little cabinet, and took from it two letters. - -"I thought you ought to see both of these," said she. "One is from my -brother-in-law; I got it just a minute or two after you left. The other -is my answer; I will have it posted as soon as you have read it." - -He took the first letter, which was from Vincent's father, and read it -carefully through, without a word of comment. Then he took the other, -which ran as follows:-- - - -"DEAR HARLAND, - -"It is very terrible; but I half suspected as much; and terrible as it -is there is nothing to be done but to tell Vin the whole truth, and at -once. Telegraph for him to-morrow morning--on business of importance; -if he wants to come down again, I shall be ready with such consolation -as I can think of. I fancy from one or two things that those people are -here in Brighton just now: all the more reason why you should summon him -home at once. Poor boy, it will be a sad awakening. But he is young; -he will get over it; and perhaps be none the worse in the end for this -cruel experience of the deceit and wickedness of the world. Let me know -how he takes it. - -"Yours affectionately, - "MADGE." - - -No, Vincent did not come in to dinner that evening. He was still -walking up and down the King's-road, glancing now and again, but with a -sort of hopelessness, at any little group of people that might appear at -the hall-door of this or that hotel; and all the while there was a fire -eating at his heart. - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - - PUT TO THE PROOF. - - -To say that Vin Harris's jealousy was unreasoning, ungovernable, and the -cause of cruel and incessant torture to himself, is merely to say that -it was jealousy; but by an unhappy coincidence this was the very moment -chosen by his father to make a disclosure which, for a startled second -or so, seemed to recall and confirm the young man's wildest suspicions. -When Vincent, in obedience to the telegraphic summons, arrived at the -house in Grosvenor Place, he found his father in the library, standing -with his back to the fire. On this occasion the great -capital-denouncing capitalist did not wear the suit of hodden grey -which, at dinner in his own house, was designed to show his contempt for -conventionality; no; when this interview was over, he meant to lunch at -the Athenaeum Club, and with a view to that solemn rite he had donned a -black frock-coat which was tightly buttoned over his substantial form. -A stiff upstanding collar and a satin tie added to the rigidity of his -appearance; while his manner was, as usual, pompous and cold. With a -roll of paper in his hand, he would have looked as if he were going to -deliver an afternoon lecture at some public institution. - -"I have sent for you, Vin," he began, "because I have something of -importance to say to you, and the sooner it is said the better. You are -aware that I have never sought to interfere with your way of life. -Indeed I have seen no cause to do so. Your line of study I approve; -your ambitions I would encourage; and as for the amusements and -pleasures natural to your years, I can trust you to remember your own -self-respect. But in one direction I confess I am disappointed. My -chief aim in your education has been that you should see and know the -world; that you should understand men; and by contact learn to cope with -them, and hold your own. Yes, I confess I am disappointed; for if I am -not misinformed--and I have taken the greatest trouble not to be -misinformed--here are you, after all your travel and experience of the -world, become the dupe of two common begging-letter impostors." - -The young man looked up quickly; but he held his peace. Now this -somewhat disconcerted Harland Harris, for he had expected an instant and -indignant protest, which would have justified a little judicious warmth -on his side in production of proofs. But Vincent sate calm and -collected, listening with apparent respect. - -"Yes, deeply disappointed," his father continued, with a little more -animation, "for this old charlatan who seems to have got hold of you is -altogether too bare-faced and preposterous. Did you ever ask yourself -how he lived; what was his business or profession; where he got the -money to go from one country to another? Well, if you have not, I have; -I have made enquiries; I have had him traced; I can tell you his story, -and a very pretty story it is. Would you like to hear it?" - -"I don't know that it concerns me much," said Vincent, with composure. - -"Oh, it does not?" said the gentleman with the pompous professional air, -upon whom this indifference seemed to have a somewhat irritating effect. -"Well, there's nothing very grand about it--except the magnificent and -wholesale lying! And perhaps also the incredible simplicity of the -people who allowed themselves to be imposed on. Why, in Canada he -called himself Lord Bethune!--was there no second-hand copy of Burke -anywhere about to show them there was no such peerage in existence? -Lord Bethune haunting newspaper-offices, and borrowing money right and -left, because of his Scotch name, and his bogus literary schemes! His -sham estates--his sham lineage--his sham coat of arms: did nobody think -of turning up a book? 'Stand Fast, Craig-Royston!' Craig-Royston!----" - -He crossed the room and took down a volume from one of the shelves. - -"There," he said, putting the book on the table, "there is Black's Guide -to Scotland. Can you find out where Craig-Royston is? Turn up the -index." - -Mechanically and carelessly Vincent did as he was bid. - -"No, I don't see it there," he said. - -"I should think not! Nor Balloray either: can you find Balloray? An -easy thing to claim estates that don't exist; and wear armorial bearings -of your own invention! Cadzow--oh, yes, Cadzow you will find--Cadzow -undoubtedly exists; but most people thought that Cadzow belonged to the -Duke of Hamilton. Or does Lord Bethune claim to be Marquis of Douglas -and Earl of Angus as well?" - -He paused; so Vincent was bound to answer. - -"I don't know that it concerns me much," the young man said, repeating -his former phrase. "Even if all you say is true, what then? You sent me -out to see the world, and take people as I found them. Well, I found a -good many liars; and one more or less doesn't matter much, does it?" - -But Harland Harris was no fool; he instantly divined wherein lay the -secret of Vincent's real or assumed indifference. - -"Ah, I understand," said he. "I understand. You don't care so much -about him. You are willing to let him go. You think you can dissociate -him from his granddaughter. He may be a swindler--but you fancy she -manages to keep aloof--" - -The young man grew somewhat pale. - -"Take care," said he, and he held up his hand as if he would enjoin -silence. "Words that are said cannot be unsaid." - -His father regarded him for a second, and then he endeavoured to bring a -little more friendliness and consideration into his manner. - -"I have heard of this infatuation," he said. "And if you had been like -other young men, Vin, I should have said nothing. I should have left -you to find out for yourself. But, you see, you have the misfortune to -imagine other people to be as straightforward and honourable as -yourself; you do not suspect; and you are inclined to trust your own -judgment. But even if this girl were all you think she is, what madness -it would be for you to contemplate marrying her! Look at her -position--and at yours: look at her upbringing and present -surroundings--and at yours; think of what is expected of you; what -chances you have; what an alliance with a great family might do for you -in public life. What good ever comes of overleaping social barriers--of -Quixotism--of self-sacrifice for sentiment's sake? What does a marriage -between two people in different spheres mean?--what is the inevitable -result?--it is not the one that is raised--it is the other that is -dragged down." - -"These are strange doctrines for a socialist and a communist," Vincent -observed. - -"They are the doctrines of common sense," his father retorted, sharply. -"However, it is unnecessary to say anything further on that score. You -will abandon all this nonsense when you understand who and what this -girl is; and you will thank God you have had your eyes opened in time. -And indeed, if all that I am told is true--if I guess aright--if I piece -the story properly together--I should say she was by far the more -dangerous of the two accomplices--" - -Vincent's lips curled: he did not put his disdain into words. - -"A painful revelation?" his father continued, in more oracular fashion. -"Oh, yes, no doubt. But occasionally the truth is bitter and wholesome -at the same time. What you believe about the girl is one thing; what I -know about her is another: indeed I can gather that it was only through -her artifice that the old man's impostures were accepted, or tolerated, -at all. What is he?--a farceur--a poseur--who would at once have been -sent to the right about but for the ingenue by his side, with her -innocent eyes and her sad look. When the writer of the begging-letter -calls, his story might be inquired into: but no!--for here is this -interesting young lady--and the hardest heart declines to cross-examine -while she is standing there. And of course she must go to the -newspaper-offices, to beguile the editor with her silent distress, while -her grandfather is wheedling him out of a loan; or she accompanies him -to the wine merchant, or the bookseller, or the tailor, so that nothing -can be said about unpaid accounts while she is by; and of course there -is a renewal of credit. A very simple and effective trick: even where -the people know the old man to be a rogue, they are sorry for the girl; -and they have a pleasing sense of virtue in allowing themselves to be -further mulcted: they little suspect that she is by far the more -accomplished swindler of the two----" - -Here Vincent laughed, in open scorn; but the laugh was a forced one; and -his eyes were lowering. - -"I am glad you consider it a laughing matter," said Mr. Harris--who -found it less easy to combat this contemptuous unbelief than if he had -been met with indignation and wrath. "Perhaps, after all, the story is -no revelation? Perhaps your complaisance goes further than merely -tolerating the old man's lies? Perhaps the glamour the girl has thrown -over you would lead you to accept her just as she is, her hypocrisy, her -craft, and all? Or perhaps you have planned out for yourself a still -more brilliant future than any that had occurred to your friends? -Perhaps you aim at being the old man's successor? It is an easy way of -getting through life, having a woman like that by your side, to earn -your living for you. The lover of Manon Lescaut----" - -Vincent leapt to his feet, his eyes aflame. - -"You go too far," he said, breathing hard. "You go too far. I have been -trying to remember you are my father: don't make it too difficult. What -do I care about this farrago of nonsense that some one has put into your -head--this trash--this venomous guessing? It is nothing to me. It is -idle air. I know otherwise. But when it comes to insult--well, it is -all an insult; but something must be forgiven to ignorance: the people -who have supplied you with this guess-work rubbish are probably as -ignorant as yourself about those two. Only--no more insults, if you -please! I am your son; but--but there are limits to what you ask me to -hear in patience. You talk of my madness and infatuation; it is your -madness, your infatuation! What can you say of your own knowledge of -that old man and his granddaughter? Why, nothing. You have never spoken -to them; never seen them. And yet, without an atom of inquiry, without -an atom of proof, you go and accept all this tissue of guess-work--this -rubbish--this trash--as if it were gospel; and you expect me to give it -a patient hearing? It is too contemptible!" - -"Yes, but unfortunately," said Mr. Harris, with great calmness--for now -he felt he had the advantage on his side, "you are mistaken in supposing -that I have made no inquiry, and have received no proof. The inquiry -has been made for me with great skill and patience, during the past -month; and the proofs seem to me sufficient. Proofs?--you yourself shall -furnish one." - -This was a kind of challenge; and the young man accepted it. His eyes -were fixed on his adversary. - -"What, then?" - -"When you find," said his father, with deliberation, "two people -wandering from town to town, without any visible means of subsistence, -you naturally wonder how they manage to live. Very well. But now, if -you discover they have a pretty knack of falling in with this or that -rich young gentleman, and allowing him to pay for them on all occasions, -isn't the mystery partly solved? I am informed that these two people -and yourself have been in the habit for a considerable time back of -dining together in the evening--indeed, I have the name of the -restaurant. Now I wish to ask you this question point-blank: is it not -the fact that in every case you have paid?" - -Vincent did not answer; he was not thinking of himself at all; nor yet -of the direct question that had been put to him. A terrible wave of -bewilderment had passed over him; his heart seemed to have within it but -one sudden cry--'Maisrie--Maisrie--why were you driving--with that -stranger?'--and all the world grew black with a horror of doubt and -despair. He thought of the young man driving along the King's Road in -Brighton: was there another paying for those two now?--had they another -friend now to accompany them every evening? And Maisrie? But all this -wild agony lasted only a moment. He cast this palsy of the brain behind -him. His better self rose confident and triumphant--though there was -still a strange look left in his eyes. - -"Paid?" he said, with a kind of scornful impatience. "Who paid? Oh, I -did--mostly. What about that? That is nothing--a few shillings--I found -it pleasanter not to have to settle bills before a young lady; and of -course she did not know who paid; I made an arrangement----" - -"An arrangement by which you gave those people their dinner for nothing -for months and months!" - -"And what then?" - -For Vincent had entirely recovered his self-command: he affected to -regard this story that had been told him as quite unworthy of serious -attention. It was his father who was growing exasperated. - -"Have you taken leave of your senses?" Mr. Harris demanded. "Is it -nothing that you yourself have shown this old man to be a pauper, -getting his dinner on charity every evening? And what better was the -girl? She must have known! Do you imagine she was not aware of his -receiving money for bogus books that he never meant to publish; and of -his inveigling soft-headed Scotchmen--I suppose there must be one here -and there--into giving him a loan because of his sham patriotism? And -these are the people you have chosen to consort with all this time; and -this is the girl you would bring into your family--you would introduce -to your friends as your wife! But you cannot be so mad! You may -pretend indifference: you cannot be indifferent. You may consider it -fine and heroic to disbelieve the clearest evidence: the world, on the -other hand, is apt to say that it is only a fool and an idiot who keeps -his eyes shut and walks into a trap blindfolded. And--and I do think, -when you begin to reflect, that your own common-sense will come to your -aid." - -He turned to the mantel-piece, and took from it some papers. - -"I have given you," he continued, "the sum and substance of the -enquiries I have made, in this country and in America. I can show you -here still further details; but before allowing you to examine these -communications, I must exact a promise that they shall be treated as in -strictest confidence." - -"Thank you," said Vincent, "I will not trouble you. I can guess at the -kind of creature who would accept such a task, and at his interpretation -of any facts that might come across him." - -Then he rose. - -"And is this the important business on which you sent for me?" he asked, -but quite civilly. - -"You do not think it is important?" the other demanded. "But at least -you have been warned. You have been advised to keep your eyes open. You -have been shown what kind of people they are who have got hold of you: -it is for you yourself to say whether you will be any longer their -dupe." - -"Very well," said the young man; and he rose and took up his hat and -cane. "Oh, by the way, I presume you have come to an end of your -enquiries? Because, if not, I would advise your spy--your detective, or -whatever he is--not to come prowling to any restaurant or keyhole when I -am along with my friends, or he might find things become very unpleasant -for him. Good-morning!" - -So this was the end of the interview; and Harland Harris shortly -thereafter made off for the Athenaeum Club, well satisfied that his -narrative had produced a far deeper impression than the young man would -acknowledge. And in truth it had. When Vincent left the house, and -walked away to the solitary little rooms in Mayfair, his face was no -longer scornful; it was serious and troubled; for there was much for him -to ponder over. Not about Maisrie. He put Maisrie aside. For one -thing, he was a little vexed and angry with her at the moment--quite -unreasonably, as he strove to convince himself; nevertheless, he would -rather not think about her just then; and, indeed, there was no -occasion, for the idea that she could be the participator in any fraud -or series of frauds was simply not a thinkable thing. He knew better -than that; and was content. Maisrie driving with a stranger--perhaps -that was not so well done of her; but Maisrie as a skilful and -accomplished professional swindler?--then you might expect to see the -stars fall from their places in the midnight sky. - -But as regards the old man, that was very different; and he could not -deny that there were certain points in the story just told him which -were corroborated by his own knowledge. He knew, for example, that -George Bethune had got money for one book which, as circumstances would -have it, was not produced and published; he knew that those dinners at -the Restaurant were paid for by himself; he knew that he had heard Mr. -Bethune speak of Cadzow as belonging to his family; and he had to -confess that he could not find Craig-Royston in the index of his -father's guide-book. And yet he could not give up this magnificent, -this heroic old man all at once. He could not believe him to be a mean -and crafty trickster. Surely his love for Scotland was sincere. Surely -his passionate admiration of the old Scotch ballads was genuine enough. -Surely it was not to impose on any one that old George Bethune sang -aloud the songs of his youth as he walked through the crowded streets of -London. There was a grandeur in his very presence, a dignity in his -demeanour, that was far from the artful complaisance of a schemer. Then -his undaunted courage--his proud spirit--and above all, the tender and -affectionate guardianship he bestowed on his granddaughter: Vincent -could not forget all these things. No, nor could he forget how he had -enjoyed George Bethune's society on these many and pleasant evenings; -and how he had learned more and more to respect him, his unflinching -fortitude, his generous enthusiasms, and even, at times, his innocent -vanity. He had had a hard life, this old man, and yet he bore no -enmity. He had had many trials and misfortunes, many hopes -disappointed; yet his temper was not soured. But the conclusive proof, -after all, was the character of Maisrie herself--her noble sweetness, -her refinement, her sympathy, her quick gratitude for the smallest of -kindnesses: could such a beautiful human flower have grown up under the -fostering care of an unscrupulous vagabond and knave? - -When he got to his rooms, the first thing he did--but with no very -definite purpose----was to take up his copy of Black's Guide to -Scotland. It was a recent edition; he had got it so that he might trace -out that long wandering of which old George Bethune and Maisrie had -spoken so often. And mechanically he turned to the index--with which he -had been confronted in his father's library; and mechanically he glanced -at the successive columns. But what was this?--why here was -Craig-Royston! His eyes were not deceiving him; for he at once referred -to the page indicated, and found Craig-Royston described as a district -in the neighbourhood of Loch Lomond--though, to be sure, he could -discover no trace of it on the map. So he had jumped to conclusions all -too prematurely? He had allowed that unknown enemy of his--that dark -and malignant creature in the background--too facile a triumph? He -began to be ashamed of himself. 'Stand fast, Craig-Royston!' had not -been his motto, as it was that of the proud old man whom he had injured -by listening to those childish tales. - -He returned to the index, and sought for Balloray. Well, there was no -Balloray; but then Balloray was a private house; and private houses, -unless of historical interest, are seldom mentioned in guide-books. And -then again he bethought him: why, the old ballad!--the 'bonnie mill-dams -o' Balloray': surely that was sufficient evidence of there being such a -place? He could almost hear George Bethune's voice as he recalled the -opening lines-- - - 'There were twa sisters lived in a bower; - Balloray, O Balloray; - The youngest o' them, O she was a flower! - By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray. - - There came a squire frae out the west, - Balloray, O Balloray; - He lo'ed them baith, but the youngest best, - By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.' - -"Why, what a fool he had been, to be disconcerted by an index--and that -the index of some old and obsolete edition! He prosecuted his -researches. He turned to Cadzow. Yes, here was Cadzow: Cadzow Castle -and Cadzow Forest; and undoubtedly these were the property of the Duke -of Hamilton. But might there not be some other property of the same -name, as a sort of appanage of Balloray? It was no unusual thing, in -Scotland or anywhere else, for two places to have the same name; and in -this instance it was the more important one, the ducal one, that would -naturally figure in the guide-book. He seemed to see old George Bethune -regarding him, with something of a haughty look on his face, as though -he would say 'Of what next will you accuse me?'" - -Well, all this was very fine and brave; it was a manful struggling with -certain phantoms; and he was trying to cheat himself into an elation of -confidence. But ever and anon there came to him a consciousness of -something behind; something inexplicable; and his thoughts would wander -away back to Brighton. Fugitive lines of that terrible poem of Heine's -would come into his brain--_Zu Tafel sassen froh die Gaest' ... und wie -ich nacht dem Brautpaar schaut' ... O weh! mein Liebchen war die Braut_. -He began to imagine for himself what those three had been doing this -morning. The weather being so fine, no doubt Mr. Bethune had laid aside -his books for the time being; and he and Maisrie would be ready to go -out by half-past ten or eleven. Would their new friend call for them, -or would there be some place of appointment down in the King's-road? He -could see them walk out the West Pier. The old man with the firm-set -figure and the flowing white locks would probably be thinking but little -of what was going on around him; as likely as not he would be singing -gaily to himself about the Pier o' Leith and Berwick Law, and 'leaving -thee, my bonnie Mary.' Yes, and so far those two others would be left -to themselves; they could talk as they chose--eyes meeting eyes. And -what had the bumpkin squire to say? Oh, horses and hounds--the county -balls--the famous bin of port to be opened at Christmas. Christmas was -coming near now; might there not be an invitation to the two -world-wanderers--to come and be hospitably entertained at the big -country-house and introduced to friends? And Maisrie--would she think -twice?--would she refuse? The old man would consent to anything that -promised him present comfort; he accepted favours with a sort of royal -complacency; it would matter little to him so long as the fire was -bright, the wine good, the company cheerful, and himself allowed a fine -latitude of oration. But Maisrie----? - -It was nearly four o'clock now. That previous afternoon at Brighton had -been a time of misery; and long into the night he had been kept awake by -dull and brooding speculation, varied by bitter self-reproach. All the -same he felt himself irresistibly drawn thither again; whatever was -happening down there by the sea-side, he wanted to know; his imaginings -were a more cruel torture than anything his eyes could tell him. And -perhaps--he added to himself, with an ominous darkening of the -brows--perhaps there might be a chance of his meeting this rival of his -face to face, the better to measure him, and learn what both of them had -to expect. - -He caught the four-thirty express at Victoria, and got whirled away -down. But he did not go to Mrs. Ellison's house, nor yet to the Bedford -Hotel, at which his friend Musselburgh was staying; he went to the -Bristol, so as to keep himself a little out of observation. He was -lucky enough to get a bedroom; and that was all he required; he did not -even wait to look at it; he left the hotel and went wandering down the -Marine Parade, which was now a mass of darkness lit up by innumerable -points of yellow fire. - -Whither away then? If only he knew the street in which they had taken -lodgings he could soon find out their daily habits, himself remaining -unseen; but he had nothing beyond a vague recollection that they had -spoken of some hill behind the town. However, Brighton, though now -grown a big place, has a few leading thoroughfares in which everybody -who is a visitor is pretty sure to be encountered sooner or later; and -in this particular instance it was a good deal sooner than he could have -dreamed of. - -He was walking along the seaward side of the Parade, with but a casual -glance now and again at this or that passer-by, when suddenly, on the -other side, at the corner of German Place, three figures came under the -glare of a gas-lamp, and these he instantly recognised. Occasionally as -they went on they became indistinguishable in the dusk; then again a -gas-lamp would bring them into vivid relief--the tall and slim young -girl, the square-set old man with the picturesque white hair, the young -gentleman with the yellow cover-coat. They were talking together, and -walking quickly, for the night was cold. - -"Yes," said Vincent to himself, in the bitterness of his heart, "I am -displaced and superseded now. Without much difficulty, either. Quickly -done. And no doubt he is taking them along to some restaurant. He will -hear about the rocks and dales of Scotland--about the ballads and -songs--perhaps he has subscribed for the new book. Then they will ask -him to go home with them again; and Maisrie will take out her violin; -and perhaps--perhaps she will sing '_C'etait une fregate, mon joli coeur -de rose_--perhaps she will sing that for him, or any other of the -Canadian songs, except the one. But surely, surely, Maisrie will not -sing '_La Claire Fontaine_'?" - -And then again he said to himself, with his eyes fixed on those three, -but most of all on the young girl who walked with so light and joyous a -step-- - -"Ah, I have suffered to-day, you do not know how much, in repelling -insinuations brought against you, and in silencing my own doubts; but -what do you care? One restaurant is as good as another; one friend as -good as another; let the absent expect to be forgotten, when it is a -woman who is asked to remember. _La Claire Fontaine_?--why not _La -Claire Fontaine_, for him as well as anyone else? All that past -companionship has gone by; here is a new friend to be welcomed with -smiles and graces. And as for the old man--what does it matter to him so -long as there is someone to settle up the tavern score?" - -Nay, his madness of jealousy overmastered him altogether. When they got -down to East-street, they did not at once go into the restaurant, for it -was yet somewhat early; they began to examine the windows of one or two -of the shops, and the trinkets displayed there. And again and again -Vincent was on the point of going up to his enemy, and saying "Well, why -don't you buy her something? If you haven't got money, I will lend it -to you!" Surely this would suffice to provoke a quarrel?--to be settled -next morning, out on the downs, and not by any pistol accident or trick -of foil, but by a fair stand-up trial of strength, those two facing each -other, with clenched fists and set mouth. The young man in the -cover-coat was looking at some Austrian garnets: little did he know what -wild beast was within springing distance of him. - -At length they left the shops, and leisurely strolled along to the -Italian restaurant, and entered. Vincent gave them time to get settled, -and then followed. He did not wish to interfere with them; he merely -wished to see. And when he went upstairs to the room on the first -floor, it was with no abashment; he did not slink, he walked resolutely, -to a small unoccupied table at the further end; but he was some way from -them; perchance he might be able to observe without being noticed. The -waiter came to him. "Anything!" was his order: gall and wormwood there -were likely to be in any dish that might be brought. Wine?--oh yes, a -flask of Chianti--why not a flask of Chianti?--one might fill a glass, -and send a message to a faithless friend--a message to recall her to -herself for a moment. You who are sitting there, will you not drink to -the health of all false lovers--you who are sitting there in such joyful -company--_toi qui as le coeur gai_! - -He could see them well enough. There was champagne on the table: that -was not of George Bethune's ordering: the booby from the swedes and -mangold was clearly playing the part of host. And what was she saying -to him in return? What form did her thanks take? _Je ne puis rien -donner--qu' mon coeur en mariage_: that was easily said; and might mean -no more than it meant in the bygone days. Women could so readily pour -out, to any chance new comer, their _petit vin blanc_ of gratitude. - -But suddenly he became aware of some movement at the table along there; -and quickly he lowered his look. Then he knew--he did not see--that -someone was coming down the long room. He breathed hard, with a sort of -fear--and it was not the fear of any man; he wished he had not come into -this place; could he not even now escape? - -"Vincent!" - -The voice thrilled through him; he looked up; and here was Maisrie -Bethune regarding him--regarding him with those eyes so beautiful, so -shining, so tender, and reproachful! - -"Did you not see us? Why should you avoid us?" - -The tone in which she spoke pierced his very heart; but still--but -still--there was that stranger at the table yonder. - -"I thought you were otherwise engaged," said he. "I did not wish to -intrude." - -"You are unkind." - -Then she stood for a moment uncertain. It was a brave thing for this -girl to walk down a long room to address a young man, knowing that more -than one pair of eyes would be turned towards her; and here she was -standing without any visible aim or errand. - -"Won't you come to our table, Vincent?" she asked hesitatingly. - -And then he noticed her embarrassment; and he felt he would be a craven -hound not to come to her rescue, whatever the quarrel between them. - -"Oh, yes, certainly, if I may," but with no sort of gladness in his -consent; and then he bade the waiter fetch the things along. - -She led the way. When he reached the table he shook hands with George -Bethune, who appeared more surprised than pleased. Then Maisrie made a -faint little kind of introduction as between the young men: Vincent--who -had not caught the other's name--bowed stiffly, and took the seat that -had been brought for him. And then, seeing that it was on Maisrie that -all the responsibility of this new arrangement had fallen, he forced -himself to talk--making apologies for disturbing them, explaining how it -was he came to be in Brighton, and begging Maisrie not to take any -trouble about him: it was only too kind of her to allow him to join -them. - -And yet it was very awkward, despite Maisrie's assiduous little -attentions, and her timid efforts to propitiate everybody. The -fresh-complexioned young gentleman stared at the intruder; grew sullen -when he observed Maisrie's small kindnesses; and eventually turned to -resume his conversation with Mr. Bethune, which had been interrupted. -Vincent, who had been ready, on the smallest provocation, to break forth -in flame and fury, became contemptuous; he would take no heed of this -person; nay, he would make use of the opportunity to show to anyone who -might choose to listen on what terms he was with Maisrie. - -"Where are you living, Maisrie?" said he, and yet still with a certain -stiffness. - -She gave him the number in German Place. - -"Then we are neighbours, or something near it," he said. "I am at the -Bristol--the Bristol Hotel." - -"Oh, really," she made answer. "I thought you had an aunt living in -Brighton--the lady who came to see us at Henley." - -"Oh, can you remember things as long ago as Henley?" said he. "I did -not think a woman's memory could go so far back as that. A week--a -day--I thought that was about as much as she could remember." - -For a moment she was silent, and wounded; but she was too proud to -betray anything to those other two; and she resumed her conversation -with Vincent, though with a trifle more of dignity and reserve. As for -him, he knew not what to do or say. He could perceive, he could not but -perceive, that Maisrie was trying to be kind to him; and he felt himself -a sort of renegade; but all the same there was that other sitting at the -table--there was an alien presence--and all things were somehow awry. -And yet why should he despise that stranger? In the bucolic dandy he -could see himself, as he himself was seen by certain of his friends. -This other dupe, his successor, had a countrified complexion and a -steely blue eye, he wore a horse-shoe pin in diamonds, and had a bit of -stephanotis in his button-hole; but these points of difference were not -of much account. And the old man--the old man with the grand air and -the oracular speech: no wonder he thought himself entitled to call -himself Lord Bethune; but why had he chosen to abate his rank and style? -Oh, yes, a striking presence enough--a magnificent presence--with which -to cozen shopkeepers! - -For indeed this young man's mind was all unhinged. He had had a hard -fight of it that day; and perhaps if Maisrie had known she would have -made allowances. What she did clearly see was that her well-meant -invitation had been a mistake. She strove her best to remove this -embarrassment; she tried to make the conversation general; and in some -slight measure she succeeded; but always there was an obvious restraint; -there were dark silences and difficult pauses; and, on the part of the -young men, a sullen and dangerous antagonism that might at any moment -leap forth with a sudden tongue of flame--a retort--an insult. - -This hapless entertainment came to an end at last; and, as Vincent had -expected, while Maisrie was putting on her cloak, their new friend -stepped aside and paid the bill--the bill for three, that is. And the -next step? An invitation that the generous host of the evening should -go along to the rooms in German Place? There would be tobacco, and -Scotch whiskey, and reminiscences of travel, and dissertations on -literary and philosophical subjects--and perhaps Maisrie would play for -him 'The Flowers o' the Forest' or sing for him 'Isabeau s'y promene.' -Perhaps the bucolic soul was penetrable by fine melody? There would be -whiskey-and-soda, at any rate, and a blazing fire. - -And as a matter of fact, when the four of them paused for a second at -the door of the restaurant, the new acquaintance did receive that -invitation--from George Bethune himself. But he declined. - -"Thanks, awfully," said he, "but I can't to-night. Fact is, there's a -big billiard match on this evening, and I've backed my man for L20, and -I may want to hedge a bit if he isn't in his best form. Some other -evening, if you'll allow me. But to-morrow morning--what are you going -to do to-morrow morning? You can't stay indoors while the weather is so -fine; you must leave your work until the wet comes. So I dare say I -shall find you somewhere along the front about eleven to-morrow; and if -I don't, why, then, I'll come along to German Place, and drag you out. -For who ever knew such a glorious December?--quite warm in the -sun--primroses and violets all a-growing and a-blowing--in the baskets. -Good-night to you!--good-night, Miss Bethune!--mind you bring your -grandfather along to-morrow morning; or I'll have to come and drag you -both out; good-night--good-night!"--and then with a brief nod to -Vincent, which was frigidly returned, he departed. - -"You are going our way, Vincent?" Maisrie said, timidly. - -"Oh, yes," he made answer, as they set out together. - -For a few seconds they walked in silence. But when they had crossed the -Old Steine, and got into the Marine Parade, the moon came into view, -away over there in the east; it was at the full, but rather dusky, for -the north wind had blown the smoke of the town down on the sea-front. - -"Bid you notice how clear the moon was last night?" she said, to break -this embarrassing silence. - -"Yes, I did," he said. "I was walking about a good deal last night. -The moonlight was beautiful on the water." - -"Oh, were you down in Brighton last night?" she asked, rather anxiously. - -"Yes." - -That was all. She did not dare to ask what had brought him down; and he -did not choose to invent an excuse. Again they walked on for a little -while in silence, until they reached the corner of German Place. - -"Well, good-night!" said George Bethune, holding out his hand. "Quite a -surprise to meet you--quite a surprise. Hope we shall see you again -before you go back." - -And now it was Maisrie's turn. - -"Good-night, Vincent!" she said, with her eyes seeking his in mute -appeal. - -"Good-night," said he; and he did not respond to that look: so these two -parted. - -And soon, as he walked aimlessly onward, he was away from the town -altogether. To him it was a hateful place--with its contrarieties, its -disappointments, its distracting problems in human nature. When he -turned to look at it, it was like some vast and dusky pit, with a dull, -red glow shining over it from its innumerable fires. But here, as he -went on again, all was peace. The silver moonlight shimmered on the -water. There was not a whisper or murmur along these lofty and solitary -cliffs. A cold wind blew from the north, coming over the bare uplands; -but it brought no sound of any bird or beast. His shadow was his sole -companion--vague and indefinite on the grass, but sharper and blacker on -the grey and frosted road. He was alone, and he wished to be alone; and -if certain phrases from the _Claire Fontaine_ would come following and -haunting him--_jai perdu ma maitresse--sans l' avoir merite--pour un -bouquet de roses--que je lui refusai_--he strove to repel them; he would -have none of them; nor any remembrance of what was past and gone. The -world was sweet to him here, because he was alone with the sea, and the -shore, and the mystic splendour of those shining heavens; and because he -seemed to have shaken himself free from the enmities and the treacheries -and ingratitudes that lay festering in yonder town. - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - - RENEWING IS OF LOVE. - - -Next morning broke bright and clear, for the north wind had blown -freshly all the night, and swept the smoke of the town right out to sea, -where it lay along the horizon as a soft saffron-reddish cloud. -Accordingly the sky overhead was of a summer-like blue; and the sea was -of a shining green, save where it grew opaque and brown as it neared the -shore; while the welcome sunlight was everywhere abroad, giving promise -of a cheerful day, even now in December. And Vin Harris was standing at -a window of the hotel, looking absently out on the wide and empty -thoroughfares. - -A waiter brought him a note. He glanced at the handwriting with -startled eyes, then tore the envelope open. This was what he read-- - - -"Dear Vincent, I wish to speak with you for a moment if you are not -engaged. I am going down to the breakwater, and will wait there for a -little while. - -"MAISRIE." - - -He called to the waiter. - -"When did this come?" - -"I found it lying on the hall table, sir--just this minute, sir." - -He did not waste time on further questions. In a couple of seconds he -was outside and had crossed the road; and there, sure enough--far below -him--out on the breakwater--was a solitary figure that he instantly -recognised. He went quickly down the steps; he did not stay to ask what -this might mean, or to prepare himself in any way; as he approached her, -all his anxiety was to know if her eyes were kind--or hostile. Well, -they were neither; but there was a certain pride in her tone as she -spoke. - -"Vincent, you were angry with me last night. Why?" - -"Maisrie," said he, "why don't you put up that furred collar round your -neck? It is so cold this morning. See, let me put it up for you." - -She retreated an inch, declining: she waited for him to answer her -question. - -"Angry with you?" he said, with obvious constraint. "No, but I was -vexed. I was vexed with a lot of things--that I can hardly explain. Not -with you personally--at least--well, at any rate I did not mean to -offend you. If I have offended you I ask your pardon----" - -Here he paused: these stammering sentences were so insufficient. And -then all at once he said---- - -"Maisrie, who was that young man?" - -She looked surprised. - -"Do you mean Mr. Glover?" - -"Glover?--oh, that is his name. But who is he?--what is he?--how did -you come to know him so intimately?----" - -Perhaps she began to see a little. - -"I don't know him at all, Vincent. He is a friend of my -grandfather's--or rather he is the son of a friend of my -grandfather's--a wine-merchant in London. We met him on the day we came -here----" - -"And he lost no time in showing off his acquaintance with you," said -Vincent, bitterly, "--driving you up and down the King's Road, before -all Brighton!" - -At this she lowered her head a little. - -"I did not wish to go, Vincent. Grandfather pressed me. I did not like -to refuse." - -"Oh," said he, "I have no right to object. It is not for me to object. -If new friends are to be treated as old friends--what does it matter?" - -She regarded him reproachfully. - -"You know very well, Vincent, that if I had thought it would vex you, I -would not have gone--no--nothing in the world would have induced -me--nothing! And how cruel it is of you to speak of new friends--and to -say that old friends are so quickly forgotten! Is that all you believe -of what I have told you many a time? But--but if I have pained you, I -am sorry," she continued, still with downcast lashes. "Tell me what you -wish me to do. I will not speak to him again, if you would rather I -should not. If he comes to the house, I will stay in my own room until -he is gone--anything, anything rather than that you should be vexed. -For you have been so kind to me!" - -"No, no," said he, hastily. "No, I have been altogether wrong. Do just -as you please yourself, Maisrie: that will be the right thing. I have -been an ass and a fool to doubt you. But--but it made me mad to think -of any man coming between you and me----" - -"Vincent!" - -She raised her head; and for one ineffable moment her maiden eyes were -unveiled and fixed upon him--with such a tenderness and pride and trust -as altogether bewildered him and entranced him beyond the powers of -speech. For here was confession at last!--her soul had declared itself: -no matter what might happen now, he knew she was his own! And yet, when -she spoke, it was as if she had divined his thoughts, and would -dissipate that too wonderful dream. - -"No," she said, rather wistfully, and her eyes were averted again, "that -is the last thing you need think about, Vincent; no man will ever come -between you and me. No man will ever take your place in my -regard--and--and esteem----" - -"Is that all, Maisrie?" he said, gently; but in truth that sudden -revelation had left him all trembling and overjoyed. He was almost -afraid to speak to her, lest she should withdraw that unspoken avowal. - -"And--and affection: why should not I say it?--I may not have another -chance," she went on. "You need not fear, Vincent. No man will ever -come between you and me; but a woman will--and welcome! You will -marry--you will be happy--and no one will be better pleased to hear of -it all than I shall. And why," she continued, with a kind of -cheerfulness, "why, even in that case, should we speak of any one coming -between us? We shall have the same affection, the same kind thoughts, -even then, I hope----" - -"Maisrie, why do you talk like that!" he protested. "You know quite -well that you will be my wife--or no one." - -She shook her head. - -"If you do not see for yourself that it is impossible--if you do not -understand, Vincent--then some day I must tell you----" - -"Ah, but you have told me something far more important, and only a -minute or two ago," said he. "You have told me all I want to know, this -very morning! You are not aware of the confession you have made, since -you came out on this breakwater? I have seen in your eyes what I never -saw before; and everything else is to me as nothing. Difficulties?--I -don't believe in them. I see our way as clear as daylight; and there's -neither man nor woman coming between us. Oh, yes, I have discovered -something this morning--that makes our way clear enough! Maisrie, do -you know what wonderful eyes you have?--they can say so many -things--perhaps even more than you intend. So much the better--so much -the better--for I know they speak true." - -She did not seem to share his joyous confidence. - -"I must be going now, Vincent," she said. "Grandfather will wonder why I -am so long in getting his newspapers. And I am glad to know you are no -longer vexed with me. I could not bear that. And I will take care you -shall have no further cause--indeed I will, Vincent." - -She was for bidding him good-bye, but he detained her: a wild wish had -come into his head. - -"Maisrie," said he, with a little hesitation, "couldn't you--couldn't -you give me some little thing to keep as a souvenir of this happy -morning? Ah, you don't know all you have told me, perhaps! Only some -little thing: could you give me a sandal-wood bead, Maisrie--could you -cut one off your necklace?--and I will get a small gold case made for -it, and wear it always and always, and when I open it, the perfume will -remind me of you and of our walks together, and the evenings in that -little parlour----" - -But instantly she had pulled off her gloves, and with busy fingers -unclasped the necklace; then she touched it with her lips, and placed -the whole of the warm and scented treasure in his hand. - -"I only wanted one of the beads, Maisrie," said he, with something of -shamefacedness. - -"Take it, Vincent--I have not many things to give," she said, simply. - -"Then--then would you wear something if I gave it to you?" he asked. - -"Oh, yes, if you would like that," she answered at once. - -"Oh, well, I must try to get something nice--something appropriate," -said he. "I wonder if a Brighton jeweller could make me a small white -dove in ivory or mother-of-pearl, that you could wear just as if it had -alighted on your breast--a pin, you know, for your neck--and the pin -could be made of a row of rubies or sapphires--while the dove itself -would be white." - -"But, Vincent," she said, doubtingly, "if I were to wear that?" - -"What would it mean? Is that what you ask? Shall I tell you, Maisrie? -It would mean a betrothal!" - -She shrank back. - -"No--no," she said. "No--I could not wear that!" - -"Oh, are you frightened by a word?" said he, cheerfully. "Very -well--very well--it shan't mean anything of the kind! It will only -serve to remind you of a morning on which you and I went for a little -stroll down a breakwater at Brighton, when the Brighton people were so -kind as to leave it all to ourselves. Nothing more than that, -Maisrie!--if you wish it. Only you must wear the little white dove--as -an emblem of peace and goodwill--and a messenger bringing you good -news--and a lot of things like that, that I'm too stupid to put into -words. For this is a morning not to be forgotten by either of us, all -our lives long, I hope. You think you have not said anything?--then you -shouldn't have such tell-tale eyes, Maisrie! And I believe them. I -don't believe you when you talk about vague impossibilities. Well, I -suppose I must let you go; and I suppose we cannot say good-bye--out -here in the open----" - -"But you are coming, too, Vincent--a little way?" - -"As far as ever you will allow me," said he. "Till the end of life, if -you like--and as I hope." - -But that was looking too far ahead in the present circumstances. - -"What are you going to do to-day, Maisrie?" he asked, as they were -leaving the breakwater and making up for the Marine Parade. "Oh, I -forgot: you are going out walking at eleven." - -She blushed slightly. - -"No, Vincent; I think I shall remain at home." - -"On a morning like this?--impossible! Why, you must go out in the -sunlight. Sunlight is rare in December." - -Then she said, with some little embarrassment, "I do not wish to vex you -any more, Vincent. If I went out with grandfather, we should meet Mr. -Glover----" - -"Mr. Glover?" he said, interrupting her. "Dearest Maisrie, I don't mind -if you were to go walking with twenty Mr. Glovers!--I don't mind that -now. It is the sunlight that is of importance; it is getting you into -the sunlight that is everything. And if Mr. Glover asks you to go -driving with him in the afternoon, of course you must go!--it will -interest you to see the crowd and the carriages, and it will keep you in -the fresh air. Oh, yes, if I'm along in the King's Road this afternoon, -I shall look out for you; and if you should happen to see me, then just -remember that you have given me your sandal-wood necklace, and that I am -the proudest and happiest person in the whole town of Brighton. Why, of -course you must go out, both morning and afternoon," he continued, in -this gay and generous fashion, as they were mounting the steps towards -the upper thoroughfare. "Sunlight is just all the world, for flowers, -and pretty young ladies, and similar things; and now you're away from -the London fogs, you must make the best of it. It is very wise of your -grandfather to lay aside his work while the fine weather lasts. Now be a -good, sensible girl, and go out at eleven o'clock." - -"Vincent," she said, "if I do go with grandfather this morning, will you -come down the town, and join us?" - -"Oh, well," said he, rather hesitating, "I--I do not wish to inflict -myself on anybody. But don't mistake, Maisrie: I shall be quite happy, -even if I see you walking up and down with the purveyor of bad sherry. -It won't vex me in the least: something you told me this morning has -made me proof against all that. The important thing is that you should -keep in the sunlight!" - -"I ask you to come, Vincent." - -"Oh, very well, certainly," said he--not knowing what dark design was in -her mind. - -He was soon to discover. When he left her in St. James's Street, -whither she had gone to get the morning newspapers for her grandfather, -he went back to the hotel, and to his own room, to take out this -priceless treasure of a necklace she had bestowed on him, and to wonder -how best he could make of it a cunning talisman that he could have near -his heart night and day. And also he set to work to sketch out designs -for the little breast-pin he meant to have made, with its transverse row -of rubies or sapphires, with its white dove in the centre. An -inscription? That was hardly needed: there was a sufficient -understanding between him and her. And surely this was a betrothal, -despite her timid shrinking back? The avowal of that morning had been -more to him than words; during that brief moment it seemed as if Heaven -shone in her eyes; and as if he could see there, as in a vision, all the -years to come--all the years that he and she were to be -together--shining with a soft celestial radiance. And would not this -small white dove convey its message of peace?--when it lay on her bosom, -"so light, so light." - -Then all of a sudden it occurred to him--why, he had been talking and -walking with an adventuress, a begging-letter impostor, a common -swindler, and had quite forgotten to be on his guard! All the solemn -warnings he had received had entirely vanished from his mind when he was -out there on the breakwater with Maisrie Bethune. He had looked into -her eyes--and never thought of any swindling! Had this sandal-wood -necklace--that was sweet with a fragrance more than its own--that seemed -to have still some lingering warmth in it, borrowed from its recent and -secret resting-place--been given him as a lure? The white -dove--significant of all innocence, and purity, and peace--was that to -rest on the heart of a traitress? Well, perhaps; but it did not appear -to concern him much, as he got his hat and cane, and pulled on a fresh -pair of gloves, and went out into the open air. - -Nay, he was in a magnanimous mood towards all mankind. He would not -even seek to interfere with Sherry, as he mentally and meanly styled his -rival. If it pleased the young gentleman in the cover-coat to walk up -and down the King's Road with Maisrie Bethune--very well. If he took -her for a drive after luncheon, that would amuse her, and also was well. -The time for jealous dread, for angry suspicions, for reproachful -accusations, was over and gone. A glance from Maisrie's eyes had -banished all that. Sherry might parade his acquaintanceship as much as -he chose, so long as Maisrie was kept in the open air and the sunlight: -that was the all-important point. - -By-and-bye he went away down to the King's Road, and very speedily -espied the three figures he expected to find there, though as yet they -were at some distance. They were coming towards him: in a few minutes -he would be face to face with them. And he had made up his mind what he -meant to do. Maisrie should see that he was actuated no longer by -jealous rage; that he had confidence in her; that he feared no rival -now. And so it was that when they came near, he merely gave them a -general and pleasant "Good-morning!" and raised his hat to Maisrie, and -was for passing on. But he had reckoned without his host--or hostess -rather. - -"Vincent!" said Maisrie, in expostulation. - -Then he stopped. - -"Aren't you coming with us? We are going along to the Chain Pier, to -get out of the crowd. Won't you come?" - -"Oh, yes, if I may!" said he, gladly enough--and he knew that the other -young man was staring, not to say scowling, at this unwelcome intrusion. - -Now Maisrie had been walking between her grandfather and young Glover; -but the moment that Vincent joined the little party, she fell behind. - -"Four abreast are too many," said she. "We must go two and two; -grandfather, will you lead the way with Mr. Glover?" - -It was done, and dexterously done, in a moment; and if the selection of -the new comer as her companion was almost too open and marked, perhaps -that was her intention. At all events, when the two others had moved -forward, Vincent said in an undertone-- - -"This is very kind of you, Maisrie." - -And she replied, rather proudly-- - -"I wished to show you that I could distinguish between old and new -friends." - -Then he grew humble. - -"Maisrie," said he, "don't you treasure up things against me! It was -only a phrase. And just remember how I was situated. I came away down -to Brighton merely to catch a glimpse of you; and about the first thing -I saw was this young fellow, whom I had never heard of, driving you up -and down among the fashionable crowd. You see, Maisrie, you hadn't -given me the sandal-wood necklace then; and what is of far more -consequence, you hadn't allowed your eyes to tell me what they told me -this morning. So what was I to think? No harm of you, of course; but I -was miserable;--and--and I thought you could easily forget; and all the -afternoon I looked out for you; and all the evening I wandered about the -streets, wondering whether you would be in one of the restaurants or the -hotels. If I could only have spoken a word with you! But then, you -know, I had been in a kind of way shut off from you; and--and there was -this new acquaintance--" - -"I am very sorry, Vincent," she said also in a low voice. "It seems -such a pity that one should vex one's friends unintentionally; because -in looking back, you like to think of their always being pleased with -you; and then again there may be no chance of making up--and you are -sorry when it is too late----" - -"Come, come, Maisrie," he said with greater freedom--for some people had -intervened, and the other two were now a little way ahead, "I am not -going to let you talk in that way. You always speak as if you and I -were to be separated----" - -"Wouldn't it be better, Vincent?" she said, simply. - -"Why?" - -"Why?" she repeated, in an absent kind of way. "Well, you know nothing -about us, Vincent." - -"I have been told a good deal of late, then!" he said, in careless -scorn. - -And the next instant he wished he had bitten his tongue out ere making -that haphazard speech. The girl looked up at him with a curious quick -scrutiny--as if she were afraid. - -"What have you been told, Vincent?" she demanded, in quite an altered -tone. - -"Oh, nothing!" he said, with disdain. "A lot of rubbish! Every one has -good-natured friends, I suppose, who won't be satisfied with minding -their own business. And although you may laugh at the moment, at the -mere ridiculousness of the thing, still, if it should happen that just -at the same time you should see some one you are very fond of--in--in a -position that you can't explain to yourself--well, then---- But what is -the use of talking, Maisrie! I confess that I was jealous out of all -reason, jealous to the verge of madness; but then I paid the penalty, in -hours and hours of misery; and now you come along and heap coals of fire -on my head, until I am so ashamed of myself that I don't think I am fit -to live. And that's all about it; and my only excuse is that you had -not told me then what your eyes told me this morning." - -She remained silent and thoughtful for a little while; but as she made -no further reference to his inadvertent admission that he had heard -certain things of herself and her grandfather, he inwardly hoped that -that unlucky speech had gone from her memory. Moreover, they were come -to the Chain Pier; and as those two in front waited for them, so that -they should go through the turnstile one after the other, there was just -then no opportunity for further confidential talking. But once on the -Pier, old George Bethune, who was eagerly discoursing on some subject or -another (with magnificent emphasis of arm and stick) drew ahead again, -taking his companion with him. And Vin Harris, regarding the -picturesque figure of the old man, and his fine enthusiastic manner, -which at all events seemed so sincere, began to wonder whether there -could be any grains of truth in the story that had been told him, or -whether it was a complete and malevolent fabrication. His appearance -and demeanour, certainly, were not those of a professional impostor: it -was hard to understand how a man of his proud and blunt self-assertion -could manage to wheedle wine merchants and tailors. Had he really -called himself Lord Bethune; or was it not far more likely that some -ignorant colonial folk, impressed by his talk of high lineage and by his -personal dignity, had bestowed on him that title? The young -man--guessing and wondering--began to recall the various counts of that -sinister indictment; and at last he said to his companion, in a musing -kind of way---- - -"Maisrie, you know that motto your grandfather is so proud of: 'Stand -Fast, Craig-Royston!' Have you any idea where Craig-Royston is?" - -"I? No, not at all," she said simply. - -"You have never been there?" - -"Vincent!" she said. "You know I have never been in Scotland." - -"Because there is such an odd thing in connection with it," he -continued. "In one edition of Black's Guide to Scotland, Craig-Royston -is not mentioned anywhere; and in another it is mentioned, but only in a -footnote. And I can't find it in the map. You don't know if there are -any people of your name living there now?" - -"I am sure I cannot say," she made answer. "Grandfather could tell you; -he is always interested in such things." - -"And Balloray," he went on, "I could find no mention of Balloray; but of -course there must be such a place?" - -"I wish there was not," she said, sadly. "It is the one bitter thing in -my grandfather's life. I wish there never had been any such place. But -I have noticed a change in him of late. He does not complain now as he -used to complain; he is more resigned; indeed, he seldom talks of it. -And when I say complain, that is hardly the word. Don't you think he -bears his lot with great fortitude? I am sure it is more on my account -than his own that he ever thinks of the estate that was lost. And I am -sure he is happier with his books than with all the land and money that -could be given to him. He seems to fancy that those old songs and -ballads belong to him; they are his property; he is happier with them -than with a big estate and riches." - -"I could not find Balloray in the index to the Guide," Vincent resumed, -"but of course there must be such a place--there is the ballad your -grandfather is so fond of--'The bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.'" - -She looked up suddenly, with some distress in her face. - -"Vincent, don't you understand? Don't you understand that grandfather -is easily taken with a name--with the sound of it--and sometimes he -confuses one with another? That ballad is not about Balloray; it is -about Binnorie; it is 'The bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.' Grandfather -forgets at times; and he is used to Balloray; and that has got into his -head in connection with the ballad. I thought perhaps you knew." - -"Oh, no," said he, lightly, for he did not attach any great importance -to this chance confusion. "The two words are not unlike; I quite see how -one might take the place of the other. Of course you will make sure -that he puts in the right name when he comes to publish the volume." - -And so they walked up and down the almost deserted pier, in the bright -sunlight, looking out on the lapping green waters, or up to the terraced -yellow houses above the tall cliffs. Sometimes, of course, the four of -them came together; and more than once the horsey-looking young -gentleman insidiously tried to detach Maisrie from her chosen -companion--and tried in vain. At last, when it became about time for -them to be going their several ways home, he made a bold stroke. - -"Come, Mr. Bethune," said he, as they were successively passing through -the turnstile, "I want you and Miss Bethune to take pity on a poor -solitary bachelor, and come along and have a bit of lunch with me at the -Old Ship. It will be a little change for you, won't it?--and we can -have a private room if you prefer that." - -The old gentleman seemed inclined to close with this offer; but he -glanced towards Maisrie for her acquiescence first. - -"Oh, thank you, Mr. Glover," said she, promptly; "but I have everything -arranged at our lodgings; and we must not disappoint our landlady. Some -other time, perhaps, thank you! Good morning!" - -Then the moment he was gone, she turned to her companion. - -"Vincent, have you any engagement? No? Then, will you be very -courageous and come with us and take your chance? I can promise you a -biscuit at least." - -"And I'm sure I don't want anything more," said he, most gratefully; for -surely she was trying her best to show him that she distinguished -between old and new friends. - -And then again, when they reached the rooms, and when the three of them -were seated at table, she waited upon him with a gentle care and -assiduity that were almost embarrassing. He wished the wretched things -at the bottom of the sea: why should commonplace food and drink -interfere with his answering Maisrie's eyes, or thinking of her -overwhelming kindness? As for old George Bethune, the sharp air and the -sunlight had given him an admirable appetite; and he allowed the young -people to amuse themselves with little courtesies, and attentions, and -protests just as they pleased. Cheese and celery were solid and -substantial things: he had no concern about a drooping eyelash, or some -pretty, persuasive turn of speech. - -And yet he was not unfriendly towards the young man. - -"Wouldn't you like to go to the theatre this evening, Maisrie?" Vincent -asked. "It is the _Squires Daughter_. I know you've seen it already; -but I could go a dozen times--twenty times--the music is so delightful. -And the travelling company is said to be quite as good as the London -one: Miss Kate Burgoyne has changed into it, you know, and I shouldn't -wonder if she sung all the better because of the L3000 damages that Sir -Percival Miles has had to pay her. Shall I go along and see if I can -get a box?" - -"What do you say, grandfather?" the girl asked. - -"Oh, yes--very well, very well," said he, in his lofty way. "A little -idleness more or less is not of much account. But we must begin to work -soon, Maisrie; fresh air and sunlight are all very well; but we must -begin to work--while the day is with us, though luckily one has not to -say to you as yet--_jam te premet nox, falulaeque Manes, et domus exilis -Plutonia_." - -"Then if we go to the theatre," said Maisrie, "Vincent must come in here -for a little while on his way home; and you and he will have a smoke -together; and it will be quite like old times."--And Vincent looked at -her, as much as to say, 'Maisrie, don't make me too ashamed: haven't you -forgiven me yet for that foolish phrase?' - -The afternoon passed quickly enough: to Vincent every moment was golden. -Then in the evening they went to the theatre; and the young people at -least were abundantly charmed with the gay costumes, the pretty music, -and the fun and merriment of the bright little operetta. George Bethune -seemed less interested. He sate well back in the box, his face in -shadow; and although his eyes, from under those shaggy eyebrows, were -fixed on the stage, it was in an absent fashion, as if he were thinking -of other things. And indeed he was thinking of far other things; for -when, after the piece was over, those three set out to walk home through -the dark streets, Maisrie and Vincent could hear the old man, who walked -somewhat apart from them, reciting to himself, and that in a proud and -sustained voice. It was not the frivolity of comic opera that he had in -his mind; it was something of finer and sterner stuff; as they crossed -by the Old Steine, where there was a space of silence, they could make -out clearly what this was-- - - 'Thy faith and troth thou sall na get, - And our true love sall never twin, - Until ye tell what comes of women, - I wot, who die in strong travailing?' - - 'Their beds are made in the heavens high, - Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee, - Weel set about wi' gillyflowers, - I wot sweet company for to see. - - 'O cocks are crowing a merry midnight, - I wot the wild-fowl are boding day; - The psalms of heaven will soon be sung, - And I, ere now, will be missed away.' - - -There was a curiously solemn effect about this solitary voice, here in -the dark. The old man did not seem to care whether he was overheard or -not; it was entirely to himself that he was repeating the lines of the -old ballad. And thereafter he walked on in silence, while the two -lovers, busy with their own little world, were murmuring nothings to -each other. - -But Maisrie, for one, was soon to be recalled to the actualities, and -even grim incongruities, of every day life. When they reached their -lodgings the servant girl, who opened the door to them, paused for a -second and looked up and down the street. - -"Yes, sir, there he is," said she. - -"Who?" George Bethune demanded. - -"A man who has been asking for you, sir--and said he would wait." - -At the same moment there came out of the gloom a rather shabby-looking -person. - -"Mr. George Bethune?" he said. - -"Yes, that is my name," the old man answered, impatiently: probably he -suspected. - -"Something for you, sir," said the stranger, handing a folded piece of -paper--and therewith he left. - -It was all the work of a second; and the next instant they were indoors, -and in the little parlour; but in that brief space of time a great -change had taken place. Indeed, Maisrie's mortification was a piteous -thing to see; it seemed so hard she should have had to endure this -humiliation under the very eyes of her lover; she would not look his way -at all; she busied herself with putting things on the table; her -downcast face was overwhelmed with confusion and shame. For surely -Vincent would know what that paper was? The appearance of the man--his -hanging about--her grandfather's angry frown--all pointed plainly -enough. And that it should happen at the end of this long and happy -day--this day of reconciliation--when she had tried so assiduously to be -kind to him--when he had spoken so confidently of the future that lay -before them! It was as if some cruel fate had interposed to say to him: -'Now you see the surroundings in which this girl has lived: and do you -still dream of making her your wife?' - -And perhaps old George Bethune noticed this shame and vexation on the -part of his granddaughter, and may have wished to divert attention from -it; at all events, when he had brewed his toddy, and lit his pipe, and -drawn his chair in towards the fire, he set off upon one of his -monologues, quite in the old garrulous vein; and he was as friendly -towards Vincent as though this visit had been quite anticipated. -Maisrie sat silent and abashed; and Vincent, listening vaguely, thought -it was all very fine to have a sanguine and happy-go-lucky temperament, -but that he--that is, the younger man--would be glad to have this -beautiful and pensive creature of a girl removed into altogether -different circumstances. He knew why she was ashamed and -downcast--though, to be sure, he said to himself that the serving of a -writ was no tremendous cataclysm. Such little incidents must -necessarily occur in the career of any one who had such an arrogant -disdain of pounds and pence as her grandfather professed. But that -Maisrie should have to suffer humiliation: that was what touched him to -the quick. He looked at her--at her beautiful and wistful eyes, and the -sensitive lines of her profile and under-lip; and his heart bled for -her. And all this following upon her outspoken avowal of that morning -seemed to demand some more definite and immediate action on his -part--when once the quiet of the night had enabled him to consider his -position. - -When he rose to leave, he asked them what they meant to do the next day. -But Maisrie would hardly say anything; she seemed rather to wish him to -go, so distressed and disheartened she was. And go he did, presently; -but he bore away with him no hurt feeling on account of his tacit -dismissal. He understood all that; and he understood her. And as he -went away home through the dark, he began to recall the first occasions -on which he had seen Maisrie Bethune walking in Hyde Park with her -grandfather; and the curious fancies that were then formed in his own -mind--that here apparently was a beautiful, and sensitive, and suffering -soul that ought to be rescued and cheered and comforted, were one found -worthy to be her champion and her friend. Her friend?--she had -confessed he was something more than that on this very morning. Her -lover, then?--well, her lover ought to be her champion too, if only the -hours of the night would lend him counsel. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - - ON THE BRINK. - - -Nay, he could see but the one clear and resolute way out of all these -perplexities, which was that he should forthwith and without further -preamble marry Maisrie Bethune: thereafter his relatives might do or say -whatever it most pleased them to do or say. This would be his answer to -the vague but persistent suspicions of Mrs. Ellison, and to the more -precise but none the less preposterous accusations of his father. Then -as regards Maisrie herself, would not this conclusive act banish all -those dim presentiments and alarms with which she seemed to regard the -future? And if her present circumstances involved her in humiliation, -lie would take her out of these. As for old George Bethune, ought he -not to welcome this guardianship that would succeed his own? The -happiness of his granddaughter seemed to be his first care; and here was -a stay and bulwark for her, a protection for her when his own should be -withdrawn in the natural course of things. - -This solution of the difficulty seemed reasonable and simple, though -sometimes his arguments would suddenly get lost in a flood of wild -wonder and joy; and entrancing visions of that pretty canary-cage he -meant to secure--down by Chelsea way, perhaps, or up about Campden Hill, -or it might be out among some suburban gardens--would interfere with the -cool and accurate representations he was preparing to lay before his -friends. For after all, simple as the solution appeared, there were -ways and means to be considered. Vincent was now about to -discover--nay, he already perceived--that for a young man to be brought -up without any definite calling meant a decided crippling of his -independence. The canary-cage, charming and idyllic as it might be, -would cost something, even if he went as far as Shepherd's Bush or -Hammersmith; and the little fortune that had been left him did not -produce much of an annual income. Then again his father: would not the -great socialist (on paper) instantly withdraw the handsome allowance he -had hitherto made, on hearing that his son contemplated marrying that -dangerous person, that low-born adventuress, that creature of the slums? -For Vincent Harris was not given to disguising things from himself. He -knew that these were the phrases which his father would doubtless apply -to Maisrie Bethune. Not that they or any other phrases were of much -import: the capitalist-communist was welcome to invent and use as many -as he chose. But his opposition to this marriage, which was almost to -be counted on, might become a very serious affair for everybody -concerned. - -Next morning Vincent was up betimes; and at an early hour he went along -to the Bedford Hotel. He was told that Lord Musselburgh was in the -coffee-room; and thither he accordingly proceeded. - -"Oh, yes, I'll have some breakfast, thank you," said he, as he took a -seat at the small table. "Anything--anything. The fact is, Musselburgh, -I want to speak to you, if you can give me a little time. Something of -importance, too--to me at least----" - -"Let me tell you this, Vin, first of all," said the elder of the two -young men, with a smile. "You'll have to make your peace with Mrs. -Ellison. She is mortally offended at the notion of your coming to -Brighton, and going to a hotel. I suppose you imagined she didn't know -you had come down? We saw you yesterday." - -"Where?" said Vincent, quickly. - -"In the Marine Parade. We followed you some little way--if you had -turned round you would have seen us." - -"What time?" - -"Why, about one, I should think." - -"Then--then you saw--" - -"Yes, we saw--" said the other. - -There was a moment's silence; Vin's eyes were fixed on his companion -with a curious expectancy and prayer; had this friend of his, if he were -a friend at all, no approving word to say about Maisrie? - -Well, Lord Musselburgh was an exceedingly good-natured young man; and on -this occasion he did not allow a selfish discretion to get the better of -him. - -"I don't know that I intended to tell you," said he. "Fact is, Mrs. -Ellison hinted that I'd better follow her example; and have nothing to -say on a certain subject; but really, Vin, really--I had no -idea--really----" - -"Yes?--what?" said Vincent, rather breathlessly. - -"Well, to be candid with you, I never was so surprised in my life! Why, -you remember that afternoon in Piccadilly, when I first saw -them--perhaps I did not pay much attention to the girl--she seemed a -slip of a thing--pretty, oh, yes, pretty enough; but yesterday--when I -saw her yesterday--by George, she's grown to be one of the most -beautiful creatures I ever beheld! And so distinguished-looking--and -apparently so unconscious of it too! Again and again I noticed people -half-turn their heads to get another glimpse of her as she went by--and -no wonder--why, really, such a carriage--such an air of distinction and -quiet self-possession, for all she looked so young--I never was so -surprised in all my life! Oh, a most beautiful creature!--and that I -must say in common honesty, whatever comes of it." - -Nay, the very incoherence of his praise was proof of its sincerity; and -Vincent's face burned with pleasure and pride. How could sweeter words -have been poured into a lover's ears? - -"Did you chance to notice her hair?--did you?" said he, eagerly. "Did -you chance to see the sunlight on it? And--and you were behind her--you -must have seen how she walked--the lightness and grace of her step. -Mind you, Mussel burgh," he went on--and his breakfast received but -scant attention, now that he had found someone to whom he could talk on -this enchanting and all-engrossing theme. "A light and graceful step -means far more than mere youth and health--it means a perfect and supple -figure as well. Did you think she was rather pale?" he asked--but only -to answer his own question. "Yes, I dare say you might think she was -rather pale. But that is not because she is delicate--oh, dear, -no!--not in the least: it is the natural fineness of her complexion; and -when brisk walking, or a cold wind blowing, brings colour into her -cheeks, then that is all the rarer and more beautiful. Of course you -couldn't see her eyes at all?--she doesn't stare at people in the -streets; she seems to find the sea more interesting when we are walking -up and clown; but they are the clearest, the most expressive, eyes you -could imagine! She hardly has to speak--she has only to look! I do -think blue-grey is by far the prettiest colour of eyes; they vary so -much; I've seen Maisrie Bethune's eyes quite distinctly blue--that is -when she is very strong and well, and out in the open air. I don't -suppose it possible that any reflection from the sky or sea can affect -the colour of the eyes; it must be simply that she is in the fresh air, -and stimulated with exercise and happy----" He paused for a second. -"Is there anything so very amusing?" - -"To tell you the truth, Vin," his companion admitted, "I was thinking -that when you came in you announced you had something of importance to -say----" - -"Instead of which I have been talking about Miss Bethune," Vincent said, -without taking any offence. "But who began? I thought it was you who -introduced the subject--and you seemed interested in her appearance----" - -"Oh, yes, of course, of course," the young nobleman said, goodnaturedly. -"I beg your pardon. And I understand how the subject may be of -importance to you----" - -"Well, yes, it is," said Vincent, calmly. "For I propose to marry Miss -Bethune, and at once, if she will consent." - -Lord Musselburgh looked up quickly, and his face was grave enough now. - -"You don't mean that, Vin?" - -"That is precisely what I do mean," the young man said. - -"I thought--I had fancied--that certain things had been found out," his -friend stammered, and then stopped; for it was a hazardous topic. - -"Oh, you have been told too?" Vincent said, with a careless disdain. -"Well, when I heard those charges brought against Miss Bethune's -grandfather, I did not choose to answer them; but speaking about him to -you is another thing; and I may say to you, once for all, that more -preposterous trash was never invented. I won't deny," he continued, -with a perfectly simple frankness, "that there are one or two things -about Mr. Bethune that I cannot quite explain--that I rather shut my -eyes to; and perhaps there are one or two things that one might wish -altered--for who is perfect? But the idea that this old man, with his -almost obtrusively rugged individuality, his independence, his self-will -and pride, should be a scheming impostor and swindler--it is too absurd! -To my mind--and I think I know him pretty intimately--he appears to be -one of the finest and grandest characters it is possible to imagine; a -personality you could never forget, once you had learned to know him -even a little; and that this man, of all men, should be suspected of -being a fawning and wheedling writer of begging-letters--it is too -laughable! I admit that he has little or no money--if that is a crime. -They live in straitened circumstances, no doubt. And of course there -are many unpleasant things connected with poverty that one would rather -hide from the eyes of a young lady, and that can't well be hidden: -though I don't know that her nature, if she has a fine and noble nature, -need suffer from that. For example, it isn't nice for her to see her -grandfather served with a writ; but many excellent people have been -served with writs; it doesn't follow that Mr. Bethune must be a thief -because he has no money--or perhaps because he has been negligent about -some debt or other. But even supposing that he was a questionable -person--even supposing that he was in the habit of using doubtful means -to supplement his precarious income; isn't that all the greater reason -why such a girl should be taken away from such circumstances?" - -Lord Musselburgh did not reply to this question. He had heard from Mrs. -Ellison that the granddaughter was suspected, or more than suspected, of -being an accomplice; and although, of course, he could not in the least -say whether there was any truth in this allegation, he deemed it wiser -to hold his tongue. - -"Now you may put all that aside," Vincent went on. "That is all rubbish -and trash--a pack of old wives' stories. And what I want of you, -Musselburgh, is to give me your honest opinion on a certain point. I -ask for your advice. I want you to tell me what you think would happen -in a possible case. And the main question is this: assuming that I -could persuade Miss Bethune to marry me at once, and assuming also that -her grandfather approved--when the marriage had actually taken place, -what would my relatives say? Or rather, that is not the question: the -question is what they would do. I know what they would say. They would -be wild enough. Their heads are full of these foolish fancies and -suspicions; and beside that, I gather that they want me to marry some -noble damsel whose family would have political influence. Yes, they -would be wild enough, no doubt; but when they found the thing actually -settled, what would they do? Would my father make a deadly quarrel of -it and cut me off with a shilling, like something out of a play; or -would he exercise a little common-sense, and make the best of it, seeing -the thing was done?" - -"Really," said Musselburgh, who seemed more concerned than one might -have expected from his half-cynical, half-careless temperament, "you ask -me what I can't answer. And giving advice is a perilous business. All -I can say is this, Vin--you seem to me to have got into a devilish -awkward position, and I wish to goodness you were out of it." - -"You think I regret anything that has happened?" Vincent said. "Not I! -I would not go back--not for all the world. But as for this monetary -difficulty, there it is; and it has to be faced. You see, I have been -brought up to do nothing; and consequently I am in a measure dependent -on my father. My own little income doesn't amount to much. Then again, -if I were to marry Maisrie Bethune, I should have to leave her -grandfather whatever small fund they have--I don't quite understand -about it--anyhow, I couldn't take that away, for I imagine the old -gentleman's earnings from newspaper work are not very substantial or -regular. Now what do you think my father would do?" - -"Wouldn't it be the simplest thing to go and ask him--to go and ask him -now?" said Lord Musselburgh, who clearly did not wish to assume any -responsibility in this serious matter. - -"I can tell myself what he would say now," Vincent made answer; "the -question is what he would say then." - -"After the marriage?" - -"Yes." - -His companion across the little table hesitated for a second or two. - -"You see, Vin, it isn't only in plays that fathers get -angry--unfortunately, it sometimes happens in real life; and -occasionally they get very angry indeed. According to your own showing, -if your father refused to acknowledge this marriage--if he declared he -would have nothing further to do with you--you would find yourself in -rather desperate straits. Why should you, with your eyes open, walk -into any such straits? You know what may happen. And then--with a -young wife--with next to no resources--what would you do? Let us come -to one definite and immediate thing, that I hope is not far off now; who -would pay your election expenses at Mendover?" - -"You yourself, Musselburgh, in the interests of the party!" - -"I am glad you can make a jest of the situation, Vin----" - -"No, really, I don't," Vincent said, more seriously. "But if I were to -ask for my father's consent I should not get it--I know that quite well; -and meanwhile this girl is supposed to be--oh, I need not name the -things! You don't understand! She is my dearest in all the world; how -can I stand by and allow these base accusations to be brought against -her, without protest? And that would be my protest! That would show -them what I thought of their mean suspicions and their preposterous -charges." - -"And thereafter?" said Lord Musselburgh. - -"Thereafter? Well, as I say, my father might show some common sense and -accept the thing, seeing it was done. I can tell you it isn't very -pleasant to find myself so dependent on any other human being's -reasonableness. I haven't been used to it. I dare say I have been -spoiled--things made too easy for me. And now when I look round and -wonder what I could turn to, I suppose I am simply in the position of a -thousand others, who haven't had any special training. The few articles -I have written have paid me well enough; but at present I don't see -anything substantial and permanent in that direction. If you were in -office I should ask you for a private secretaryship----" - -"Why not ask someone who is in office?" - -"I could not change my coat quite so quickly as that." - -"Ah, you haven't had much experience in practical politics," Lord -Musselburgh observed. "Well, now, Vin, look here: it seems to me you -are on the brink of a tremendous catastrophe. You have asked for my -advice; I will give it you frankly. For goodness sake, don't marry that -girl! She may be everything you say; her grandfather may be everything -you say; but don't do anything rash--don't do anything irrevocable. And -consider this: if your relations should look on such a marriage with -disfavour, it is in your own interest; it is no selfish wish on their -part that you should marry well--marry in your own sphere--marry some -one who would do you credit and be a fit companion for you. Mind you, I -say nothing against Miss Bethune--nothing; I would not even if I -could--I am not such a fool--for I should simply anger you without -convincing you; but just consider for a moment what her experiences must -have been. You know what Mrs. Ellison so frequently talks about--the -sentimental fallacy of supposing that there is anything intrinsically -noble or beautiful about poverty. I'm afraid she's right. I am afraid -that poverty is altogether a debasing and brutalising thing, destroying -self-respect, stunting the mind as well as the body." - -"Yes," said Via Harris, rather scornfully, "I am quite aware that is the -opinion of poverty held by the rich. They show it. They profess to -believe what the Sermon on the Mount says about the Kingdom of Heaven -being reserved for the poor; but catch any single man-jack of them -putting aside his riches in order to secure that other inheritance! Not -much! He prefers the Kingdom he has got--in consols." - -"I was only wondering," Musselburgh said, with a little hesitation, -"what influence those--those associations might have had on Miss Bethune -herself. Not the best training for a young girl, perhaps?" - -"If she had been brought up in a thieves' den," said Vincent, hotly, -"she would have remained the pure and beautiful-souled creature that she -is now. But I see there is no use talking. I have asked for your -advice--for your opinion; and you have given it to me. I thank you, and -there's an end." - -He rose. But his friend also rose at the same moment. - -"No, no, Vin, you're not going to quarrel with me. Come into the -smoking-room, and we'll have a cigarette." - -Nor did he wish to quarrel. They left the coffee-room together. But as -luck would have it, in crossing the hall, he chanced to look towards the -front door; and behold! all the outer world was shining in clear -sunlight. It suddenly occurred to this young man that he had been -sitting plunged in gloom, listening to coward counsels, regarding the -future as something dark; while there--out there--the golden pavements, -and the far-shimmering sea, and the wide white skies spoke only of hope, -and seemed to say that Maisrie would soon be coming along, proud and -tall and sweet. Why, it was to her that he ought to have appealed--not -to any timorous, vacillating temporiser; it was her hands he ought to -have taken and held, that he might read the future in her true eyes. -And so, with some brief words of apology and thanks, he left Lord -Musselburgh, and made his way into the outer air: this was to breathe -more freely--this was to have the natural courage of youth mounting into -the brain. - -He walked away along the King's Road; and unconsciously to himself he -held his head erect; as if in imitation of the stout-hearted old man -who, despite his threescore years and ten, could still bear himself so -bravely in face of all the world. Moreover, there were some lines in -one of Maisrie's songs haunting him; but not in any sad way; nay, he -found himself dwelling on the _r_'s, as if to recall her soft -pronunciation:-- - - Elle fit un' rencontre - De trente matelots, - De trente matelots - Sur le bord de l' ile. - -He had thrust aside those pusillanimous counsels: out here was the -sunlight and the fresh-blowing wind; his soul felt freer; he would gain -new courage from Maisrie's eyes. This was the kind of morning to bring -a touch of crimson to the transparent pallor of her cheek; her teeth -would glisten when she laughed; her graceful step would be lighter, more -buoyant, than ever. _Sursum corda_! Nay, he could have found it in his -heart to adopt the proud-sounding 'Stand Fast, Craig-Royston!'--if only -to fling it back in the face of those who had brought those monstrous -accusations. - -His long and swinging stride soon carried him to the house in German -Place, where he found George Bethune and his granddaughter just making -ready to come out. - -"This will not do, Maisrie," said old George Bethune, in his gay, -emphatic fashion. "Too much idleness. Too much idleness. Fresh air is -all very well; but we must not become its slaves. Remember Horace's -warning. '_Tu, nisi ventis debes ludibrium, cave_.'" - -"Why, who could keep at work on a morning like this!" Vincent protested. -"A west wind and brilliant sunlight are not so common in December. It -makes it hard for me that I've to go away to-morrow." - -"Are you going away to-morrow, Vincent?" said Maisrie, regarding him. - -"Yes," said he. "I have to go down to Mendover on Thursday, to deliver -a sort of address--a lecture--and I've only got the heads and divisions -sketched out as yet. I wish I could escape it altogether; but I dare -not play any tricks at present; I'm on my best behaviour. And this time -at least I don't mean to drag Lord Musselburgh down with me; I'm going -alone." - -"And after that you return to London?" she asked. - -He hardly knew what to say. A single word of encouragement from either -of them, and he would at once and gladly have promised to come back to -Brighton at the earliest possible moment; but he had not forgotten the -implied understanding on which Maisrie and her grandfather had come away -from their lodgings in Mayfair. - -"Yes, to London," he replied vaguely. "But I have no definite plans at -present. I dare say my aunt, Mrs. Ellison, will want me to come down -here at Christmas." - -When they were outside, and had gone on to the Parade, he besought his -two companions, instead of taking their accustomed stroll into the town, -to come away out into the country. The Downs, he said, would be looking -very cheerful on so pleasant a morning. And of course it mattered -little to them whither they went. They acceded at once; and by-and-bye -they had left the wide thoroughfare and the houses behind them, and were -walking along the soft turf, alone with the cliffs, and the sea, and the -smooth, faintly-coloured uplands. The spring-time was not yet; but -there were hues of green and red in those far-stretching breadths of -soil; and the sky was of a cloudless blue. - -And how strange it was that out here in the open, in the clear sunlight, -those dark imaginings of the Private Inquiry Offices seemed to fall -helplessly away from these two friends of his, and they themselves stood -sharply defined just as he had always known them--the two solitary and -striking figures that his fancy had invested with so pathetic an -interest. Mentally he addressed Lord Musselburgh: 'Come and see them -here--in the white light of day--and ask yourself whether you can -believe in those midnight things you have heard of them. Look at this -girl: you say yourself she is of extraordinary beauty; but is there not -a still stranger fascination--is there not something that wins the heart -to sympathy, and pity, and respect? Look at the pensive character of -her mouth--look at the strange resignation in the beautiful eyes: -perhaps her life has not been altogether too happy?--and is that to be -brought as a charge against her? Then this old man--look at his proud -bearing--look at the resolute set of his head--his straight glance--the -courage of his firm mouth: has he the appearance, the demeanour, of a -sharper, of a plausible and specious thief?' At this moment, at all -events, it did not seem as if George Bethune's mind was set upon any -swindling scheme. As he marched along, with head erect, and with eyes -fixed absently on the far horizon, he was reciting to himself, in -sonorous tones, the metrical version of the Hundredth Psalm-- - - 'O enter then His gates with praise, - Approach with joy his courts unto; - Praise, laud, and bless His name always, - For it is seemly so to do. - For why? the Lord our God is good, - His mercy is for ever sure; - His truth at all times firmly stood, - And shall from age to age endure.' - -No doubt it was some reminiscence of his youthful days--perhaps a -Saturday night's task--that had lain dormant in his memory for sixty -years or more. - -The two young folk were mostly silent; they had plenty to think -about--especially in view of Vincent's departure on the morrow. As for -him, his one consuming desire was to make sure of Maisrie, now that she -had disclosed her heart to him; he wished for some closer bond, some -securer tie, so that, whatever might happen, Maisrie should not be taken -away from him. For he seemed to know as if by some inscrutable instinct -that a crisis in his life was approaching. And it was not enough that -her eyes had spoken; that she had given him the sandal-wood necklace; -that she had striven with an almost pathetic humility to show her -affection and esteem. He wished for some clearer assurance with regard -to the future. Those people in the background who had pieced together -that malignant story: were they not capable of further and more deadly -mischief? He had affected to scorn them as mere idle and intermeddling -fools; but they might become still more aggressive--enemies striking at -him and at his heart's desire from the dim phantom-world that enshrouded -them. Anyhow, he meant to act now, on his own discretion. Lord -Musselburgh's advice was no doubt worldly-wise enough and safe; but it -was valueless in these present circumstances. Vincent felt that his -life was his own, and that the moment had come when he must shape it -towards a certain end--for good or ill, as the years might show. - -After a pretty long walk along the cliffs, they returned to the town (on -the Parade they met Sherry, who cheerfully informed them that he was on -the point of starting for Monte Carlo, and hoped they would wish him -good luck) and Vincent was easily persuaded by Maisrie to share their -modest luncheon with them. Thereafter, when tobacco was produced, she -begged to be excused for a little while, as she had some sewing to do in -her own room; and thus it was that Vincent, quite suddenly and -unexpectedly, found himself presented with an opportunity of approaching -the old man on the all-important theme. But on this occasion he was -much more precise and urgent in his prayer; for he had thought the whole -matter clearly out, through many a sleepless hour; and his plans lay -fixed and definite before him. - -"You yourself," he went on, "have often hinted that your future -movements were uncertain--you might have to go away--and--and then I -don't say that either Maisrie or I would forget--only I am afraid of -absence. There appear to be certain people who don't wish you well; -there might be more stories; who can tell what might not happen? -Indeed," said he, regarding the old man a little anxiously, "I have been -thinking that--that if Maisrie would consent--our getting married at -once would be the safest and surest tie of all. I have not spoken of it -to her--I thought I would put it before you first----" - -Here he paused, in something of anxious uncertainty. - -"Married at once?" George Bethune repeated, slowly. There was no -expression of surprise or resentment; the old man waited calmly and -courteously for further elucidation of these plans; his eyes were -observant and attentive--but quite inscrutable. - -"And I want to show you how I am situated," Vincent went on (but not -knowing what to make of that perfectly impassive demeanour). "I hope -there is no need to conceal anything--indeed, I should think you were -pretty well acquainted with my circumstances by this time. You know my -father is a rich man. I am his only son; and I suppose I shall inherit -his fortune. I have a little money of my own--not much of an annual -income, to be sure; and I have some friends who would help me if the -worst came to the worst, but I don't see how that necessity should -arise. For myself, I have unfortunately been brought up to no -profession; I was trained for public life--for polities--if for -anything: it has never been considered necessary that I should learn -some method of making my own living. That is a misfortune--I can see -that now; but at least I have been trying to do something of late; and I -have got some encouragement; if there were any need, I fancy I could -earn a modest income by writing for the newspapers. You have seen one -or two of those articles--and I have been offered introductions, as you -know. Well, now----" - -And again he paused. All this had been more or less of plain sailing: -now he was approaching a much more delicate matter. - -"Well--the fact is--there has been some envious tittle-tattle--wretched -stuff--not worth mentioning --except for this: that if I went to my -father and told him I wished to marry your granddaughter, he would be -opposed to it. Yes, that is the truth. He does not know you; he has -never even seen Maisrie; and of course he goes by what he -hears--absolute folly as it is. However," Vincent continued, with some -effort at cheerfulness (for he was glad to get away from that subject -without being questioned), "the main point is this: if Maisrie and I -were to get married, at once--as we have the right to do--we are surely -of sufficient age--we know our own minds--I am quite certain my father -would accept the whole affair good-naturedly and reasonably, and all -would be well. Then see what it would be for Maisrie to have an assured -position like that! She would be able to give up her share in the small -income you once spoke of; that would be altogether yours; and surely you -would be glad to know that her future was safe, whatever might happen. -There would practically be no separation between you and her; it isn't -as if she were moving into another sphere--among pretentious people; in -fact, all the advantages are on her side; if we have plenty of money, -she has birth and name and family; and then again, when Maisrie and I -took up house for ourselves, there would be no more welcome guest than -her grandfather. I think I can promise that." - -There was silence for a moment--an ominous silence. - -"Has Maisrie," said George Bethune, with slow and measured enunciation, -and he regarded the young man from under his shaggy eyebrows, "has -Maisrie intimated to you her wish for that--that arrangement?" - -"No," said Vincent, eagerly. "How could she? I thought I was bound to -speak to you first; for of course she will do nothing without your -approval. But don't you think she has had enough of a wandering -life--enough of precarious circumstances; and then if her heart says yes -too----?" - -Well, if this venerable impostor had at last succeeded in entrapping a -rich man's son--in getting him to propose marriage to his -granddaughter--he did not seem to be in a hurry to secure his prey. - -"Maisrie has said nothing?" George Bethune asked again, in that -curiously impassive fashion. - -"No----" - -"Has expressed no wish?" - -"No--I have not spoken to her about this immediate proposal." - -"Then, until she has," said the old man, calmly, "I must refuse any -consent of mine. I think you have described the whole situation very -fairly--clearly and honestly, as I imagine; but I do not see any reason -for departing from what I said to you before, that I would rather my -granddaughter was not bound by any formal tie or pledge--much less by -such a marriage as you propose. For one thing, she may have a future -before her that she little dreams of. Of course, if her happiness were -involved, if she came to me and said that only by such and such an -arrangement could her peace of mind be secured, then I might alter my -views: at present I see no cause to do so. You are both young: if you -care for each other, you should be content to wait. Years are a -valuable test. After all, according to your own showing, you are -dependent on your father's caprice: some angry objection on his -part--and where would the fortunes of the young married couple be?" - -But Vincent was too impetuous to be easily discouraged. - -"Even then I should not be quite helpless," he urged. "And is my -willingness to work to count for nothing? However, that is not the -immediate question. Supposing Maisrie's happiness _were_ -concerned?--supposing she were a little tired of the uncertainty of her -life?--supposing she were willing to trust herself to me--what then? -Why, if she came to you, and admitted as much, I know you would consent. -Is not that so?--I know it is so!--you would consent--for Maisrie's -sake!" - -The old man's eyes were turned away now--fixed on the slumbering coals -in the grate. - -"I had dreamed of other things," he said, almost to himself. - -"Yes; but if Maisrie came to you?" Vincent said, with the same -eagerness--almost, indeed, with some trace of joyous assurance--"She -would not have long to plead, I think! And then again, at any moment, -my circumstances might be so altered as to give you all the guarantee -for the future which you seem to think necessary. A word from my father -to-morrow might settle that: if I went to him, and could get him to -understand what Maisrie really was. Or I might obtain some definite -post: I have some good friends: I am going up to London to-morrow, and -could begin to make inquiries. In the meantime," he added hastily--for -he heard someone on the stair--"do you object to my telling Maisrie what -you have said?" - -"What I have said? I dare say she knows," old George Bethune made -answer, in an absent sort of way--and at this moment Maisrie entered the -room, bringing her sewing with her, and further speech was impossible. - -It was on this same afternoon that Lord Musselburgh carried along to his -fair fiancee a report of the interview he had had with Vincent in the -morning. The young widow was dreadfully alarmed. - -"Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed, and she began to pace up and down the -room in her agitation. "Marry the girl at once? Why, it is -destruction! Fancy what all our plans and interests, all our lives, -would be--with Vin cut out! It cannot be--it shall not be--it must be -prevented at any cost! He would be dead--worse than dead--we should be -pitying him always, and knowing where he was, and not able to go near -him. You don't mean to say he is definitely resolved?" she demanded in -her desperation. - -"Indeed, there is no doubt about it--he spoke as plainly as you could -wish," said Lord Musselburgh. "And he has argued the thing out; his head -is clear enough, for all this wild infatuation of his. He sees that his -father will not consent--beforehand; so he means to marry, and then hope -for reconciliation when the whole affair is past praying for. That's the -programme, you may depend on it." - -"Harland must know at once," said Mrs. Ellison, going instantly to her -writing-desk. "This must and shall be prevented. I am not going to -have my boy's life ruined by a pack of begging-letter swindlers and -cheats!" - - - - - CHAPTER IX. - - "AND HAST THOU PLAYED ME THIS!" - - -And now in this time of urgency the appeal was to Maisrie herself; and -how could he doubt what her answer would be, in spite of all those -strange and inexplicable forebodings that seemed to haunt her mind? - -But when he got up next morning he found to his dismay that a sudden -change in the weather was like to interfere in a very practical manner -with his audacious plans. During the night the wind had backed to the -south-west, accompanied by a sharp fall of the barometer; and now a -stiff gale was blowing, and already a heavy sea was thundering in on the -beach. There was as yet no rain, it is true; but along the southern -horizon the louring heavens were even darker than the wind-driven -waters; and an occasional shiver of white sunlight that swept across the -waves spoke clearly enough of coming wet. Was it not altogether too -wild and stormy a morning to hope that Maisrie would venture forth? And -yet he was going away that day--with great uncertainty as to the time of -his return; and how could he go without having some private speech with -her? Nor was there any prospect of a lightening up of the weather -outside; the gale seemed to be increasing in fury; and he ate his -breakfast in silence, listening to the long, dull roar and reverberation -of the heavy-breaking surf. - -Nevertheless here was a crisis; and something had to be done; so about -half-past ten he went along to the lodging-house in German Place. The -servant-maid greeted this handsome young man with an approving glance; -and informed him that both Mr. and Miss Bethune were in the parlour -upstairs. - -"No, thank you," said he, in answer to this implied invitation, "I won't -go up. I want to see Miss Bethune by herself: would you ask her if she -would be so kind as to come downstairs for just a moment--I won't detain -her----" - -The girl divined the situation in an instant; and proved herself -friendly. Without more ado she turned the handle of a door near her. - -"Won't you step in there, sir?--the gentleman 'as gone out." - -Vincent glanced into the little parlour. Here, indeed, was a refuge -from the storm; but all the same he did not like to invade the privacy -of a stranger's apartments. - -"Oh, no, thanks," he said. "I will wait here, if Miss Bethune will be -so kind as to come down for a minute. Will you ask her, please?" - -The girl went upstairs; returned with the message that Miss Bethune -would be down directly; then she disappeared, and Vincent was left alone -in this little lobby. It was not a very picturesque place, to be sure, -for an interview between two lovers: still, it would serve--especially -if the friendly chambermaid were out of earshot, and if no prying -landlady should come along. The gale outside was so violent that all -the doors and windows of the house were shaking and rattling: he could -not ask Maisrie to face such a storm. - -But in a second or so here was Maisrie herself, all ready -apparelled--hat, muff, gloves, boa, and the furred collar of her jacket -turned up. - -"Why, Maisrie," he said, "you don't mean you are going out on such a -morning--it is far too wild and stormy!----" - -"That is of no consequence," she made answer, simply. "I have something -to say to you, Vincent, before you go." - -"And I have something to say to you, Maisrie. Still," he continued, with -some little hesitation (for he was accustomed to take charge of her and -guard her from the smallest harms), "I don't want you to get wet and -blown about--" - -"What does that matter?" she said: it was not of a shower of rain that -she was thinking. - -"Oh, very well," said he at last. "I'll tell you what we'll do; we'll -fight our way down to the sea-front, and then go out to the end of the -Chain Pier. There are some places of shelter out there; and there won't -be a living soul anywhere about on such a morning. For I am going to -ask you to make a promise, Maisrie," he added in a lower voice, "and the -sea and the sky will be quite sufficient witnesses." - -And truly this was fighting their way, as they discovered the moment -they had left the house; for the gusts and squalls that came tearing -along the street were like to choke them. She clung to his arm tightly; -but her skirts were blown about her and impeded her; the two ends of her -boa went flying away over her shoulders; while her hair was speedily in -a most untoward state--though her companion thought it was always -prettier that way than any other. Nevertheless they leant forward -against the wind, and drove themselves through it, and eventually got -down to the sea-front. Here, again, they were almost stunned by the -terrific roar; for the tide was full up; and the huge, brown, concave, -white-crested waves, thundering down on the shelving shingle, filled all -the thick air with spray; while light balls of foam went sailing away -inland, tossed hither and thither up into the purple-darkened sky. So -far the driving squalls had brought no rain; but the atmosphere was -surcharged with a salt moisture; more than once Vincent stopped for a -second and took his handkerchief to dry Maisrie's lashes and eyebrows, -and to push back from her forehead the fine wet threads of her -glistening hair. - -But soon they had got away from this roar of water and grinding pebbles, -and were out on the pier, that was swaying sinuously before these fierce -trusts, and that trembled to its foundations under each successive shock -of the heavy surge. And now they could get a better view of the wide -and hurrying sea--a sea of a tawny-brownish hue melting into a vivid -green some way further out, and always and everywhere showing swift -flashes of white, that seemed to gleam all the more suddenly and sharply -where the weight of the purple skies darkened down to the horizon. - -"What a shame it is," he said to her (perhaps with some affectation of -cheerfulness, for she seemed curiously preoccupied), "What a shame it is -to drag you out on such a morning!" - -"I do not mind it," she made answer. "It will be something to -remember." - -When they reached the end of the pier, which was wholly deserted, he -ensconced her snugly in a corner of one of the protected seats; and he -was not far away from her when he sate down. Her lips had grown pale -with the buffeting of the wind; the outside threads and plaits of her -hair were damp and disordered; and her eyes were grave even to sadness; -and yet never had the strange witchery of her youthful beauty so -entirely entranced him. Perhaps it was the dim fear of losing her, that -dwelt as a sort of shadow in his mind even when he was most buoyed up by -the radiant confidence of four-and-twenty; perhaps it was the knowledge -that, for a time at least, this was to be farewell; at all events he -sate close to her, and held her hand tight, as though to make sure she -should not be stolen away from him. - -"Maisrie," said he, "do you know that I spoke to your grandfather -yesterday?" - -"Yes," she answered. "He told me." - -"And what did he say?" - -"At first," she said, with a bit of a sigh, "he talked of Balloray. I -was sorry that came up again; he is happier when he does not think of -it. And, indeed, I have noticed that of late he has almost given up -speaking of the possibility of a great change in our condition. What -chance is there of any such thing? We have no money to go to law, even -if the law had not already decided against us. Then grandfather's idea -that the estates might come to us through some accident, or series of -accidents--what is that but a dream? I am sure he is far more content -when he forgets what might have been; when he trusts entirely to his own -courage and self-reliance; when he is thinking, not of lost estates, but -of some ballad he means to write about in the _Edinburgh Chronicle_. -Poor grandfather!--and yet, who can help admiring his spirit--the very -gaiety of his nature--in spite of all his misfortunes?" - -"Yes, Maisrie--but--but what did he say about you?" - -"About me?" the girl repeated. "Well, it was his usual kindness. He -said I was only to think of what would tend to my own happiness. -Happiness?" she went on, rather sadly. "As if this world was made for -happiness!" - -It was a strange speech for one so young--one who, so far as he could -make out, had been so gently nurtured and cared for. - -"What do you mean, Maisrie?" said he in his astonishment. "Why should -you not have happiness, as well as another? Who can deserve it more -than you--you who are so generous and well-wishing to everyone--" - -"I would rather not speak of myself at all, Vincent," she said. "That -is nothing. I want to speak of you. I want you to consider--what is -best for you. And I understand your position--perhaps more clearly than -you imagine. You have made me think, of late, about many things; and -now that you are going away, I must speak frankly. It will be -difficult. Perhaps--perhaps, if you were more considerate, Vincent--?" - -"Yes?" said he. That Maisrie should have to beg for consideration! - -"There might be no need of speaking," she went on, after that momentary -pause. "If you were to go away now, and never see us any more, wouldn't -that be the simplest thing? There would be no misunderstanding--no -ill-feeling of any kind. You would think of the time we knew you in -London--and I'm sure I should always think of it--as a pleasant time: -perhaps something too good to last. I have told you before: you must -remember what your prospects are--what all your friends expect of -you--and you will see that no good could come of hampering yourself--of -introducing someone to your family who would only bring difficulty and -trouble--" - -"Yes, I understand!" he said--and he threw away her hand from him. "I -understand now. But why not tell the truth at once--that you do not love -me--as I had been fool enough to think you did!" - -"Yes, perhaps I do not love you," she said in a low voice. "And yet I -was not thinking of myself. I was trying to think of what was best for -you--" - -Her voice broke a little, and there were tears gathering on her -eyelashes: seeing which made him instantly contrite. He caught her hand -again. - -"Maisrie, forgive me! I don't know why you should talk like that! If I -have your love I do not fear anything that may happen in the future. -There is nothing to fear. When I spoke to your grandfather yesterday -afternoon, I told him precisely how I was situated; and I showed him -that, granting there were some few little difficulties, the best way to -meet them would be for you and me to get married at once: then -everything would come right of its own accord--for one must credit one's -relatives with a little common sense. Now that is my solution of all -this trouble--oh, yes, I confess there has been a little trouble; but -here is my solution of it--if you have courage, Maisrie. Maisrie, will -you give me your promise--will you be my wife?" - -She looked at him for a second; then lowered her eyes. - -"Vincent," she said slowly, "you don't know what you ask. And I have -wished that you would understand, without my having to speak. I have -wished that you would understand--and go away--and make our friendship a -memory, something to think over in after years. For how can I tell you -clearly without seeming cruel and ungrateful to one who has through my -whole life been kindness and goodness to me?--no!--no!" - -She withdrew her hand; she turned away from him altogether. - -"Maisrie," said he, "I don't want you to say anything, except that you -love me, and will be my wife." - -"Your wife, Vincent--your wife!" she exclaimed, in a piteous sort of -way. "How can you ask any one to be your wife who has led the life that -I have led? Can you not guess--Vincent--without my having to speak?" - -He was astounded--but not alarmed: never had his faith in her flinched -for a single instant. - -"The life you have led?" said he, rather breathlessly; "Why--a--a -beautiful life--an idyllic life--constant travel--and always treated -with such kindness and care and affection--an ideal life--why, who would -not envy you?" - -She was sobbing--with her head averted. - -"Don't, Vincent, don't! I cannot--I will not--tell you," she said, in a -kind of despair. "What is the use? But it is you who have made me -think--it is you who have shown me clearly what I have been. I--I was -young--I was only a child; my grandfather was everything to me; whatever -he did was right. And now I have become a woman since I knew you--I can -see myself--and I know that never, never can I be your wife." - -"Maisrie!" - -But she paid no heed. She was strangely excited. She rose to her feet: -and for a moment he thought he saw a look of her grandfather in her -face. - -"And yet even in my degradation--my degradation," she said, repeating -the words with cruel emphasis, "I have some pride. I know what your -friends think of me: or I can guess. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps -the stories you spoke of were all to be believed. That is neither here -nor there now. But, at least, they need not be afraid that I am coming -to them as a suppliant. I will not bring shame upon them; they have -nothing to fear from me." - -He regarded her with astonishment, and with something of reproach also: -these proud tones did not sound like Maisrie's voice. And all of a -sudden she changed. - -"Why, Vincent, why," she said, "should you put yourself in opposition to -your friends? Why give up all the splendid future that is before you? -Why disappoint all the hopes that have been formed of you----?" - -"If need were, for the sake of your love, Maisrie," he said. - -"My love?" she said. "But you have that, Vincent--and--and you shall -have that always!" - -And here she burst into a passionate fit of weeping; and in vain he -tried to soothe her. Nay, she would not have him speak. - -"Let this be the last," she said, through her bitter sobs. "Only--only, -Vincent, don't go away with any doubt about that in your mind. I love -you!--I shall love you always!--I will give my life to thinking of -you--when you are far too occupied--ever to think of me. Will you -believe me, Vincent!--Will you believe, always, that I loved you--that I -loved you too well to do what you ask--to become a drag on you--and a -shame." The tears were running down her cheeks; but she kept her eyes -fixed bravely and piteously on him, as she uttered her wild, incoherent -sentences. "My dearest--my dearest in all the world--will you -remember--will you believe that always? Will you say to yourself, -'Wherever Maisrie is at this moment, she loves me--she is thinking of -me.' Promise me, Vincent, that you will never doubt that! No--you need -not put it into words: your heart tells you that it is true. And now, -Vincent, kiss me!--kiss me, Vincent!--and then good-bye!" - -She held up her face. He kissed her lips, that were salt with the -sea-foam. The tangles of her wind-blown hair touched his cheek--and -thrilled him. - -He did not speak for a moment. He was over-awed. This pure confession -of a maiden soul had something sacred about it: how could he reply with -commonplace phrases about his friends and the future? And yet, here was -Maisrie on the point of departure; she only waited for a word of -good-bye; and her eyes, that were now filled with a strange sadness and -hopelessness, no longer regarded him. The farewell had been spoken--on -her side. - -"And you think I will let you go, after what you have just confessed?" -he said to her--and his calm and restrained demeanour was a sort of -answer to her trembling vehemence and her despair. "You give me the -proudest possession a man may have on this earth: and I am to stand idly -by, and let it be taken away from me. Is that a likely thing?" - -He took her hand, and put her back into the sheltered corner. - -"Sit down there, Maisrie, out of the wind. I want to talk to you. I -was a fool when I mentioned those stories the other day: I could have -cut my tongue out the next moment. And indeed I thought you took no -notice. Why should you take any notice? Insensate trash! And who -escapes such things?--and who is so childish as to heed them? Then -again I remember your saying that I knew nothing about your grandfather -or yourself. Do you think that is so? Do you think I have been all this -time constantly in your society--watching you--studying you--yes, and -studying you with the anxiety that goes with love--for, of course, you -want the one you love to be perfect--do you imagine, after all this that -I do not know you and understand you? Degradation!--very well, I accept -that degradation: I welcome all the degradation that is likely to be -associated with you. If I were to wash my hands in that sort of -degradation, I think they would come out a little whiter! I know you to -be as pure and noble as the purest and noblest woman alive; and what do -I care about your--your circumstances?" - -"Don't, Vincent!--don't be kind to me, Vincent!" she said, piteously. -"It will be all the harder to think of when--when we are separated--and -far away from each other." - -"Yes, but we are not going to separate," said he briefly. "Your -grandfather has left you to decide for yourself; and surely after what -you have said to me this morning, surely I have the right to decide for -you. I tell you, we are not going to separate, Maisrie--except for a -few days. When I am up in London I mean to look round and see what -dispositions can be made with regard to the future. Oh, I assure you I -am going to be very prudent and circumspect; and I am ready to turn my -hand to anything. Then, in another direction, Maisrie, you might give -me a hint," he went on, with much cheerfulness, but watching her to see -how she would take it. "What part of London do you think you would like -best to live in? If we could get a small house with a garden up -somewhere about Campden Hill--that would be pleasant; and of course -there must be a library for your grandfather, for we should want the -privacy of the morning-room for ourselves." - -She shook her head. - -"Dreams, Vincent, dreams!" she murmured. - -"But sometimes dreams come true," said he, for he was not to be daunted. -"And you will see how much dream-work there will be about it when I get -things put into trim in London. Now I'm not going to keep you here any -longer, Maisrie; for I fancy there is some rain coming across; and you -mustn't be caught. I will go in and say good-bye to your grandfather, -if I may; and the next you will hear of me will be when I send you some -news from town. In the meantime, hearts up, Maisrie!--surely the -granddaughter of your grandfather should show courage!" - -When, that afternoon, Vincent arrived in London, he did not go to his -temporary lodgings (what charm had the slummy little street in Mayfair -for him now?) but to Grosvenor Place, where he shut himself up in his -own room, and managed to get on somehow with that detested lecture. And -next day he went down to Mendover: and next evening he made his -appearance before the Mendover Liberal Association; and there were the -customary votes of thanks to wind up the proceedings. There was nothing -in all this worthy of note: what was of importance happened after, when -the President of the Association, who had occupied the chair in the -absence of Lord Musselburgh, accompanied Vincent home to the Red Lion. -This Mr. Simmons was a solicitor, and a great political power in -Mendover; so, when he hinted that the Red Lion had a certain bin of port -that was famous all over the county--and, indeed, was powerful enough to -draw many a hunt-dinner to this hostelry by its own influence alone--be -sure that Master Vin was not long in having a decanter of the wine -placed on the table of the private parlour he had engaged. Mr. Simmons, -who was a sharp, shrewd-looking little man, with a pale face and -intensely black hair and short-cropped whiskers, suggested a cigar, and -took the largest he could find in his host's case. Then he proceeded to -make himself important and happy--with his toes on the fender, and his -shoulders softly cushioned in an easy chair. - -"Yes," said he, complacently, when the cigar was going well, "I think I -can predict some good fortune for you, and that without having my hand -crossed with a shilling. I hope I am breaking no confidence; we lawyers -are supposed to be as mum as a priest after confessional; but of course -what is said between gentlemen will go no further than the four walls of -this room." - -"I think you may trust me for that," Vincent said. - -"Very well, then," continued Mr. Simmons, with an air of bland -consequence. "I will say this at least--that in January you may fairly -expect to be offered a very pretty New Year's present." - -"Oh, really," said Vincent, without being much impressed: he fancied the -Liberal Association were perhaps going to pass a vote of -thanks--possibly inscribed on vellum--with the names of all the -officials writ large. - -"A very pretty present: the representation of Mendover." - -But at this he pricked up his ears; and Mr. Simmons smiled. - -"Mr. Richard Gosford is my client, as I think you know," the -black-a-viced little lawyer went on, "but what I am telling you does not -come direct from him to me. I need not particularise my sources of -information. But from what I can gather I am almost certain that he -means to resign at the end of the year--he did talk of waiting for the -next General Election, as Lord Musselburgh may have told you; but his -imaginary troubles have grown on him; and as far as I can see there will -be nothing for you but to slip easily and quietly into his shoes next -January. A very pretty New Year's present!" - -"But of course there will be a contest!" Vincent exclaimed. - -"Not a bit," Mr. Simmons made answer, regarding the blue curls of smoke -from the cigar. "The snuggest little seat in England. Everybody knows -you are Lord Musselburgh's nominee; and Lord Musselburgh has promised to -do everything for our public park that Mr. Gosford ought to have done -when he presented the ground. See? No bribery on your part. Simple as -daylight. We'll run you in as if you were an infant on a wheelbarrow." - -"It's very kind of you, I'm sure," said Vincent. "Is there anything you -would recommend me to do----?" - -"Yes; I would recommend you to go and call on old Gosford to-morrow, -before you leave for town." - -"Wouldn't that look rather like undue haste in seizing a dead man's -effects?" Vincent ventured to ask. - -"A dead man?" said Mr. Simmons, helping himself to another glass of -port. "He is neither dead nor dying, any more than you or I. And -that's what you've got to remember to-morrow, when you go to see him. -For goodness' sake, don't tell him he's looking well--as you've got to -say to most invalids. Tell him he's looking very poorly. Be seriously -concerned. Then he'll be off to bed again--and delighted. For what he -suffers from is simply incurable laziness--and nervous timidity; and so -long as he can hide himself under the blankets, and read books, he's -happy." - -"But what excuse am I to make for calling on him?" Vincent asked again. - -"Oh," said Mr. Simmons, carelessly, "one public character visiting -another. You were here delivering a lecture; and of course you called -on the sitting member. You won't want any excuse if you will tell him -he should take extraordinary care of himself in this changeable -weather." - -"And should I say anything about the seat?" Vincent asked further. - -"I must leave that to your own discretion. Rather ticklish. Perhaps -better say nothing--unless he introduces the subject: then you can talk -about the overcrowding of the House, and the late hours, and the nervous -wear and tear of London. But you needn't suggest to him, in set terms, -that as he is retiring from business he might as well leave you the -goodwill: perhaps that would be a little too outspoken." - -As luck would have it, a day or two after Vin's return to town, Mr. -Ogden came to dine at Grosvenor Place. It was a man's dinner--a dinner -of political extremists and faddists; but so far from Master Vincent -retiring to his own room and his books, as he sometimes did, he joined -the party, and even stipulated for a place next the great electioneerer -and wire-puller of the North. Further than that, he made himself most -agreeable to Mr. Ogden: was most meek and humble and good-humoured (for -to what deeps of hypocrisy will not a young man descend when he is madly -in love?), and seemed to swallow wholesale the long-resounding list of -Reforms--Reforms Administrative, Reforms Electoral, Reforms Fiscal, -Reforms Social and Political. For all the while he was saying within -himself: 'My dear sir, perhaps what you say is quite true: and we're all -going headlong to the devil--with the caucus for drag. And I could wish -you to have a few more A's: still, many excellent men have lived and -died without them. The main point is this--if one might dare to ask--Is -your Private Secretaryship still open; and, if so, what salary would you -propose to give?' But, of course, he could not quite ask those -questions at his own father's dinner-table; besides, he was in no hurry; -he wanted a few more days to look round. - -The guests of this evening did not go up to the drawing-room; they -remained in the dining-room, smoking, until it was time for them to -leave: then Harland Harris and his son found themselves alone together. -Now the relations between father and son had been very considerably -strained since the morning on which the former had brought his -allegations against old George Bethune and his granddaughter; but on -this occasion Vincent was in a particularly amiable and generous mood. -He was pleased with himself for having paid court to Mr. Ogden; he -looked forward with some natural gratification to this early chance of -getting into Parliament; and, again, what was the use of attaching any -importance to those preposterous charges? So he lit another cigarette; -stretched out his legs before the fire; and told his father--but with -certain reservations, for on one or two points he was pledged to -silence--what had happened down at Mendover. - -"I am heartily glad to hear it," said the communist-capitalist, with a -certain cold severity of tone. "I am glad to hear that you begin to -realise what are the serious interests of life. You are a very -fortunate young man. If you are returned for Mendover, it will be by a -concurrence of circumstances such as could not easily have been -anticipated. At the same time I think it might be judicious if you went -down again and hinted to Mr.----what did you say?--Simmons?--Mr. Simmons -that in the event of everything turning out well, there would be no need -to wait for Lord Musselburgh's contribution towards the completion of -the public park. What Lord Musselburgh is going to gain by that passes -my comprehension. I can hardly suppose that he made such a promise in -order to secure your election: that, indeed, would be a wild freak of -generosity--so wild as to be incredible. However," continued Mr. -Harris, in his pedantic and sententious manner, "it is unnecessary to -seek for motives. We do not need to be indebted to him. I consider -that it is of the greatest importance that you should enter Parliament -at an early age; and I am willing to pay. Mendover ought to be a secure -seat, if it is kept warm. Promise them what you like--I will see to the -rest. There are other things besides a park, if they prefer to keep Lord -Musselburgh to his promise: a free library, for example--if they have -one already, another one: a clubhouse for the football club--a pavilion -for the cricketers--a refreshment tent for the tennis ground--a band to -play on the summer evenings--a number of things of that kind that you -could discover from your friend the solicitor." - -Vincent could have laughed, had he dared. Here he was invited to play -the part of a great local magnate, plutocrat, and benefactor; and it was -less than half-an-hour ago that he had been anxiously wondering whether -L200 a year, or L250 a year, would be the probable salary of Mr. Ogden's -private secretary. Harland Harris went on: - -"It is so rarely that such an opportunity occurs--in England at -least--that one must not be niggardly in welcoming it. Simmons--did you -say Simmons? is clearly of importance: if you make him your agent in -these negotiations, that will be enough for him--he will look after -himself. And he will keep you safe: the elected member may steal a -horse, whereas as a candidate he daren't look over the hedge. And once -you are embarked on a career of public usefulness----" - -"Bribery, do you mean?" said Vincent, meekly. - -"I refer to the House of Commons: once you have your career open to you, -you will be able to show whether the training you have undergone has -been the right one, or whether the ordinary scholastic routine--mixed up -with monkish traditions--would have been preferable. At all events you -have seen the world. You have seen men, and their interests, and -occupations: not a parcel of grown-up schoolboys playing games." And -therewithal he bade his son good-night. - -A day or two passed: Vincent was still making discreet inquiries as to -how a young man, with some little knowledge of the world, and a trifle -of capital at his back, but with no specific professional training, -could best set to work to earn a moderate income for himself; and also -he was sounding one or two editors for whom he had done some occasional -work as to whether employment of a more permanent kind might be -procurable. Moreover, he had ordered the little brooch for Maisrie--a -tiny white dove this was, in mother-of-pearl, on a transverse narrow -band of rubies; and besides that he had picked up a few things with -which to make her room a little prettier, when she should return to -town. Some of the latter, indeed, which were fit for immediate -installation, he had already sent home; and one afternoon he thought he -might as well go up and see what Mrs. Hobson had done with them. - -It was the landlady's husband who opened the door; and even as he -ushered the young man up to the parlour, he had begun his story, which -was so confused and disconnected and inclined to tears that Vincent -instantly suspected gin. - -"Lor bless ye, sir, we ev bin in such a sad quandary, to be sure, and -right glad I am to see you, sir, with them things a comin ome, and you -was so particular about not a word to be said, and there was the missis, -a angin of em up, and the beautiful counterpane, all spread out so neat -and tidy, 'why,' says she, 'the Queen on the throne she aint got nothin -more splendid, which he is the most generous young genelman, and jest as -good as he's ansome'--beggin' your pardon, sir, for women will talk, and -then in the middle of it hall, here comes the old genelman as we were -not expecting of im, sir--ah, sir, a great man, a wonderful man, sir, in -sorrowful sikkumstances--and the young lady, too, and hall to be settled -up reglar--oh, heverythink, sir--like a genelman----" - -"What the mischief are you talking about?" said Vincent, in his -bewilderment. "Do you mean to say that Mr. Bethune and Miss Bethune -have been in London?" - -"Yesterday, sir, yesterday, more's the pity, sir, to give up their rooms -for good and hall, for never again shall we 'ev sich lodgers in this -poor ouse. A honour, sir, as was least knowed when it was most -appreciated, as one might say, sir, a man like that, sir, a great man, -sir, though awaitin his time, like many others, and oldin is ead igh -against fate and fortune whatever the world might say. And the young -lady--beautiful she was, as you know, sir--as you know, sir--and as good -as gold--well, never again--in this poor ouse----" - -"Look here," said Vincent, impatiently--for this rigmarole threatened at -any moment to dissolve in maudlin weeping, "will you answer me one -question: am I to understand that Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter are -not coming back here?" - -"Indeed, no, sir, more's the pity, sir, it was a honour to this pore -ouse, and heverythink paid up like a genelman, though many's the time I -was sayin to the missis as she needn't be so ard----" - -"Where have they gone, then?" the younger man demanded, peremptorily. - -"Lor bless ye, sir, it took me all of a suddent--they didn't say nothin -about that, sir--and I was that upset, sir----" - -Vincent glanced at his watch: five minutes past four was the time. - -"Oh, I see," he said, with a fine carelessness (for there were wild and -alarming suspicions darting through his brain). "They're going to -remain in Brighton, I dare say. Well, good-bye, Hobson! About those -bits of things I sent up--you keep them for yourself--tell Mrs. Hobson I -make her a present of them--you needn't say anything about them to -anybody." - -He left the house. He quickly crossed the street, and went up to his -own rooms: the table there was a blank--he had almost expected as much. -Then he went out again, hailed a hansom, drove down to Victoria-station, -and caught the four-thirty train to Brighton. When he reached the -lodging-house in German Place, he hardly dared knock: he seemed to know -already what was meant by this hurried and stealthy departure. His -worst fears were immediately confirmed. Mr. Bethune--Miss Bethune--had -left the previous morning. And did no one know whither they had gone? -No one. And there was no message--no letter--for any one who might -call? There was no message--no letter. - -The young man turned away. It was raining: he did not seem to care. -Out there in the dark was the solitary light at the end of the pier: -why, how many days had gone by since she had said to him, with tears -running down her cheeks--'Vincent, I love you!--I love you!--you are my -dearest in all the world!--remember that always!' And what was this -that she had done?--for that it was of her doing; he had no manner of -doubt. Enough: his heart, that had many a time been moved to pity by -her solitariness, her friendlessness, had no more pity now. Pride rose -in its place--pride, and reproach, and scorn. There was but the one -indignant cry ringing in his ears--"False love--false love--and -traitress!" - - - - - END OF VOL. II. - - - - - LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, - STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. - - - - - - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON! -(VOLUME II) *** - - - - -A Word from Project Gutenberg - - -We will update this book if we find any errors. - -This book can be found under: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42730 - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one -owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and -you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission -and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the -General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and -distributing Project Gutenberg(tm) electronic works to protect the -Project Gutenberg(tm) concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a -registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, -unless you receive specific permission. 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