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- float: left; - margin-right: 1em } - -.align-right { clear: right; - float: right; - margin-left: 1em } - -.align-center { margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto } - -div.shrinkwrap { display: table; } - -/* SECTIONS */ - -body { margin: 5% 10% 5% 10% } - -/* compact list items containing just one p */ -li p.pfirst { margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0 } - -.first { margin-top: 0 !important; - text-indent: 0 !important } -.last { margin-bottom: 0 !important } - -span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 1 } -img.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.5em 0 0; max-width: 25% } -span.dropspan { font-variant: small-caps } - -.no-page-break { page-break-before: avoid !important } - -/* PAGINATION */ - -.pageno { position: absolute; right: 95%; font: medium sans-serif; text-indent: 0 } -.pageno:after { color: gray; content: '[' attr(title) ']' } -.lineno { position: absolute; left: 95%; font: medium sans-serif; text-indent: 0 } -.lineno:after { color: gray; content: '[' attr(title) ']' } -.toc-pageref { float: right } - -@media screen { - .coverpage, .frontispiece, .titlepage, .verso, .dedication, .plainpage - { margin: 10% 0; } - - div.clearpage, div.cleardoublepage - { margin: 10% 0; border: none; border-top: 1px solid gray; } - - .vfill { margin: 5% 10% } -} - -@media print { - div.clearpage { page-break-before: always; padding-top: 10% } - div.cleardoublepage { page-break-before: right; padding-top: 10% } - - .vfill { margin-top: 20% } - h2.title { margin-top: 20% } -} - -/* DIV */ -pre { font-family: monospace; font-size: 0.9em; white-space: pre-wrap } - -</style> -<title>STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON! (VOLUME II)</title> -<meta name="PG.Rights" content="Public Domain" /> -<meta name="PG.Title" content="Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume II)" /> -<meta name="PG.Producer" content="Al Haines" /> -<link rel="coverpage" href="images/img-cover.jpg" /> -<meta name="DC.Creator" content="William Black" /> -<meta name="DC.Created" content="1891" /> -<meta name="PG.Id" content="42730" /> -<meta name="PG.Released" content="2013-05-17" /> -<meta name="DC.Language" content="en" /> -<meta name="DC.Title" content="Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume II)" /> - -<link href="http://purl.org/dc/terms/" rel="schema.DCTERMS" /> -<link href="http://id.loc.gov/vocabulary/relators" rel="schema.MARCREL" /> -<meta content="Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume II)" name="DCTERMS.title" /> -<meta content="craig2.rst" name="DCTERMS.source" /> -<meta content="en" scheme="DCTERMS.RFC4646" name="DCTERMS.language" /> -<meta content="2013-05-18T03:07:37.313045+00:00" scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" name="DCTERMS.modified" /> -<meta content="Project Gutenberg" name="DCTERMS.publisher" /> -<meta content="Public Domain in the USA." name="DCTERMS.rights" /> -<link href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42730" rel="DCTERMS.isFormatOf" /> -<meta content="William Black" name="DCTERMS.creator" /> -<meta content="2013-05-17" scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" name="DCTERMS.created" /> -<meta content="width=device-width" name="viewport" /> -<meta content="EpubMaker 0.3.20a7 by Marcello Perathoner <webmaster@gutenberg.org>" name="generator" /> -</head> -<body> -<div class="document" id="stand-fast-craig-royston-volume-ii"> -<h1 class="center document-title level-1 pfirst title"><span class="x-large">STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON! (VOLUME II)</span></h1> - -<!-- this is the default PG-RST stylesheet --> -<!-- figure and image styles for non-image formats --> -<!-- default transition --> -<!-- default attribution --> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="clearpage"> -</div> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="align-None container language-en pgheader" id="pg-header" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>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 </span><a class="reference internal" href="#project-gutenberg-license">Project Gutenberg License</a><span> -included with this eBook or online at -</span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/license">http://www.gutenberg.org/license</a><span>.</span></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<div class="align-None container" id="pg-machine-header"> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>Title: Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume II) -<br /> -<br />Author: William Black -<br /> -<br />Release Date: May 17, 2013 [EBook #42730] -<br /> -<br />Language: English -<br /> -<br />Character set encoding: UTF-8</span></p> -</div> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-start-line"><span>*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON! (VOLUME II)</span><span> ***</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-produced-by"><span>Produced by Al Haines.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span></span></p> -</div> -<div class="align-None container titlepage"> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="x-large">STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON!</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="large">A Novel</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">BY</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="large">WILLIAM BLACK,</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="small">AUTHOR OF -<br />"A DAUGHTER OF HETH," "MACLEOD OF DARE," ETC.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><em class="italics medium">IN THREE VOLUMES.</em><span class="medium"> -<br />VOL. II.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">LONDON: -<br />SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON, LIMITED -<br />St. Dunstan's House -<br />FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C. -<br />1891.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="small">[</span><em class="italics small">All rights reserved.</em><span class="small">]</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<div class="align-None container verso"> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="small">LONDON: -<br />PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, -<br />STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">CONTENTS OF VOL. II.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span class="small">CHAPTER</span></p> -<ol class="upperroman simple"> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#doubts-and-dreams">Doubts and Dreams</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#by-northern-seas">By Northern Seas</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#holy-palmer-s-kiss">"Holy Palmer's Kiss"</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#interposition">Interposition</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#the-gnawing-fox">The Gnawing Fox</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#put-to-the-proof">Put to the Proof</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#renewing-is-of-love">Renewing is of Love</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#on-the-brink">On the Brink</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#and-hast-thou-played-me-this">"And hast thou played me this!"</a></p> -</li> -</ol> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="doubts-and-dreams"><span class="x-large">STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">CHAPTER I.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">DOUBTS AND DREAMS.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are early," she said, with a little smile of -welcome, as she stopped in her sewing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked up quickly, and with a certain -apprehension in her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes, I knew. My grandfather told me -there had been talk of such a thing. What have -you heard?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stared at her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You knew?" said he. "Then surely you might have told me!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was clear that she was wholly in ignorance of -the true state of the case.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maisrie, what is the matter!" he exclaimed in -astonishment, for he found that tears had sprung to -her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But Maisrie——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a second she regarded him with a swift -glance of more than gratitude; but it was only to -shake her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">Chronicle</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head again and sighed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Maisrie glanced timidly at her grandfather; but -there was nothing to fear on his account; he was -not one to quail.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, grandfather," said Maisrie, "you were to -have written the book!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'There's mair than you, my bonnie bird,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Hae crossed the raging main,</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>Wha mourn the blythe, the happy days,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>They'll never see again.</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>Sweet bird, come sing a sang to me,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Unmindfu' o' our ills;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>And let us think we're ance again</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>'Mang our ain heather hills!'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Blackwood</em><span> will -have a friendly word for it; and I am sure -Mr. Carmichael will allow me to give it a hearty -greeting in the </span><em class="italics">Weekly Chronicle</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, grandfather," said Maisrie, almost piteously, -"surely you forget that you undertook to bring out -this book yourself!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The old man could no longer shelter himself -behind his gay and discursive optimism; he frowned -impatiently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Maisrie's lips quivered; and her grandfather saw -it. Instantly he changed his tone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come, come," said he, with a cheerful good -nature. "Enough, enough. I can quite -comprehend how the </span><em class="italics">res angusta domi</em><span> 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes," said the younger man, gloomily; -that quiver of Maisrie's lips was still in his mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maisrie is well?" Vincent asked, in sudden -alarm, for it was the rarest thing in the world to -find grandfather and granddaughter separated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He hesitated, casting about for a beginning; then -he pulled himself together, and boldly flung himself -into it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was silent now and abstracted: as he walked -on he saw nothing of what was around him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed aloud in his pride.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wait a bit!—where are you going?" old -George Bethune said to her, in blunt and ready fashion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The woman turned round startled and afraid.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am making for home, sir," she said, timidly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where's that?" he demanded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Out Watford way, sir—Abbot's Langley it is."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where have you come from?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"From Leatherhead, sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"On foot all the way?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, indeed, sir," she said, with a bit of a sigh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And with very little food, I warrant?" said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Little indeed, sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you any money?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There went my luncheon; for I promised -Maisrie I should not return home till near dinner-time."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you have left yourself without a farthing?" -the young man exclaimed. "Well, that's all -right—I can lend you a few sovereigns."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">La Claire -Fontaine</em><span>.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="by-northern-seas"><span class="large">CHAPTER II.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">BY NORTHERN SEAS.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a footfall behind her: Lord Musselburgh -made his appearance, smoking a cigarette.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why," said she, with a prettily affected -surprise, "haven't you gone to church? I made sure -you had walked on."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How could I leave you all by yourself," said -the young man, with tender sympathy, "and you -suffering from a headache?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then she professed to be vexed and impatient.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think anything," said he, discreetly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You will be saying next that it was to have -this meeting with you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, who could dare to imagine such a thing!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">La Claire Fontaine</em><span>? Oh, yes, I -remember </span><em class="italics">La Claire Fontaine</em><span>—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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, </span><em class="italics">you</em><span>!" she exclaimed, in derision. "You! -You needn't pretend to come into that exalted -category—no, indeed——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Probably not," said he, sharply. "If all -tales be true you have acquired some experience -yourself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you read Vin's article in the </span><em class="italics">Imperial -Review</em><span>?" said Mrs. Ellison, flicking at a thistle -with her sun-shade.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not yet. But I saw it announced. About -American State Legislatures, isn't it, or something -of that kind?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">Times</em><span>; 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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 £50——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 £50. 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 £50, 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sir George?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 -</span><em class="italics">Edinburgh Chronicle</em><span>: 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And yet you call yourself Vin's friend! Come, -tell me!" she said, coaxingly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Again he refused.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shook his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—not fair," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then she stopped, and faced him, and regarded -him with arch eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That was different," said he, with some hesitation. -"I meant as regards myself. This concerns -some one else."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, very well," said she, and she walked on -proudly. "I dare say I can find out."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He touched her arm to detain her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you a note-book?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She took from her pocket a combined purse and -note-book; and without a word—or a smile—she -pulled out the pencil.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Hugh Anstruther, </span><em class="italics">Western Scotsman</em><span> Office, -New York,'" said he, rather shamefacedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Little Ganovan, I believe."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the other one we passed?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Port Bân."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is the legend attached to the robber's cave -up there in the rocks?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The legend? Oh, some one told me the -gardener keeps his tools in that cave."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose because they know we want the place -to ourselves."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And why should we want the place to ourselves?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This was unexpected. He paused.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I should hope so!" the young widow -said, cheerfully. "Shall we go round by the rocks -or through the trees?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is it, then?" she demanded, as she -followed him stooping.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, it's going first through a wood, and -getting all the spider's-webs on his nose."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who was she?" his companion asked, timidly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am sorry—very sorry. But at least there was -one thing spared you: you did not marry out of -spite."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He glanced at her quickly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>'Whispering tongues can poison truth;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>And constancy lives in realms above;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>And life is thorny; and youth is vain;</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>And to be wroth with one we love</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>Doth work like madness in the brain.'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wonder what those who have gone to church -will say when they discover that we have spent all -the morning here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He hesitated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hope so," he said. "But you know things -wear such a different complexion according to the -way you look at them——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 -Bân; 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She took up a piece of pink seaweed, and began -pulling it to shreds. He was standing by, looking on.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I suppose so," she said, with affected -carelessness—her eyes still bent on the seaweed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you know," said he, again, "that I haven't -the least idea what your name is!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My name? Oh, my name is Madge," she answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Madge?" said he. "I wonder if you make the -capital M this way?" and therewith he traced on -the sand an ornamental </span><em class="italics">M</em><span> in the manner of the -last century.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, I don't," she said, "but it is very pretty. -How do you write the rest?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thus encouraged, he made bold to add the -remaining letters, and seemed rather to admire his -handiwork when it was done.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By the way," she said, "I don't know your -Christian name either!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hubert."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can you write that in the same fashion?" she -suggested, with a simple ingenuousness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He took her hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," she said, in a low voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Of course he was eager to promise anything.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes, men say so by way of excuse——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How many men have said so to you?" he -demanded, flaring up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, can there be any doubt of it!" she exclaimed. -"Isn't the story you have told me yourself enough?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lord Musselburgh looked rather uncomfortable; -he was a good-natured kind of person, and liked to -think the best of everybody.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I had no right to tell you that story," said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But now I have the right to know about that -and everything else, haven't I—Hubert?" said she, -with a pretty coyness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But what about the £50—Hubert?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She considered for a moment: then she said, with -some emphasis——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 -£50 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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, when Vin's eyes are opened?" her companion repeated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then he will see into what a terrible pit he was -nearly falling."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They were nearing the house: five minutes more -would bring them in sight of the open lawn.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"About what?" she asked, with a smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, a whole heap of things! For example, do -you want the Somervilles to know?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't particularly want them to know," she -answered him, "but I fear they will soon find out."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I should like you to tell Mrs. Somerville, anyway."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very well."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Indeed, I don't care if all the people in the -house knew!" said he, boldly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Really!" said he, with considerable coolness. -"For I have been thinking that those names we -printed on the sands——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That you printed, you mean!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"——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 Bân this afternoon; -and if they were to catch sight of those -hieroglyphics——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Won't you come with me, Madge, after luncheon?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, we can't be haunting those sands all day -like a couple of sea-gulls!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But I think you might come!" he pleaded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very well," said she, "I suppose I must begin -with obedience."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then a sudden thought seemed to strike her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 Bân in the afternoon."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="holy-palmer-s-kiss"><span class="large">CHAPTER III.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">"HOLY PALMER'S KISS."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>The ship rides by the Berwick Law,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>And I maun leave my bonnie Mary."</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, grandfather?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But why should I pretend to be Scotch, -grandfather, when I am not Scotch?" she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was not angry: he was amused.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"But it's not the roar o' sea or shore</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Wad mak' me langer wish to tarry,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar—</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was at this point that Maisrie began to listen, -rather breathlessly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">Chronicle</em><span>.' So you see you have only to -thank him for the intention—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">Chronicle</em><span>, 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</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'With scornful eye she looked downe,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Her cheek with laughter swellin''—</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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:</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>'O dinna ye mind, young man,' said she,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>'When the red wine ye were filling,</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>That ye made the healths gae round and round,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>And slighted Barbara Allan?'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>He turned his face unto the wa',</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>And death was with him dealing:</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>'Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a',</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Be kind to Barbara Allan!'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 -</span><em class="italics">Edinburgh Chronicle</em><span> was a busy man during his -brief visits to town.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">carte blanche</em><span> 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And again, as his visitors were leaving, he said -in the same good-humoured way—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am quite content to leave that with you: -quite," interposed the old man, with some little dignity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Maisrie was not disconcerted by this rebuke.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This afternoon we called on Mr. Carmichael," -said Maisrie, "Mr. Carmichael of the </span><em class="italics">Edinburgh -Chronicle</em><span>. 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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, but the intention is enough," said she (for -she knew nothing about his having paid Lord -Musselburgh the £50). "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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Maisrie, don't make a fuss about nothing!" -he protested.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Haven't you proved it every day, every hour -almost, since ever we have known you?" she said, -in rather a low voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And never before had he seen Maisrie so bravely -confident about any of her grandfather's literary -projects.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'But I hae dreamed a dreary dream,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Ayont the Isle o' Skye,—</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>I saw a deid man win a fight,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>And I think that man was I.'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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?—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>He has ta'en the table wi' his hand,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>He garred the red wine spring on hie—</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>'Now a curse upon my head,' he cried,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>'But avenged on Lord Scroop I'll be!</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>O is my basnet a widow's curch,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Or my arm a lady's lily hand,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>That an English lord should lichtly me?'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'O what'n a mountain's yon,' she said,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>'Sae dreary wi' frost and snow?'</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>'O yon is the mountain o' hell,' he cried,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>'Where you and I maun go!'"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'If I was to leave my husband dear,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>And my twa babes also,</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>O where is it you would tak' me to,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>If I with thee should go?'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>And aye when she turned her round about,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Aye taller he seemed for to be,</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>Until that the tops o' that gallant ship</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Nae taller were than he.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>He struck the topmast wi' his hand,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>The foremast wi' his knee;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>And he brak that gallant ship in twain,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>And sank her in the sea."</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"Will there be illustrations, sir?" asked Vincent -(in humble imitation of Maisrie). "And an </span><em class="italics">édition -de luxe</em><span>? 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is a far cry to the completion of such an -undertaking as that," said the old man, rather wistfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Maisrie would not have him lapse into any -despondent mood.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And we were not separated once, grandfather," -said she, cheerfully. "Not once all the time."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then it was Vincent who spoke.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't see why we should ever separate," -said he. "Friends are few enough in this world."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="interposition"><span class="large">CHAPTER IV.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">INTERPOSITION.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 "</span><em class="italics">The Unscrupulousness of Wealth</em><span>;" but the -longer he looked at the title, the more clearly did it -spell out "</span><em class="italics">Maisrie Bethune</em><span>." The sub-headings, -too, began to reveal hidden mysteries. Here was -one which on the face of it read "</span><em class="italics">Circumstances in -which the capitalist may become a tyrant in spite of -himself</em><span>." 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...</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">édition de -luxe</em><span>. 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—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>''Tis not the frost that freezes fell,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Nor blowing snaw's inclemencie;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>But my love's heart grown cauld to me.</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>When we came in by Glasgow town,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>We were a comely sight to see;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>My love was clad i' the black velvet,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>And I myself in cramoisie.'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'They row'd her in a pair o' sheets,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>And tow'd her owre the wa';</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>But on the point o' Gordon's spear</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>She gat a deadly fa'.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>And cherry were her cheeks,</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>And clear, clear was her yellow hair,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Whereon the red blood dreeps.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>Then wi' his spear he turned her owre;</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>O but her face was wan!</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>He said, "Ye are the first that e'er</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>I wish'd alive again."</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>He turned her owre and owre again,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>O but her skin was white!</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>"I might hae spared that bonnie face</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>To hae been some man's delight.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"Busk and boun, my merry men a',</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>For ill dooms I do guess;—</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>I cannot look on that bonnie face</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>As it lies on the grass,"'—</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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'——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"Ye couldna see her yellow hair,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Balloray, O Balloray,</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>For gowd and pearls that were sae rare,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>Ye couldna see her middle sma',</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Balloray, O Balloray,</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>Her gowden girdle was sae braw,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>Ye couldna see her lily feet,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Balloray, O Balloray,</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>Her gowden fringes were sae deep,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'Sair will they be, whae'er they be,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Balloray, O Balloray,</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>The hearts that live to weep for thee!'</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray!"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What have I done, Vincent?" she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, nothing," he made answer, avoiding her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have a right to know," she said, proudly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is nothing," said he. "I—I made a mistake; -that is all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But he did not go. On the contrary, after a second -or two of vacillation, he followed her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't want to vex you, Vincent," said she, in a -somewhat low voice. "Tell me what it is."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Last night?" she repeated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you know what you are saying, Vincent?" -she said, quite gently. "You—of all people in the -world—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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'——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She managed to release her hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You work? Not while I can!" he said, hotly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She went on without heeding him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Between you and me? Who?" he demanded, -with set lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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'——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She rose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She struggled backward to be free from him, and -said almost wildly—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, she seems very well!" Vincent said, -anxiously—for he knew not what all this might mean.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She glanced quickly from one to the other, as if -fearing some conspiracy between them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you, Vincent?" she asked, turning to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not meet her look.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And when do you go, Vincent?" she asked, with -downcast eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was very obedient. She went and got the -violin—though she was in no playing or singing mood.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What, then, grandfather?" she said when she was ready.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Whatever you please."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"Your hand is cauld as snaw, Annie,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Your cheek is wan and white;</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>What gars ye tremble sae, Annie,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>What maks your e'e sae bright?</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>The snaw is on the ground, Willie,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>The frost is cauld and keen,</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>But there's a burnin' fire, Willie,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>That sears my heart within.</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>* * * * *</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>Oh, will ye tryst wi' me, Annie,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Oh, will ye tryst me then?</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>I'll meet ye by the burn, Annie,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>That wimples down the glen.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>I daurna tryst wi' you, Willie,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>I daurna tryst ye here,</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>But we'll hold our tryst in heaven, Willie,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>In the springtime o' the year."</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"That is too sad, Maisrie," her grandfather said, -fretfully. "Why don't you sing something?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned to Vincent: there was a mute question -in her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Will you sing the </span><em class="italics">Claire Fontaine</em><span>, Maisrie?" -said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">Sur la plus haute tranche—</em></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>this was the point at which she began—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">Le rossignol chantait;</em></div> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">Chante, rossignol, chante,</em></div> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">Toi qui as le coeur gai—</em></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>And so far all was well; but at the refrain</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,</em></div> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">Jamais je ne t'oublierai</em></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Claire Fontaine</em><span>? But -still she held bravely on:</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">Chante, rossignol, chante,</em></div> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">Toi qui as le coeur gai;</em></div> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">Tu as le coeur à rire,</em></div> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">Moi je l' ai-t-à pleurer—</em></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was an instant of silence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-gnawing-fox"><span class="large">CHAPTER V.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">THE GNAWING FOX.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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)—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hobson!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The man looked up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, sir?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I want you for a moment."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come in and have a smoke, Hobson," the young -man said. "You must be lonely over there now. -Makes a difference, doesn't it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Whichever you please," said Hobson, complacently, -"being so kind as to think of it, sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you know how long they are to be away?" -Vincent asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, sir, the old gentleman, sir, he says -perhaps two weeks and perhaps three."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I see you've put up a notice that the rooms are -to be let."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, sir; but that ain't much use, not for so -short a time, sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And here another sudden fancy struck the young man.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But I know how you can get them let," said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How, sir?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can let them to me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Law, sir!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How kind, sir—how thoughtful!" Hobson said, -in a pathetic way. "That it is to have good, kind -friends!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And as the rooms are now mine, I suppose I -might go over and look at them—if you will finish -up your tumbler?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Would you like to see the rooms upstairs, sir?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The young man hesitated for a second.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, very well."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Hobson led the way up to the next landing; -and there the first door he came to he flung wide -open.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The young lady's room, sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Vincent did not accept the implied invitation. -He hung shamefacedly back.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes, that's all right," said he. "I—I only -wished to—to have it kept for her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Here he ventured in half a step or so, and rather -timidly looked round.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He ventured a few inches further, and again -looked round.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, sir. Very kind of you, sir, indeed," said -Hobson, who seemed a little confused. "And what -did you want me to do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very sensible of you, Vin. You know I can -always make room for you, no matter who is in the -house."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vincent Harris," said she, and she turned round -and faced him, "what do you want?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is a very simple matter, aunt."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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-à-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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is going on, as you call it, aunt; and is likely -to go on—so long as I live."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was rather taken aback—for a moment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His face grew very pale.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'If she has any refinement of feeling—if she has -any delicacy,'" he repeated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he rose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is useless to say anything further, aunt; -there is an end this time."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Except in this one direction!" he repeated, scornfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why cannot we remain friends," she said, with -appealing eyes, "good and true friends—and agree -to leave this one subject alone?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are not very kind, Vin," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How do you know that she is to be your wife, -Vin?" she said, rather sadly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know," he made answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 fiancé 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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">should</em><span> like to speak to them—for a moment."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lord Musselburgh did not seem inclined to interfere.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But she refrained; for at this moment one of -the girls began to play a few bars of </span><em class="italics">Funiculi-funicula</em><span> -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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's the matter?" said she. "Business or -billiards?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Neither," her fiancé made answer, "I only -wanted to give you a little holiday, for an hour or -two."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not longer, then," she said. "For I am going -out driving at three, and I shall expect you both."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lord Musselburgh came along the hall.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sorry to have kept you waiting, Vin——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's the matter?" said Musselburgh, regarding -him. "You look as if you had seen a ghost or -a creditor: what is it, man?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never mind—never mind—it is nothing," Vin -said, hastily. "I will see you later on. Will you -make my excuses—thanks!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">cafés</em><span>, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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. </span><em class="italics">Ach weh! mein -Liebchen war die Braut!</em></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At a quarter to eight, Lord Musselburgh was -shown into Mrs. Ellison's drawing-room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Haven't you seen anything of Vin?" she said, -with astonished eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—nor you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nothing at all—and now he won't have time to -dress for dinner."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She went to a little cabinet, and took from it -two letters.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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:—</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>"DEAR HARLAND,</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<dl class="docutils"> -<dt class="noindent"><span>"Yours affectionately,</span></dt> -<dd><p class="first last noindent pfirst"><span>"MADGE."</span></p> -</dd> -</dl> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="put-to-the-proof"><span class="large">CHAPTER VI.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">PUT TO THE PROOF.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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 Athenæum 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know that it concerns me much," said -Vincent, with composure.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He crossed the room and took down a volume -from one of the shelves.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mechanically and carelessly Vincent did as he -was bid.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, I don't see it there," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He paused; so Vincent was bound to answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Harland Harris was no fool; he instantly -divined wherein lay the secret of Vincent's real or -assumed indifference.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The young man grew somewhat pale.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Take care," said he, and he held up his hand as -if he would enjoin silence. "Words that are said -cannot be unsaid."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His father regarded him for a second, and then -he endeavoured to bring a little more friendliness -and consideration into his manner.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"These are strange doctrines for a socialist and a -communist," Vincent observed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent's lips curled: he did not put his disdain -into words.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Here Vincent laughed, in open scorn; but the -laugh was a forced one; and his eyes were lowering.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent leapt to his feet, his eyes aflame.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This was a kind of challenge; and the young -man accepted it. His eyes were fixed on his -adversary.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What, then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"An arrangement by which you gave those -people their dinner for nothing for months and -months!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And what then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned to the mantel-piece, and took from it -some papers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he rose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And is this the important business on which -you sent for me?" he asked, but quite civilly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So this was the end of the interview; and -Harland Harris shortly thereafter made off for -the Athenæum 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'There were twa sisters lived in a bower;</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Balloray, O Balloray;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>The youngest o' them, O she was a flower!</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>There came a squire frae out the west,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Balloray, O Balloray;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>He lo'ed them baith, but the youngest best,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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?'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span><em class="italics">Zu -Tafel sassen froh die Gäst' ... und wie ich nacht dem -Brautpaar schaut' ... O weh! mein Liebchen war -die Braut</em><span>. 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——?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 '</span><em class="italics">C'était une frégate, mon joli coeur de -rose</em><span>—perhaps she will sing that for him, or any other -of the Canadian songs, except the one. But -surely, surely, Maisrie will not sing '</span><em class="italics">La Claire -Fontaine</em><span>'?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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. </span><em class="italics">La Claire Fontaine</em><span>?—why not </span><em class="italics">La -Claire Fontaine</em><span>, 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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span><em class="italics">toi qui as -le coeur gai</em><span>!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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? </span><em class="italics">Je ne puis rien donner—qu' -mon coeur en mariage</em><span>: 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 </span><em class="italics">petit vin blanc</em><span> of gratitude.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vincent!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you not see us? Why should you avoid us?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The tone in which she spoke pierced his very -heart; but still—but still—there was that stranger -at the table yonder.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought you were otherwise engaged," said he. -"I did not wish to intrude."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are unkind."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Won't you come to our table, Vincent?" she -asked hesitatingly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where are you living, Maisrie?" said he, and -yet still with a certain stiffness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She gave him the number in German Place.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then we are neighbours, or something near -it," he said. "I am at the Bristol—the Bristol -Hotel."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, really," she made answer. "I thought you -had an aunt living in Brighton—the lady who came -to see us at Henley."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 -promène.' Perhaps the bucolic soul was penetrable -by fine melody? There would be whiskey-and-soda, -at any rate, and a blazing fire.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 £20, 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are going our way, Vincent?" Maisrie said, timidly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes," he made answer, as they set out together.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bid you notice how clear the moon was last -night?" she said, to break this embarrassing silence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I did," he said. "I was walking about -a good deal last night. The moonlight was -beautiful on the water."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, were you down in Brighton last night?" -she asked, rather anxiously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And now it was Maisrie's turn.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good-night, Vincent!" she said, with her eyes -seeking his in mute appeal.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good-night," said he; and he did not respond -to that look: so these two parted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">Claire Fontaine</em><span> would come -following and haunting him—</span><em class="italics">jai perdu ma maîtresse—sans -l' avoir mérité—pour un bouquet de roses—que -je lui refusai</em><span>—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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="renewing-is-of-love"><span class="large">CHAPTER VII.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">RENEWING IS OF LOVE.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A waiter brought him a note. He glanced at -the handwriting with startled eyes, then tore the -envelope open. This was what he read—</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>"MAISRIE."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>He called to the waiter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When did this come?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I found it lying on the hall table, sir—just this -minute, sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vincent, you were angry with me last night. Why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She retreated an inch, declining: she waited for -him to answer her question.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Here he paused: these stammering sentences were -so insufficient. And then all at once he said——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maisrie, who was that young man?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked surprised.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you mean Mr. Glover?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Glover?—oh, that is his name. But who is -he?—what is he?—how did you come to know him -so intimately?——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Perhaps she began to see a little.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At this she lowered her head a little.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I did not wish to go, Vincent. Grandfather -pressed me. I did not like to refuse."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She regarded him reproachfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vincent!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maisrie, why do you talk like that!" he -protested. "You know quite well that you will be my -wife—or no one."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you do not see for yourself that it is -impossible—if you do not understand, Vincent—then -some day I must tell you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She did not seem to share his joyous confidence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was for bidding him good-bye, but he -detained her: a wild wish had come into his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I only wanted one of the beads, Maisrie," said -he, with something of shamefacedness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Take it, Vincent—I have not many things to -give," she said, simply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then—then would you wear something if I -gave it to you?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes, if you would like that," she answered -at once.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, Vincent," she said, doubtingly, "if I were -to wear that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What would it mean? Is that what you ask? -Shall I tell you, Maisrie? It would mean a -betrothal!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shrank back.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—no," she said. "No—I could not wear that!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But you are coming, too, Vincent—a little way?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As far as ever you will allow me," said he. -"Till the end of life, if you like—and as I hope."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But that was looking too far ahead in the present -circumstances.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She blushed slightly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, Vincent; I think I shall remain at home."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"On a morning like this?—impossible! Why, -you must go out in the sunlight. Sunlight is rare -in December."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vincent," she said, "if I do go with grandfather -this morning, will you come down the town, and -join us?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I ask you to come, Vincent."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, very well, certainly," said he—not knowing -what dark design was in her mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vincent!" said Maisrie, in expostulation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he stopped.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aren't you coming with us? We are going -along to the Chain Pier, to get out of the crowd. -Won't you come?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now Maisrie had been walking between her -grandfather and young Glover; but the moment -that Vincent joined the little party, she fell -behind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Four abreast are too many," said she. "We -must go two and two; grandfather, will you lead -the way with Mr. Glover?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This is very kind of you, Maisrie."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And she replied, rather proudly—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wished to show you that I could distinguish -between old and new friends."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he grew humble.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wouldn't it be better, Vincent?" she said, simply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why?" she repeated, in an absent kind of way. -"Well, you know nothing about us, Vincent."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have been told a good deal of late, then!" he -said, in careless scorn.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What have you been told, Vincent?" she -demanded, in quite an altered tone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maisrie, you know that motto your grandfather -is so proud of: 'Stand Fast, Craig-Royston!' Have -you any idea where Craig-Royston is?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I? No, not at all," she said simply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have never been there?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vincent!" she said. "You know I have never -been in Scotland."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am sure I cannot say," she made answer. -"Grandfather could tell you; he is always -interested in such things."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And Balloray," he went on, "I could find no -mention of Balloray; but of course there must be -such a place?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked up suddenly, with some distress in -her face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The old gentleman seemed inclined to close with -this offer; but he glanced towards Maisrie for her -acquiescence first.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then the moment he was gone, she turned to -her companion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And yet he was not unfriendly towards the young man.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wouldn't you like to go to the theatre this -evening, Maisrie?" Vincent asked. "It is the -</span><em class="italics">Squires Daughter</em><span>. 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 £3000 damages that Sir Percival -Miles has had to pay her. Shall I go along and -see if I can get a box?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you say, grandfather?" the girl asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—</span><em class="italics">jam te premet nox, falulæque Manes, et domus -exilis Plutonia</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?'</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'Thy faith and troth thou sall na get,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>And our true love sall never twin,</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>Until ye tell what comes of women,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>I wot, who die in strong travailing?'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'Their beds are made in the heavens high,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee,</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>Weel set about wi' gillyflowers,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>I wot sweet company for to see.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'O cocks are crowing a merry midnight,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>I wot the wild-fowl are boding day;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>And I, ere now, will be missed away.'</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, sir, there he is," said she.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who?" George Bethune demanded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A man who has been asking for you, sir—and -said he would wait."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At the same moment there came out of the -gloom a rather shabby-looking person.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mr. George Bethune?" he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, that is my name," the old man answered, -impatiently: probably he suspected.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Something for you, sir," said the stranger, -handing a folded piece of paper—and therewith he left.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?'</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="on-the-brink"><span class="large">CHAPTER VIII.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">ON THE BRINK.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where?" said Vincent, quickly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In the Marine Parade. We followed you some -little way—if you had turned round you would -have seen us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What time?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, about one, I should think."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then—then you saw—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, we saw—" said the other.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes?—what?" said Vincent, rather breathlessly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, yes, it is," said Vincent, calmly. "For I -propose to marry Miss Bethune, and at once, if she -will consent."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lord Musselburgh looked up quickly, and his -face was grave enough now.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't mean that, Vin?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is precisely what I do mean," the young -man said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought—I had fancied—that certain things -had been found out," his friend stammered, and -then stopped; for it was a hazardous topic.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can tell myself what he would say now," -Vincent made answer; "the question is what he -would say then."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"After the marriage?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His companion across the little table hesitated for -a second or two.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You yourself, Musselburgh, in the interests of -the party!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am glad you can make a jest of the situation, -Vin——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And thereafter?" said Lord Musselburgh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why not ask someone who is in office?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I could not change my coat quite so quickly as that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He rose. But his friend also rose at the same -moment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no, Vin, you're not going to quarrel with -me. Come into the smoking-room, and we'll have -a cigarette."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">r</em><span>'s, as if to recall her -soft pronunciation:—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>Elle fit un' rencontre</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>De trente matelots,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>De trente matelots</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Sur le bord de l' île.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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. </span><em class="italics">Sursum corda</em><span>! -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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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. '</span><em class="italics">Tu, nisi ventis debes -ludibrium, cave</em><span>.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you going away to-morrow, Vincent?" said -Maisrie, regarding him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And after that you return to London?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'O enter then His gates with praise,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Approach with joy his courts unto;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>Praise, laud, and bless His name always,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>For it is seemly so to do.</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>For why? the Lord our God is good,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>His mercy is for ever sure;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>His truth at all times firmly stood,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>And shall from age to age endure.'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Here he paused, in something of anxious uncertainty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And again he paused. All this had been more or -less of plain sailing: now he was approaching a -much more delicate matter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was silence for a moment—an ominous silence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maisrie has said nothing?" George Bethune -asked again, in that curiously impassive fashion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Has expressed no wish?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—I have not spoken to her about this -immediate proposal."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Vincent was too impetuous to be easily -discouraged.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">were</em><span> -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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The old man's eyes were turned away now—fixed -on the slumbering coals in the grate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I had dreamed of other things," he said, almost -to himself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was on this same afternoon that Lord Musselburgh -carried along to his fair fiancée a report of -the interview he had had with Vincent in the -morning. The young widow was dreadfully alarmed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="and-hast-thou-played-me-this"><span class="large">CHAPTER IX.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">"AND HAST THOU PLAYED ME THIS!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The girl divined the situation in an instant; and -proved herself friendly. Without more ado she -turned the handle of a door near her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Won't you step in there, sir?—the gentleman -'as gone out."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, Maisrie," he said, "you don't mean you -are going out on such a morning—it is far too wild -and stormy!——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is of no consequence," she made answer, -simply. "I have something to say to you, Vincent, -before you go."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What does that matter?" she said: it was not -of a shower of rain that she was thinking.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I do not mind it," she made answer. "It will -be something to remember."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maisrie," said he, "do you know that I spoke -to your grandfather yesterday?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," she answered. "He told me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And what did he say?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">Edinburgh Chronicle</em><span>. -Poor grandfather!—and yet, who can help admiring -his spirit—the very gaiety of his nature—in spite -of all his misfortunes?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Maisrie—but—but what did he say about you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes?" said he. That Maisrie should have to -beg for consideration!</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her voice broke a little, and there were tears -gathering on her eyelashes: seeing which made -him instantly contrite. He caught her hand again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked at him for a second; then lowered -her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She withdrew her hand; she turned away from -him altogether.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maisrie," said he, "I don't want you to say -anything, except that you love me, and will be my wife."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was astounded—but not alarmed: never had -his faith in her flinched for a single instant.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was sobbing—with her head averted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maisrie!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If need were, for the sake of your love, Maisrie," -he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My love?" she said. "But you have that, -Vincent—and—and you shall have that always!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He took her hand, and put her back into the -sheltered corner.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dreams, Vincent, dreams!" she murmured.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think you may trust me for that," Vincent said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A very pretty present: the representation of Mendover."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But at this he pricked up his ears; and Mr. Simmons -smiled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But of course there will be a contest!" Vincent -exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's very kind of you, I'm sure," said Vincent. -"Is there anything you would recommend me to do——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes; I would recommend you to go and call -on old Gosford to-morrow, before you leave for town."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wouldn't that look rather like undue haste in -seizing a dead man's effects?" Vincent ventured to ask.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But what excuse am I to make for calling on -him?" Vincent asked again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And should I say anything about the seat?" -Vincent asked further.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 £200 a year, or £250 a year, -would be the probable salary of Mr. Ogden's private -secretary. Harland Harris went on:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bribery, do you mean?" said Vincent, meekly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where have they gone, then?" the younger -man demanded, peremptorily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent glanced at his watch: five minutes past -four was the time.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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!"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">END OF VOL. II.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="small">LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, -<br />STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 6em"> -</div> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="backmatter"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst" id="pg-end-line"><span>*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON! 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