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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 III)</title> -<meta name="PG.Rights" content="Public Domain" /> -<meta name="PG.Title" content="Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume III)" /> -<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="42731" /> -<meta name="PG.Released" content="2013-05-17" /> -<meta name="DC.Language" content="en" /> -<meta name="DC.Title" content="Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume III)" /> - -<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 III)" name="DCTERMS.title" /> -<meta content="craig3.rst" name="DCTERMS.source" /> -<meta content="en" scheme="DCTERMS.RFC4646" name="DCTERMS.language" /> -<meta content="2013-05-18T03:09:28.098505+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/42731" 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-iii"> -<h1 class="center document-title level-1 pfirst title"><span class="x-large">STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON! (VOLUME III)</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 III) -<br /> -<br />Author: William Black -<br /> -<br />Release Date: May 17, 2013 [EBook #42731] -<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 III)</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. III.</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. III.</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="#in-vainin-vain">In Vain—in Vain</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#beyond-seas">Beyond Seas</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#west-and-east">West and East</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#enlightenment">Enlightenment</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#marriage-not-a-la-mode">Marriage not a la Mode</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#a-split-at-last">A Split at Last</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#new-ways-of-life">New Ways of Life</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#in-a-northern-village">In a Northern Village</a></p> -</li> -<li><p class="first noindent pfirst"><a class="medium reference internal" href="#a-babble-o-green-fields-the-end">A Babble o' Green Fields: the End</a></p> -</li> -</ol> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="in-vainin-vain"><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">IN VAIN—IN VAIN.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>One evening Mr. Courtnay Fox, the London -correspondent of the Edinburgh </span><em class="italics">Chronicle</em><span>, was as usual -in his own room in the office in Fleet-street, when a -card was brought to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Show the gentleman up," said he to the boy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A couple of seconds thereafter Vincent Harris -made his appearance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mr. Fox?" said he, inquiringly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The heavy-built journalist did not rise to receive -his visitor; he merely said—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Take a chair. What can I do for you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, thanks," said Vincent, "I don't wish to -detain you more than a moment. I only wanted -to see if you could give me any information about -Mr. George Bethune."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, that would be only fair," said the big, -ungainly man, with the small, keen blue eyes glinting -behind spectacles; "that would be only a fair -exchange, considering I remember how Mr. Bethune -came down here one night and asked for information -about you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent looked astonished.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I was able," continued Mr. Fox, "to give -him all the information he cared for—namely, that -you were the son of a very rich man. I presume -that was all he wanted to know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was something in the tone of this speech—a -familiarity bordering on insolence—that Vincent -angrily resented; but he was wise enough to show -nothing: his sole anxiety was to have news of -Maisrie and her grandfather; this man's manner -did not concern him much.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I do not ask for information about Mr. Bethune -himself; I dare say I know him as well as most -do," said he with perfect calmness. "I only wish -to know where he is."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know where he is," said the burly -correspondent, examining the stranger with his small -shrewd eyes, "but I guarantee that, wherever he is, -he is living on the best. Shooting stags in Scotland -most likely—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They don't shoot stags in December," said -Vincent, briefly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Or careering down the Mediterranean in a -yacht—gad, an auxiliary screw would come in handy for -the old man," continued Mr. Fox, grinning at his -own gay facetiousness; "anyhow, wherever he is, -I'll bet he's enjoying himself and living on the fat -of the land. Merry as a cricket—bawling away at -his Scotch songs: I suppose that was how he amused -himself when he was in Sing Sing—perhaps he -learnt it there—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought you would probably know where he -is," said Vincent, not paying much heed to these -little jocosities, "if he happened to be sending in -to you those articles on the Scotch ballads—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Articles on Scotch ballads!" said Mr. Fox, with -a bit of a derisive laugh. "Yes, I know. A -collation of the various versions: a cold collation, I -should say, by the time he has got done with them. -Why, my dear sir, have you never heard of -Professor Childs, of Harvard College?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have heard of Professor Child," said Vincent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, well, well, well, what is the difference?" -said the ponderous correspondent, who rolled from -side to side in his easy-chair as if he were in a bath, -and peered with his minute, twinkling eyes. "And -indeed it matters little to me what kind of rubbish -is pitchforked into the </span><em class="italics">Weekly</em><span>. If my boss cares -to do that kind of thing, for the sake of a 'brother -Scot,' that's his own look-out. All I know is that -not a scrap of the cold collation has come here, or -has appeared in the </span><em class="italics">Weekly</em><span> as yet; so there is no -clue that way to the whereabouts of old Father -Christmas, old Santa Claus, the Wandering Scotch -Jew—if that is what you want."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am sorry to have troubled you," said Vincent, -with his hand on the door.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Stop a bit," said Mr. Fox, in his blunt and -rather impertinent fashion. "You and I might -chance to be of use to each other some day. I like -to know the young men in politics. If I can do you -a good turn, you'll remember it; or rather you -won't remember it, but I can recall it to you, when -I want you to do me one. Take a seat. Let's -make a compact. When you are in the House, -you'll want the judicious little paragraph sent -through the provinces now and again: I can manage -all that for you. Then you can give me an -occasional tip: you're in ——'s confidence, people -say—as much as any one can expect to be, that is. -Won't you take a seat?—thanks, that will be better. -I want to know you. I've already made one -important acquaintanceship through your friend -Mr. Bethune: it was quite an event when the great -George Morris condescended to visit this humble -office——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"George Morris!" said Vincent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps you know him personally?" Mr. Fox -said, and he went on in the most easy and affable -fashion: "I may say without boasting that I am -acquainted with most people—most people of any -consequence: it is part of my business. But -George Morris, somehow, I had never met. You -may imagine, then, that when he came down here, -to ask a few questions, I was precious glad to be of -such service as I could; for I said to myself that -here was just the man for me. Take a great -scandal, for example—they do happen sometimes, -don't they?—even in this virtuous land of England: -very well—I go to George Morris—a hint from him—and -there I am first in the field: before the old -mummies of the London press have had time to -open their eyes and stare."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent had brought a chair from the side of the -room, and was now seated: there was only the table, -littered with telegrams and proofs, between those two.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did I understand you to say," he asked, with -his eyes fixed on this man, "that George Morris had -come to you to make inquiries about Mr. Bethune?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You understood aright."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who sent him?" demanded Vincent, abruptly—for -there were strange fancies and still darker -suspicions flying through his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Courtnay Fox smiled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"George Morris, you may have heard, was not -born yesterday. His business is to get out of you -what he can, and to take care you get nothing out -of him. It was not likely he would tell me why he -came making these inquiries—even if I had cared -to ask, which I did not."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You told him all you knew, of course, about -Mr. Bethune?" Vincent went on, with a certain cold -austerity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I did."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And how much more?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, very good—very neat," the spacious-waisted -journalist exclaimed with a noisy laugh. "Very -good indeed. But look here, Mr. Harris, if the -great solicitor was not born yesterday, you -were—in a way; and so I venture to ask you why you -should take such an interest in Mr. Bethune's affairs?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent answered him without flinching.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because, amongst other things, certain lies have -been put in circulation about Mr. Bethune, and I -wished to know where they arose. Now I am -beginning to guess."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For an instant Mr. Courtnay Fox seemed -somewhat disconcerted; but he betrayed no anger.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come, come," said he, with an affectation of -good humour, "that is a strong word. Morris heard -no lies from me, I can assure you. Why, don't we -all of us know who and what old George Bethune -is! He may flourish and vapour successfully -enough elsewhere; but he doesn't impose on -Fleet-street; we know him too well. And don't imagine -I have any dislike towards your venerable friend; -not the slightest; in fact, I rather admire the -jovial old mountebank. You see, he doesn't treat -me to too much of his Scotch </span><em class="italics">blague</em><span>; I'm not to -the manner born; and he knows it. Oh, he's skilful -enough in adapting himself to his surroundings—like -a trout, that takes the colour of the pool he -finds himself in; and when he gets hold of a -Scotchman, I am told his acting of the rugged and manly -independence of the Scot—of the Drury Lane Scot, -I mean—is splendid. I wonder he doesn't go and -live in Edinburgh. They take things seriously -there. They might elevate him into a great -position—make a great writer of him—they're in -sore need of one or two; and then every now and -again he could step out of his cloud of metaphysics, -and fall on something. That's the way the Scotchmen -get hold of a subject; they don't take it up as -an ordinary Christian would; they fall on it. We -once had an English poet called Milton; but Masson -fell on him, and crushed him, and didn't even leave -us an index by which to identify the remains. Old -Bethune should go back to Scotland, and become -the Grand Lama of Edinburgh letters: it would be -a more dignified position than cadging about for a -precarious living among us poor southrons."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent paid but small heed to all this farrago: -he was busily thinking how certain undoubted -features and circumstances of old George Bethune's -life might appear when viewed through the -belittling and sardonic scepticism of this man's mind; -and then again, having had that hue and shape -conferred upon them, how would they look when -presented to the professional judgment of such a -person as Mr. George Morris?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Scotch are the very oddest people in all -the world," Mr. Fox continued, for he seemed to -enjoy his own merry tirade. "They'll clasp a -stranger to their bosom, and share their last bawbee -with him, if only he can prove to them that he, -too, was born within sight of MacGillicuddy's -Reeks——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"MacGillicuddy's Reeks are in Ireland," said Vincent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, MacGillicuddy's Breeks—no, that won't -do; they don't wear such things in the north. Any -unpronounceable place—any kind of puddle or -barren rock: to be born within sight of that means -that you own everything of honesty, and manliness, -and worth that's going—yes, worth—worth is a -sweet word—manly worth—it is the prerogative of -persons who have secured the greatest blessing on -earth, that of being born north of the Tweed. Now, -why doesn't old George Bethune go away back -there; and wave his tartan plaid, and stamp, and -howl balderdash, and have monuments put up to -him as the White-haired Bard of Glen-Toddy? -That surely would be better than hawking bogus -books about London and getting subscriptions for -things that never appear; though he manages to -do pretty well. Oh, yes, he does pretty well, one -way and another. The cunning old cockroach—to -take that girl around with him, and get her to make -eyes at tradesmen, so as to swindle them out of -pounds of tea!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But at this a sudden flame seemed to go through -the young man's brain—and unhappily he had his -stick quite close by. In an instant he was on his -feet, his right hand grasping the cane, his left fixed -in the coat-collar of the luckless journalist, whose -inert bulk he was attempting to drag from the -chair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You vile hound!" Vincent said with set teeth—and -his nostrils were dilated and his eyes afire, -"I have allowed you to insult an old man—but -now—now you have gone too far. Come out of -that—and I will break every bone in your body——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Down came the stick; but by a fortunate accident -it caught on the back of the chair, and the force of -the blow sent it flying in two.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For God's sake—stop!" the other cried—but -in a terrified whisper—and his face was as white as -death. "What are you doing!—are you mad!—I -beg your pardon—can I do more? I beg your -pardon—for God's sake, have a little common sense!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent looked at the man: more abject cowardice -he had never beheld than was displayed in every -trembling limb of his huge carcase, in every feature -of the blanched face. He flung him from him—in -disdain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," said Mr. Fox, with a desperate effort at -composure, and he even tried to put his coat collar -to rights, though his fingers were all shaking, and -himself panting and breathless. "You—you may -thank me—for—for having saved you. If—I had -touched that bell—if I had called out—you would -have been ruined—ruined for life—a pretty story -for —— to hear—about his favourite protégé—increase -your chances of getting into Parliament, -wouldn't it? Can't you take a bit of a -joke?—you're not a Scotchman!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent was still standing there, with louring -brow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When you are busy with your jokes," said he, -"I would advise you to keep any friends of mine -out of them—especially a girl who has no one to -defend her. But I am glad I came here to-night. -I begin to understand in whose foul mind arose -those distortions, and misrepresentations, and lies. -So it was to you George Morris came when he -wanted to know about Mr. Bethune and his -granddaughter? An excellent authority! And it was -straight from you, I suppose, that George Morris -went to my father with his wonderful tale——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"One moment," said Courtnay Fox—and he -appeared to speak with a little difficulty: perhaps -he still felt the pressure of knuckles at his neck. -"Sit down. I wish to explain. Mind you, I could -make this a bad night's work for you, if I chose. -But I don't, for reasons that you would understand -if you were a little older and had to earn your -own living, as I have. It is my interest to make -friends——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And an elegant way you have of making them," -said Vincent, scornfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"——and I want to assure you that I never said -anything to George Morris about Mr. Bethune that -was not quite well-known. Nor had I the least -idea that Morris was going to your father; or that -you had the least interest or concern in the matter. -As for a bit of chaff about Scotland: who would -mind that? Many a time I've had it out with -Mr. Bethune himself in this very room; and do you -suppose he cared?—his grandiloquent patriotism -soared far away above my little Cockney jests. So -I wish you to perceive that there was no enmity in -the affair, no intention to do harm, and no -misrepresentation; and when you see that, you will see also -that you have put yourself in the wrong, and I -hope you will have the grace to apologise."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was a most creditable effort to escape from -a humiliating position with some semblance of -dignity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Apologise for what?" said Vincent, staring.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, for your monstrous and outrageous conduct -of this evening!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>—"I am to apologise?" said Vincent, with his -brows growing dark again. "You introduce into -your scurrilous talk the name of a young lady who -is known to me—you speak of her in the most -insulting and gratuitous fashion—and—and I am -to apologise! Yes, I do apologise: I apologise for -having brought such a fool of a stick with me: I -hope it will be a heavier one if I hear you make -use of such language again."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come, come, threats will not serve," said -Mr. Fox—but he was clearly nervous and apprehensive. -"Wouldn't it be better for you, now, to be a little -civil—and—and I could promise to send you -Mr. Bethune's address if I hear of it? Wouldn't that -be better—and more reasonable? Yes, I will—I -promise to send you his address if it comes in any -way to this office—isn't that more reasonable?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thank you," said Vincent, with formal politeness; -and with an equally formal 'Good night' the -young man took his leave. Mr. Courtnay Fox -instantly hid the broken portions of the cane (until -he should have a chance of burning them), and, -ringing the bell, called in a loud and manly voice -for the latest telegrams.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So Vincent was once more thrown back on himself -and his own resources. During these past few days -he had sought everywhere for the two lost ones; -and sought in vain. First of all he had made sure -they had left Brighton; then he had come to -London; and morning, noon, and night had visited -their accustomed haunts, without finding the least -trace of them. He went from this restaurant to -that; in the morning he walked about the Parks; -he called at the libraries where they were known; -no sign of them could be found anywhere. And -now, when he thought of Maisrie, his heart was no -longer angry and reproachful: nay, he grew to -think it was in some wild mood of self-sacrifice that -she had resolved to go away, and had persuaded -her grandfather to take her. She had got some -notion into her head that she was a degraded -person; that his friends suspected her; that no -future as between him and her was possible; that -it was better they should see each other no more. -He remembered how she had drawn up her head -in maidenly pride—in indignation, almost: his -relatives might be at peace: they had nothing to -fear from her. And here was the little brooch—with -its tiny white dove, that was to rest on her -bosom, as if bringing a message of love and safety—all -ready for her; but her place was empty; she -had gone from him, and perhaps for ever. The very -waiters in the restaurants, when he went there all -alone, ventured to express a little discreet surprise, -and make enquiries: he could say nothing. He had -the sandal-wood necklace, to be sure; and sometimes -he wore it over his heart; and on the way home, -through the dark thoroughfares, at times a faint -touch of the perfume reached his nostrils—but there -was no Maisrie by his side. And then again, a -sudden, marvellous vision would come before him: -of Maisrie, her hair blown by the winds, her eyes -piteous and full of tears, her eyebrows and lashes -wet with the flying spray; and she would say 'Kiss -me, Vincent, kiss me!' as if she had already -resolved to go, and knew that this was to be a last, -despairing farewell.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The days passed; and ever he continued his -diligent search, for he knew that these two had -but little money, and guessed that they had not -departed on any far travel, especially at this time -of the year. He went down to Scotland, and made -enquiries among the Edinburgh newspaper offices—without -avail. He advertised in several of the -London daily journals: there was no reply. He -told the head-waiter at the Restaurant Mentavisti, -that if Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter—who -were well-known to all in the place—should make -their appearance any evening, and if he, the -headwaiter, could manage to send some one to follow -them home and ascertain their address, that would -mean a couple of sovereigns in his pocket; but the -opportunity never presented itself. And meanwhile -this young man, taking no care of himself, and -fretting from morning till evening, and often all -the sleepless night through as well, was gradually -losing his colour, and becoming like the ghost of -his own natural self.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Christmas came. Harland Harris and Vincent -went down to pass the holidays with Mrs. Ellison, -at Brighton; and for the same purpose Lord -Musselburgh returned to the Bedford Hotel. The -four of them dined together on Christmas evening. -It was not a very boisterous party, considering that -the pragmatical and pedantic voice of the man -of wealth was heard discoursing on such light and -fanciful themes as the payment of returning officers' -expenses, the equalisation of the death duties, and -the establishment of state-assisted intermediate -schools; but Musselburgh threw in a little jest -now and again, to mitigate the ponderosity of the -harangue. Vincent was almost silent. Since -coming down from London, he had not said a -single word to any one of them about Mr. Bethune -or his granddaughter: no doubt they would have -told him—and perhaps rejoiced to tell him—that -he had been betrayed. But Mrs. Ellison, sitting -there, and watching more than listening, was -concerned about the looks of her boy, as she called -him; and before she left the table, she took up her -glass, and said—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am going to ask you two gentlemen to drink -a toast—and it is the health of the coming member -for Mendover. And I'm going to ask him to pull -himself together, and show some good spirits; for -there's nothing a constituency likes so much as a -merry and good-humoured candidate."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was clear moonlight that night: Vin's room -faced the sea. Hour after hour he sate at the -window, looking on the wide, grey plain and the -faint blue-grey skies; and getting no good of either; -for the far-searching doves of his thoughts came -back to him without a twig of hope in their bill. -The whole world seemed empty—and silent. He -began to recall the time in which he used to think—or -to fear—that some day a vast and solitary sea -would come between Maisrie and himself; it was -something he had dreamed or imagined; but this -was altogether different now—this blank ignorance -of where she might be was a far more terrible thing. -He went over the different places he had heard her -mention—Omaha, Chicago, Boston, Toronto, -Montreal, Quebec: they only seemed to make the world -the wider—to remove her further away from him, -and interpose a veil between. She had vanished -like a vision; and yet it was but the other day that -he had found her clinging tight to his arm, her -beautiful brown hair blown wet about her face, her -eyes with love shining through her tears, her -lips—when he kissed them—salt with the flying spray. -And no longer—after that first and sudden outburst -of indignant wrath—did he accuse her of any -faithlessness or treachery: rather it was himself whom -he reproached. Had he not promised, at the very -moment when she had made her maiden confession -to him, and spoken to him as a girl speaks once -only in her life, had he not promised that always -and always he would say to himself 'Wherever -Maisrie is—wherever she may be—she loves me, -and is thinking of me?' This was the Mizpah set -up between those two; and he had vowed his vow. -What her going away might mean he could not tell; -but at all events it was not permitted him to -doubt—he dared not doubt—her love.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As for these repeated allegations that old George -Bethune was nothing less than a mendicant impostor, -what did that matter to him? Even if these -charges could be substantiated, how was that to -affect Maisrie or himself? No association could -sully that pure soul. Perhaps it was the case that -Mr. Bethune was not over-scrupulous and careful -about money matters; many otherwise excellent -persons had been of like habit. The band of private -inquiry agents had amongst them discovered that -the old man had allowed Vincent to pay the bill at -the various restaurants they frequented. Well, that -was true. Among the vague insinuations and -assumptions that had been pieced together to form -an indictment, here was one bit of solid fact. And -what of it? Of what importance were those -few trumpery shillings? It was of little moment -which paid: here was an arrangement, become a -habit, that had a certain convenience. And Vincent -was proud to set against that, or against any -conclusions that might be drawn from that, the incident -of old George Bethune's stopping the poor woman -in Hyde Park, and handing over to her all he -possessed—sovereigns, shillings, and pence—so that -he did not even leave himself the wherewithal to -buy a biscuit for his mid-day meal. Perhaps there -were more sides to George Bethune's character than -were likely to occur to the imagination of -Messrs. Harland Harris, Morris, and Company?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The white moon sailed slowly over to the west; -the house was still; the night outside silent; but -there was no peace for him at all. If only he could -get to see Maisrie—for the briefest moment—that -he might demand the reason of her sudden flight! -Was it some over-strung sensitiveness of spirit? -Did she fear that no one would understand this -carelessness of her grandfather about -money-matters; and that she might be suspected of -complicity, of acquiescence, in certain doubtful ways? -Was that the cause of her strange sadness, her -resignation, her hopelessness? Was that why she -had spoken of her 'degradation'—why she had -declared she could never be his wife—why she had -begged him piteously to go away, and leave this -bygone friendship to be a memory and nothing -more? 'Can you not understand, Vincent!' she -had said to him, in heart-breaking accents, as -though she could not bring herself to the brutality -of plainer speech. Well, he understood this at all -events: that in whatever circumstances Maisrie -Bethune may have been placed, no contamination -had touched </span><em class="italics">her</em><span>; white as the white moonlight out -there was that pure soul; he had read her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The next morning Lord Musselburgh was out -walking in the King's Road with the fair young -widow who hoped soon to be re-transformed into a -wife.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That friend of yours down at Mendover," said -she,—"what is his name?—Gosford?—well, he -seems an unconscionable time dying. I wish he'd -hurry up with his Chiltern Hundreds and put an -end to himself at once. That is what is wanted for -Vin—the novelty and excitement of finding himself -in the House of Commons. Supposing Mr. Gosford -were to resign at once, how soon could Vin be -returned? There's some procedure, isn't there?—the -High Sheriff or somebody, issues a writ, or -something——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I really cannot say," her companion answered -blandly. "I belong to a sphere in which such -violent convulsions are unknown."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"At all events, Parliament will meet about the -middle of February?" she demanded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I presume so," was the careless answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wish the middle of February were here now, -and Vin all securely returned," said she. "I -suppose that even in the case of a small borough like -Mendover, one's constituents can keep one pretty -busy? They will watch how you vote, won't they?—and -remonstrate when you go wrong; and pass -resolutions; and expect you to go down and be -cross-examined. Then there are always public -meetings to be addressed; and petitions to be -presented; and people wanting admission to the -Speaker's Gallery——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, really, Madge, there's a sort of furious -activity about you this morning," said he. "You -quite take one's breath away. I shouldn't be -surprised to see you on a platform yourself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's all for Vin's sake I am so anxious," she -exclaimed. "I can see how miserable and sad the -poor boy is—though he bears it so bravely—never -a word to one of us, lest we should ask him if he -believes in those people now. I wonder if he can. -I wonder if he was so blinded that even now he will -shut his eyes to their true character?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They are quite gone away, then?" her companion asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes," she made answer. "I hope so. -Indeed, I know they are. And on the whole it was -opportune, just as this election was coming on; for -now, if ever, Vin will have a chance of throwing off -an infatuation that seemed likely to be his ruin, -and of beginning that career of which we all hope -such great things."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She glanced round, cautiously; and lowered her voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, oh, my goodness, if ever he should find out -the means we took to persuade them to go, there -will be the very mischief to pay: he will tear us to -pieces! You know how impetuous and proud he -is; and then those people have appealed to him in -a curious way—their loneliness—their poverty—and -their—— Yes, I will admit it—certain -personal qualities and characteristics. I don't deny it; -any more than I would deny that the girl was -extremely pretty, and the old man picturesque, -and even well-mannered and dignified in his way. -All the more dangerous—the pair of them. Well, -now they are gone, I breathe more freely. While -they were here, no argument was of any avail. Vin -looked into the girl's appealing face—and -everything was refuted. And at all events we can say -this to our own conscience—that we have done -them no harm. We are not mediæval tyrants; we -have not flung the venerable patriot and the -innocent maiden into a dungeon, to say nothing of -breaking their bones on a rack. The venerable -patriot and the innocent maiden, I have no doubt, -consider themselves remarkably well off. And that -reminds me that Harland Harris, although he is of -opinion that all property should be under social -control——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not all property, my dear Madge," said Lord -Musselburgh, politely. "He would say that all -property should be under social control—except his -property."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"At all events, it seems to me that he occasionally -finds it pretty convenient to have plenty of -money at his own individual command. Why, for -him to denounce the accumulation of capital," she -continued, with a pretty scorn, "when no one makes -more ostentatious use of the power of money! Is -there a single thing he denies himself—one single -thing that is only possible to him through his being -a man of great wealth? I shouldn't wonder if, when -he dies, he leaves instructions to have the electric -light turned on into his coffin, just in case he should -wake up and want to press the knob."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come, come, Madge," said Musselburgh. "Be -generous. A man cannot always practice what he -preaches. You must grant him the privilege of -sighing for an ideal."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Harland Harris sighing for an ideal," said -Mrs. Ellison, with something of feminine spite, "would -make a capital subject for an imaginative picture by -Watts—if my dear brother-in-law weren't rather -stout, and wore a black frock-coat."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meanwhile, Vincent returned to London, and -renewed his solitary search; it was the only thing -he felt fit for; all other employments had no -meaning for him, were impossible. But, as day by day -passed, he became more and more convinced that -they must have left London: he knew their familiar -haunts so well, and their habits, that he was certain -he must have encountered them somewhere if they -were still within the great city. And here was the -New Year drawing nigh, when friends far separated -recalled themselves to each other's memory, with -hopes and good wishes for the coming time. It -seemed to him that he would not have felt this -loneliness so much, if only he had known that -Maisrie was in this or that definite place—in Madrid—in -Venice—in Rome—or even in some huge steamship -ploughing its way across the wide Atlantic.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But a startling surprise was at hand. About -half-past ten on the last night of the old year a -note was brought upstairs to him by a servant. -His face grew suddenly pale when he saw the -handwriting, which he instantly recognised.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who brought this?" he said, breathlessly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A man, sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is he waiting?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, sir; he said there was no answer."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What sort of man?" asked Vincent, with the -same rapidity—and not yet daring to open the -letter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A—a common sort of man, sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very well—you needn't wait."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The moment that the servant had retired, Vincent -tore open the envelope; and the first thing that he -noticed, with a sudden sinking of the heart, was -that there was no address at the head of the letter. -It ran thus—the handwriting being a little tremulous -here and there—</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>'DEAR VINCENT,</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When you receive this, we shall be far -away; but I have arranged that you shall get it -just before the New Year, and it brings my heart-felt -wishes for your happiness, as well as the good-bye -that I cannot say to you personally now. What -I foresaw has come to pass; and it will be better -for all of us, I think; though it is not with a very -light heart that I write these few lines to you. -Sometimes I wish that we had never met each -other; and then again I should never have known -all your kindness to me and to my grandfather, -which will always be something to look back upon; -and also the companionship we had for a time, -which was so pleasant—you would understand how -pleasant to me, if you had known what had gone -before, and what is now likely to come after. But -do not think I repine: more has been done for me -than ever I can repay; and as I am the only one -to whom my grandfather can look now for help -and sympathy, I should be ungrateful indeed if I -grudged it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Forgive me, dear friend, if I speak so much of -myself; my thoughts are far more often concerned -about you than with anything that can happen to -me. And I know that this step we are taking, -though it may pain you for a little while, will be -salutary in the end. You have a great future before -you; your friends expect much of you; you owe it -to yourself not to disappoint them. And after a -little while, you will be able to go back to the -places where we used to go; and there will be -nothing but friendly recollections of pleasant -evenings; and I am sure nothing need ever come -between us (as you feared) I mean in the way of -having kind thoughts of each other, always and -always; and when you marry no one will more -heartily wish you every happiness and blessing than -I shall. This is to be my last letter to you; I have -promised. I wish I could make it convey to you -all I think; but you will understand, dear Vincent, -that there is more in it than appears in these stiff -and cold words. And another kindness I must beg -of you, dear friend, before saying good-bye—and -farewell—it is this, Would you try to forget a </span><em class="italics">little</em><span> -of what I said to you that morning on the pier? If -you thought anything I said was a little more -than a girl should have confessed, would you try -to forget it, dear Vincent? I was rather -miserable—I foresaw we should have to say good-bye to -each other, when you would not see it, for you were -always so full of courage and confidence; and -perhaps I told you more than I should have done—and -you will try to forgot that. I don't want -you to forget it </span><em class="italics">all</em><span>, dear Vincent; only what you -think was said too frankly—or hurriedly—at such a -moment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And now, dearest friend, this is good-bye; and -it is good-bye for ever, as between you and me. I -will pray for your happiness always.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>MAISRIE.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>P.S.—There was one thing I said to you that you -</span><em class="italics">promised</em><span> you would not forget.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>M.'</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Was he likely to forget it, or any single word she -had uttered, on that wild, wind-tossed morning? -But in the meantime the immediate question was—How -and whence had this letter come? For one -thing, it had been brought by hand; so there was no -post-mark. Who, then, had been the messenger? -How had he come to be employed? What might he -not know of Maisrie's whereabouts? Was there a -chance of finding a clue to Maisrie, after all, and -just as the glad New Year was coming in?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was barely eleven o'clock. He went down into -the hall, whipped on overcoat and hat, and the next -moment was striding away towards Mayfair; he -judged, and judged rightly, that a boon companion -and poet was not likely to be early abed on such a -night. When he reached the lodging-house in the -little thoroughfare off Park-street, he could hear -singing going forward in the subterranean kitchen: -nay, he could make out the raucous chorus—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">Says Wolseley, says he,</em></div> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">To Arabi,</em></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">You can fight other chaps, but you can't fight me.</em></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>He rapped at the door; the landlady's daughter -answered the summons; she showed him into a -room, and then went below for her father. Presently -Mr. Hobson appeared—quite creditably sober, -considering the occasion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you bring a note down to me to-night, -Hobson?" was the young man's first question.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I did, sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His heart leapt up joyously: his swift surmise -had been correct.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And has Miss Bethune been here recently?" -he asked, with the greatest eagerness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no, sir," said Hobson, shaking his head. -"That was giv me when they was going away, -and says she, 'Hobson,' says she, 'I can trust you; -and there's never a word to be said about this -letter—not to hany one whatever; and the night afore -New Year's Day you'll take it down yourself, and -leave it for Mr. Harris.' Which I did, sir; though -not waitin,' as I thought there wasn't a answer; and -ope there's nothing wrong, sir."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent was standing in the middle of the room—not -listening.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have heard or seen nothing, then, of -Mr. Bethune or of Miss Bethune, since they left?" he -asked, absently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nothing, sir—honly that I took notice of some -advertisements, sir, in the papers—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know about those," said Vincent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So once more, as on many and many a recent -occasion, his swiftly-blossoming hopes had been -suddenly blighted; and there was nothing for him -but to wander idly and pensively away back to -Grosvenor Place. The New Year found him in his -own room—with Maisrie's letter before him; while, -with rather a careworn look on his face he studied -every line and phrase of her last message to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the New Year had something else in store -for him besides that. He was returned, unopposed, -for the borough of Mendover. And about the first -thing that his constituents heard, after the election, -was that their new member proposed to pay a visit -to the United States and Canada, and that at present -no date had been fixed for his coming back.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="beyond-seas"><span class="large">CHAPTER II.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">BEYOND SEAS.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Out here on the deck of this great White Star -Liner—with the yellow waters of the Mersey lapping -in the sunlight, and a brisk breeze blowing, and -the curious excitement of departure thrilling -through all the heterogeneous crowd of passengers—here -something of hope came to him at last. -This was better than haunting lonely restaurants, -or walking through solitary streets; he seemed to -know that Maisrie was no longer in the land he was -leaving; she had fled away across the ocean—gone -back to the home, to some one of the various homes, -of her childhood and girlhood. And although it -appeared a mad thing that a young man should set -out to explore so vast a continent in search of his -lost love, it was not at all the impossible task it -looked. He had made certain calculations. -Newspaper offices are excellent centres of intelligence; -and Scotch-American newspaper offices would still -further limit the sphere of his inquiries. He had -dreamed of a wide and sorrowful sea lying between -him and her; but instead of that imaginary and -impassable sea, why, there was only the familiar -Atlantic, that nowadays you can cross in less than -a week. And when he had found her, and seized -her two hands fast, he would reproach her—oh, -yes, he would reproach her—though perhaps -there might be more of gladness than of anger -in his tones.... 'Ah, false love—traitress—coward -heart—that ran away! What Quixotic self-sacrifice -was it, then, that impelled you?—what fear -of relatives?—what fire of wounded pride? No -matter now: you are caught and held. You gave -yourself to me; you cannot take yourself away -again; nor shall any other. No more sudden -disappearances—no more trembling notes of -farewell—while I have you by the hand!'</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The last good-byes had been called by the people -crowded on the deck of the tender, the great ship -was cautiously creeping down the stream, and the -passengers, having done with the waving of -handkerchiefs (and here and there a furtive drying of -eyes) set about preparing for the voyage—securing -their places at table, investigating their cabins, and -getting their things unpacked. These occupations -kept most of them in their state-rooms until close -on dinner-time, so that they had not much chance -of examining each other; but it is wonderful how -rumour runs in a ship—especially if the Purser be -a cheerful and communicative sort of person; and -so it was that when all were assembled in the long -and gorgeous saloon, two things had already -become known; first, that the tall and handsome -young Englishman who seemed to have no -companion or acquaintance on board was the -newly-elected member for Mendover; and second, that -the extremely pretty woman who had the seat of -honour at the Captain's table was a Mrs. de Lara, -a South American, as might have been guessed -from her complexion, her eyes, and hair. It -appeared to be a foregone conclusion that Mrs. de -Lara was to be the belle of the ship on this -voyage; such things are very soon settled; perhaps -one or two of the commercial gentlemen may have -crossed with her before, and seen her exercise her -sway. As for Vin Harris, his unopposed return -for such an insignificant place as Mendover would -not have secured much notice throughout the -country had it not been that, immediately after the -election, the great —— had been kind enough -to write to the new member a charming note -of congratulation, which, of course, had to be -published. It was a significant pat on the back, -of which any young man might very well have been -proud; and Mrs. Ellison bought innumerable copies -of that morning's newspapers, and cut the letter -out, and sent it round to her friends, lest they -should not have seen it. Mr. Ogden was also so -condescending as to send a similar message—but -that was not published.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now during the first evening on board ship, -strangers mostly remain strangers to each other; -but next morning things become different—especially -if the weather be fine, and everyone is -on deck. Small courtesies are tendered and -accepted; people get introduced, or introduce each -other, on the smallest pretence—except the old -stagers, the wary ones, who hang aloof, in order -to pick and choose. As for Vincent, he was well -content with his own society, varied by an occasional -chat with the Purser, when that ubiquitous official -could spare a few moments. He was not anxious to -make acquaintances. His thoughts were far ahead. -He saw—not the thin, blue line of the Irish coast -that actually was visible on the horizon—but the -shallow waters at Sandy Hook, the broad bay, the -long dusky belt of the city, with its innumerable -spires jutting up into the white sky. He was -wondering how long ago it was since Maisrie and -her grandfather had crossed the Newfoundland -Banks: it was a long start, but he would overtake -them yet. Perhaps, when he was down in the big -and busy town, making his inquiries from one -newspaper-office to another he might suddenly find -himself face to face with the splendid old man, -and the beautiful, pensive-eyed girl.... 'Ah, -Maisrie, you thought you would escape?—but I -have you now—never to let you go again! And if -you would rather not return to England—if your -pride has been wounded—if you are indignant at -what has been said or suspected of you and your -grandfather—well, then, I will remain with you -here! My love is more to me than my home: -we will fight the world together—the three of -us together: remaining here, if that pleases you -better—only, no further thought of separation -between you and me!'</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On this brisk and bracing morning he was leaning -idly with his elbows on the rail, and looking -towards the distant line of the Irish coast that was -slowly becoming more definite in form, when -Mr. Purser Collins came up to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's a very charming lady would like to -make your acquaintance," said the officer. "Will -you come with me, and I will introduce you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, very well," Vincent said, but with no great -eagerness. "Tell me her name now that I may -make sure of it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are favoured—Mrs. de Lara."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, really," he said, indifferently. "She seems -to me to have had half the men on the ship fetching -and carrying for her all the morning."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And indeed, when he followed the Purser in -order to be introduced to this lady, he found her -pretty well surrounded by assiduous gentlemen; -and 'if you please—if you please,' Mr. Collins had -to keep repeating, before he could bring the new -comer into the august presence. Mrs. de Lara—who, -on closer inspection, turned out to be quite -a young woman, with a pale, clear, olive complexion, -softly-lustrous dark eyes that could say a good deal, -a pretty smile and dimple, and magnificent -hair—received him very graciously; and at once, and -completely, and without the slightest compunction, -proceeded to ignore the bystanders who had been so -officiously kind to her. Of course their conversation -was at first the usual nothings. Wonderful weather. -Might be midsummer, but for the cold wind. -Captain been on the bridge ever since Liverpool, -poor man; get some rest after leaving Queenstown. -Was she a good sailor?—Some ladies remained -in their berths all the way over. Dry champagne, -and plenty of it, the only safe-guard? Crossed -many times? And so forth. But at length she said—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Couldn't you find a chair, and bring it along?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now the assiduous gentlemen had managed to -find a very snug corner for Mrs. de Lara, where -there was just room for two deck chairs—her own -and that of her companion and friend, Miss Martinez; -and Vincent, being rather shy, had no intention of -jamming himself into this nook. He made some -little excuse—and remained standing with the -others: whereupon Mrs. de Lara said to her -companion—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Isabel, will you go and see that the letters I left -in my cabin are all properly stamped and put in -the post-bag for Queenstown. Thank you, dear!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then, the moment her faithful friend was gone, -she said, with something of a French manner—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Here is a seat for you: come, tell me what the -news of the ship is!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent could not very well refuse; though the -result of her open preference and selection was that -her other obsequious admirers fell away one by one, -under some pretence of playing rope-quoits or -shovel-board: so that, eventually, he and she were -left alone together, for Miss Martinez did not -return.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now," said the young grass-widow, whose very -pretty chin was cushioned on abundant furs, "I am -going to make you happy. But first of all I must -tell you—you are in love."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, really?" said Vincent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, yes, yes, yes," she said, with a charming -insistence. "I have watched you. I know. You -keep apart; you look far away; you speak to no -one. And then I said to myself that I would make -you happy. How? By asking you to tell me all -about her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Whereupon Vincent said to himself, 'You're -a very impertinent woman—although you've got -pretty eyes.' And again he said, 'But after all -you are a woman; and perhaps from you I may -learn something more about Maisrie.' So he said -aloud—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The deck of a steamer is hardly the place for -secrets."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why not?" she protested. "Besides, it is no -secret—to anyone with eyes. Come, tell me all -about her—and be happy! I wish to interest you; -I wish you to interest me; and so let us talk about -the only thing that is worth talking about—that is, -love. No, there are two things, perhaps—love, and -money; but love is so full of surprises; it is the -perpetual miracle that no one can understand; it is -such a wonderful, unexpected, desperate kind of -thing, that it will always be the most interesting. -Now!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well," said he—for there was something -catching in the mad audacity of this young -matron—"it must be secret for secret. My story for -yours!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She laughed long and heartily—until her -merriment brought tears to her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, I'm an old married woman!" she -exclaimed. "Ah, I see what your bargain means. -You only want to put me off. You think the time -and place are not romantic enough; some night—out -in mid-Atlantic—with perhaps a moon—and -you'll be more communicative, when you forsake -the smoking-room for half-an-hour, and send me -a little message to meet you. Very well. -Perhaps there are too many people tramping up -and down. Shall we have a tramp too? Sitting -still so stiffens one. There—can you pull off the -rugs, do you think? They've swathed me up like -a mummy. Now give me your arm; and mind you -don't let me go flying—I'm never steady on my feet -for the first day or two."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Well, he found the grass-widow a most charming -companion—bright, loquacious, and happy, until, -indeed, they steamed into the entrance to Cork -Harbour. Here, as most of the passengers were -going on board the tender, for a scamper ashore, -while the ship waited for the mails to arrive, -Mrs. de Lara began to look a little wistful. All of a -sudden it occurred to him that he ought, if only in -common gratitude for her marked condescension, to -ask her if she would care to go also.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh—Mrs. de Lara," said he, "wouldn't you like -to go ashore, and have a look round Queenstown?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her face lighted up in an instant; but there was -a curious, amused expression in her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I couldn't go alone with you, you know," said she.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why not?" said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She did not answer that question.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you like to ask Miss Martinez as well as -myself," she continued, "I'm sure we should be -delighted—and it would be very kind of you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course I will!" he said—and at once he went -off in search of the needful companion. A few -minutes thereafter the three of them were on board -the tender, along with the rest of this crowd of -eager, chattering passengers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And a very pleasant visit it was they paid to the -picturesque watering-place and its wide-stretching -bay. First of all he took his two guests to a hotel, -and gave them an excellent lunch, at which -Mrs. de Lara made merry like an enfranchised -schoolgirl; then he got an open carriage, and they were -driven all about the place; and he bought them -such fruit and flowers as he could find, until they -were quite laden by the time they got back to the -tender. They were in plenty of time; the mails -were late. When they eventually returned on -board the steamer, Vincent was on the whole very -well pleased with that little excursion; only he -hoped that the new acquaintanceship that had been -formed had not been too conspicuously displayed, -for people are given to talking during the </span><em class="italics">longueurs</em><span> -of an Atlantic voyage.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And indeed it very soon appeared that after this -little adventure ashore Mrs. de Lara meant to claim -him as her own. When she came on deck for the -usual promenade before dinner, she sent for him -(though there were plenty of gentlemen only too -anxious to wait on her), and she took his arm during -that perfunctory march up and down. Then she -said to him—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Would you think me very rude if I asked you -to come and sit at our table? The fact is, I want -somebody to be good to me, and to look after me; -and the Captain, although he is a most delightful -man when he happens to be there, is nearly always -away, on duty, no doubt. I hate sitting next an -empty chair—that throws me on to Miss Martinez -and she and I have exhausted all our subjects long -ago. You've no particular friend, have you? Come -to our table!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But I couldn't think of turning anybody out!" -he protested.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, that's all right!" she made answer, -cheerfully enough. "Miss Martinez will get a place -somewhere else—Mr. Collins will arrange that—I -dare say she will be rather pleased to be set free."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And so it came to pass that at dinner Vincent -found himself in the seat that had been vacated -by the useful Isabel; and perhaps his promotion -provoked a few underhand comments and significant -glances at certain of the other tables, for very small -trifles are noted on board ship. At all events he -only knew that Mrs. de Lara was as engaging, and -complaisant, and loquacious as ever; and that she -talked away with very little regard as to who might -overhear her. Nor was she any longer the merry, -rattle-pated creature of the Queenstown hotel. Oh, -no. Her conversation now was of a quite superior -order. It was literary; and she had caught up -plenty of the phrases of the rococo school; she could -talk as well as another of environments, conditions, -the principal note, style charged with colour, and -the like. Nay, she adventured upon an epigram -now and again—or, at least, something that sounded -like an epigram. "England," she said, "was a -shop; France a stage; Germany a camp; and the -United States a caucus." And again she said, -"There are three human beings whom I wish to -meet with before I die: a pretty Frenchwoman, a -modest American, and an honest Greek. But I am -losing hope." And then there was a tirade against -affectation in writing. "Why should the man -thrust himself upon me?" she demanded. "I don't -want to know him at all. I want him to report -honestly and simply what he has seen of the world -and of human nature, and I am willing to be talked -to, and I am willing to believe; but when he begins -to posture and play tricks, then I become resentful. -Why should he intrude his own personality at all?—he -was never introduced to me; I have no wish for -his acquaintance. So long as he expresses an honest -opinion, good and well; I am willing to listen; but -when he begins to interpose his clever little tricks -and grimaces, then I say, 'Get away, mountebank—and -get a red-hot poker ready for pantaloon.'" And -in this way she went on, whimsical, petulant, -didactic by turns, to the stolid astonishment of a -plethoric and red-faced old lady opposite, who -contributed nothing to the conversation but an indigestion -cough, and sate and stared, and doubtless had -formed the opinion that any one who could talk in -that fashion before a lot of strangers was no better -than she should be.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But it was not of literature that Mrs. de Lara -discoursed when Vincent returned that evening to -the saloon, after having been in the smoking-room -for about an hour, watching the commercials playing -poker and getting up sweepstakes on the next day's -run. When she caught sight of him, she -immediately rose and left the group of newly-formed -acquaintances with whom she had been sitting—in -the neighbourhood of the piano—and deliberately -came along and met him half-way.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Let us remain here," said she; "and then if we -talk we shan't interfere with the music."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She lay back in her chair as if waiting for him to -begin; he was thinking how well her costume became -her—her dress of black silk touched here and there -with yellow satin—the sharp scarlet stroke of her -fan—the small crescent of diamonds in her jet-black -hair. Then the softened lamplight seemed to lend -depth and lustre to her dark eyes; and gave -something of warmth, too, to the pale and clear -complexion. She had crossed her feet; her fan lay idle -in her lap; she regarded him from under those -long, out-curving lashes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They cannot hear you," she said—perhaps -thinking that he was silent out of politeness to the -innocent young damsels who were doing their best -at the piano—"and you cannot hear them, which is -also fortunate. Music is either divine—or -intolerable; what they are doing is not divine; I have -been listening. But good music—ah, well, it is not -to be spoken of. Only this; isn't it strange that -the two things that can preserve longest for you -associations with some one you have been fond of -are music and scent? Not painting—not any -portrait; not poetry—not anything you have read, -or may read: but music and scent. You will -discover that some day."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How curiously you talk! I dare say I am -older than you—though that is not saying much."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But I have seen the world," said she, with a -smile, almost of sadness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not half of what I have seen of it, I'll answer for that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, but you," she continued, regarding him -with much favour and kindliness, "you are an -</span><em class="italics">ingénu</em><span>—you have the frank English character—you -would believe a good deal—in any one you cared -for, I mean."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose I should," he said, simply enough. -"I hope so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But as I say," she resumed, "the two things -that preserve associations the longest—and are apt -to spring on you suddenly—are music and scent. -You may have forgotten in every other direction; -oh, yes, forgetting is very easy, as you will find out; -for 'constancy lives in realms above,' and not here -upon earth at all: well, when you have forgotten -the one you were fond of, and cannot remember, -and perhaps do not care to remember all that -happened at that too blissful period of life—then, -on some occasion or another there chances to -come a fragment of a song, or a whiff of scent, -and behold! all that bygone time is before you -again, and you tremble, you are bewildered! Oh, -I assure you," she went on, with a very charming -smile, "it is not at all a pleasant experience. You -think you had buried all that past time, and hidden -away the ghosts; you are beginning to feel pretty -comfortable and content with all existing -circumstances; and then—a few notes of a violin—a -passing touch of perfume—and your heart jumps -up as if it had been shot through with a rifle-ball. -What is your favourite scent?" she asked, -somewhat abruptly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sandal-wood," said he (for surely that was -revealing no secret?)</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then she wore a string of sandal-wood beads," -said Mrs. de Lara, with a quick look.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was silent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And perhaps she gave them to you as a -keep-sake?" was the next question.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Here, indeed, he was startled; and she noticed it; -and laughed a little.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, I am not a witch," she said. "All that has -happened before now: do you think you are the -first? Why, I'm sure, now, you've worn those beads -next your heart, in the daytime, and made yourself -very uncomfortable; yes, and you've tried wearing -them at night, and couldn't sleep because they hurt -you. Never mind, I will tell you what to do: get -them made into a watch chain, with small gold -links connecting the beads; and when you wear it -with evening dress, every woman will recognise it as -a love-gift—every one of them will say 'A girl gave -him that.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps I might not wish to make a display of -it," said Vincent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then you're in the first stage of inconstancy," -said she, promptly. "If you're not madly anxious -that the whole world should know you have won her -favour, then you've taken the first step on the -downward road to indifference; you are regarding certain -things as bygone, and your eyes are beginning to -rove elsewhere. Well, why not? It's the way of -the world. It's human nature. At the same time -I want to hear some more about the young lady -of the sandal-wood necklace."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have told you more than I intended," he -answered her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You haven't told me anything: I guessed for myself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, now, I am going to ask your advice," said -he—for how could he tell but that this bright, alert, -intrepid person, with her varied experience of the -world, might be able to help him? She was far -different from Maisrie, to be sure; different as night -from day; but still she was a woman; and she might -perhaps be able to interpret a nature wholly alien -from her own.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So she sate mute and attentive, and watching -every expression of his face, while he put before -her a set of imaginary circumstances. It was not -his own story; but just so much of it as might -enable her to give him counsel. And he had hardly -finished when she said—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't know where to find her; and yet you -have never thought of a means of bringing her to -you at once?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What means?" said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, it is so simple!" she exclaimed. "Have -you no invention? But I will tell you, then. As -soon as you land in New York, get yourself knocked -over by a tram-car. The accident to the rich young -Englishman who has just arrived in America will be -in all the papers, and will lose nothing in the telling. -Your father's name is known; you have recently -been elected a member of Parliament; they will make -the most of the story—and of course you needn't -say your life is </span><em class="italics">not</em><span> in danger. Then on the wings -of love the fair one comes flying; flops down by the -side of your bed, in tears; perhaps she would even -consent to a marriage—if you were looking dreadfully -pale; then you could get well again in double -quick time—and live happy ever after."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was still watching him from under her long, -indolent lashes; and of a sudden she changed her tone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you vexed? You find me not sympathetic? -Perhaps I am not. Perhaps I am a little -incredulous. You have told me very little; but I -surmise; and when a young lady remains away from -her lover, and does not wish it to be known where -she is, then I confess I grow suspicious. Instead of -'Seek the woman,' it is 'Find the man'—oh, I -mean in most cases—I mean in most cases—not in -all—you must not misunderstand me!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In this case you are mistaken, then," said -Vincent, briefly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Indeed the gay young grass-widow found that she -could not get very far into Vincent's confidence in -this matter; and when she indulged in a little -pleasantry, he grew reserved and showed a -disposition to withdraw; whereupon she thought it better -to give up the subject altogether. But she did not -give him up; on the contrary, she took possession -of him more completely than ever; and made no -secret of the favour she bestowed on him. For -example, there was an amateur photographer on -board; and one morning (everybody knew everybody -else by this time) he came up to Mrs. de Lara, -who was seated in her deck-chair, with a little -band of devoted slaves and admirers surrounding her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mrs. de Lara," said he, "I've taken nearly -everybody on board except you. Aren't you going -to give me a chance?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes," said she. "Yes, certainly." Then -she looked round, and added, in the most natural -way in the world—"But where is Mr. Harris?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's in the saloon writing letters—I saw him -there a minute ago," said one of the bystanders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Won't somebody go and fetch him?" she continued. -"We ought to be all in—if Mr. Searle can -manage it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Accordingly Vincent was summoned from below, -and forthwith made his appearance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You come and sit by me, Mr. Harris," said the -young matron. "It would look absurd to have one -sitting and all the others standing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, no—this will do," said Vincent, seating -himself on a signal-cannon that was close to the -rail, while he steadied himself by putting a hand -on the shrouds.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not at all," she protested, with a certain -imperious wilfulness. "You're too far over; you'll be -out of the picture altogether. There is Isabel's -chair over there: fetch that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And, of course, he had to do as he was bid; though -it was rather a conspicuous position to assume. -Then, when that negative was taken, she would have -the grouping altered; Vincent had to stand by her -side, with his arm on her chair; again he had to -seat himself on the deck at her feet; whatever -suggestions were made by the artist, she managed -somehow that she and Vincent should be together. -And when, next day, the bronze-brown proofs were -handed about, they were very much admired—except, -perhaps, by the lady-passengers, who could -not understand why Mrs. de Lara should pose as the -only woman on board the steamer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But it was not Mrs. de Lara who was in his -thoughts when, early one morning, he found himself -on the upper deck, just under the bridge, with his -eyes fixed on a far strip of land that lay along the -western horizon. Not a thin sharp line of blue, -but a low-lying bulky mass of pale neutral tint; -and there were faint yellow mists hanging about it, -and also covering the smooth, long-undulating -surface of the sea. However, the sunrise was now -declared; this almost impalpable fog would soon -be dispersed; and the great continent behind that -out-lying coast would gradually awaken to the -splendour of the new day. And in what part of its -vast extent was Maisrie now awaiting him?—no, not -awaiting him, but perhaps thinking of him, and -little dreaming he was so near?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They cautiously steamed over the shallow waters -at Sandy Hook; they sailed up the wide bay; -momentarily the long flat line of New York, with -its towering buildings and steeples jutting up here -and there, was drawing nigh. Mrs. de Lara, rather -wistfully, asked him whether she was ever likely to -see him again; he answered that he did not know -how soon he might have to leave New York; but, if -she would be so kind as to give him her address, -he would try to call before he went. She handed -him her card; said something about the pleasant -voyage they had had; and then went away to -see that Isabel had not neglected anything in her -packing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They slowed into the wharf; the luggage was got -ashore and examined—in this universal scrimmage -he lost sight of Mrs. de Lara and her faithful -companion: and by and by he was being jolted and -pitched and flung about in the coach that was -carrying him to the hotel he had chosen. With -an eager curiosity he kept watching the passers-by -on the side-walk, searching for a face that was -nowhere to be seen. He had heard and known of -many strange coincidences: it would only be -another one—if a glad and wonderful one—were -he to find Maisrie on the very first day of his -arrival in America.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As soon as he had got established in his hotel, -and seen that his luggage had been brought up, he -went out again and made away for the neighbourhood -of Printing House Square. It needs hardly -be said that the </span><em class="italics">Western Scotsman</em><span> was not in -possession of a vast white marble building, with -huge golden letters shining in the afternoon sun; -all the same he had little difficulty in finding the -small and unpretentious office; and his first inquiry -was for Mr. Anstruther. Mr. Anstruther had been -there in the morning; but had gone away home, -not feeling very well. Where did he live?—over -in Brooklyn. But he would be at the office the -next day? Oh, yes; almost certainly; it was -nothing but a rather bad cold; and as they went to -press on the following evening, he would be pretty -sure to be at the office in the morning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Vincent hesitated. This clerk seemed a -civil-spoken kind of young fellow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you happen to know if—if a Mr. Bethune -has called at this office of late?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bethune?—not that I am aware of," was the answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He is a friend of Mr. Anstruther's," Vincent -went on, led by a vague hope, "an old gentleman -with white hair and beard—a handsome old man. -There would be a young lady with him most -probably."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, sir; I have not seen any one of that description," -said the clerk. "But he might have called -on Mr. Anstruther at his home."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes, certainly—very likely," said Vincent. -"Thank you. I will come along to-morrow morning, -and hope to find Mr. Anstruther quite well again."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So he left and went out into the gathering dusk -of the afternoon; and as he had nothing to do now, -he walked all the way back to his hotel, looking at -the various changes that had taken place since -last he had been in the busy city. And then, -when he reached the sumptuous and -heavily-decorated apartment that served him at once as -sitting-room and bed-room, he set to work to put -his things in order, for they had been rather -hurriedly jammed into his portmanteau on board ship.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was thus engaged when there came a knock at the door.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Entrez!" he called out, inadvertently (with -some dim feeling that he was in a foreign town.)</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The stranger needed no second invitation. He -presented himself. He was a small man, with a -sallow and bloodless face, a black beard closely -trimmed, a moustache allowed to grow its natural -length, and dark, opaque, impassive eyes. He was -rather showily dressed, and wore a pince-nez.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a second he paused at the door to take out -his card-case; then, without uttering a word, he -stepped forward and placed his card on the table. -Vincent was rather surprised at this form of -introduction; but of course he took up the card. He -read thereon. '</span><em class="italics">Mr. Joseph de Lara.</em><span>'</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, really," said he (but what passed through -his mind was—'Is that confounded woman going to -persecute me on shore as well as at sea?'). "How -do you do? Very glad to make your acquaintance."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, indeed, are you?" the other said, with a -peculiar accent, the like of which Vincent had -never heard before. "Perhaps not, when you -know why I am here. Ah, do not pretend!—do -not pretend!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent stared at him, as if this were some -escaped lunatic with whom he had to deal.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sir, I am here to call you to account," said the -little foreigner, in his thick voice. "It has been -the scandal of the whole ship—the talk of all the -voyage over—and it is an insult to me—to me—that -my wife should be spoken of. Yes, you must -make compensation—I demand compensation—and -how? By the only way that is known to an -Englishman. An Englishman feels only in his -pocket; if he does wrong, he must pay; I demand -from you a sum that I expend in charity——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent who saw what all this meant in a -moment, burst out laughing—a little scornfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You've come to the wrong shop, my good -friend!" said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you mean? What do you mean?" -the little dark man exclaimed, with an affectation -of rising wrath: "Look at this—I tell you, look at -this!" He drew from his pocket one of the -photographs which had been taken on board the -steamer, and smacked it with the back of his hand. -"Do you see that?—the scandal of the whole -voyage! My wife compromised—the whole ship -talking—you think you are to get off for nothing? -No! No! you do not! The only punishment that -can reach you is the punishment of the pocket—you -must pay."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, don't make a fool of yourself!" said -Vincent, with angry contempt. "I've met members -of your profession before. But this is too thin."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh—too thin? You shall find out!" the other -said, vindictively—and yet the black and beady -eyes behind the pince-nez were impassive and -watchful. "There, on the other side of my card, is -my address. You can think over it. Perhaps I -shall see you to-morrow. If I do not—if you do -not come there to give the compensation I demand, -I will make this country too hot to hold you—yes, -very much too hot, as you shall discover. I will -make you sorry—I will make you sorry—you shall -see——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He went on vapouring in this fashion for some -little time longer, affecting all the while to become -more and more indignant; but at length Vincent, -growing tired, walked to the door and opened it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This is the way out," he said curtly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. de Lara took the hint with a dignified -equanimity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have my address," he said, as he passed -into the corridor; "I do not wish to do anything -disagreeable—unless I am compelled. You will -think over it; and I shall see you to-morrow, I -hope. I wish to be friendly—it will be for your -interest, too. Good night!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent shut the door and went and sate down, -the better to consider. Not that he was in the -least perturbed by this man's ridiculous threats; -what puzzled him—and frightened him almost—was -the possible connection of the charming and -fascinating Mrs. de Lara with this barefaced attempt -at blackmail. But no; he could not, he would not, -believe it! He recalled her pretty ways, her -frankness, her engaging manner, her good humour, her -clever, wayward talk, her kindness towards himself; -and he could not bring himself to think that all the -time she had been planning a paltry and despicable -conspiracy to extort money, or even that she would -lend herself to such a scheme at the instigation of -her scapegrace husband. However, his speculations -on these points were now interrupted by the arrival -of the dinner-hour; and he went below to the table -d'hôte.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>During dinner he thought that a little later on in -the evening he would go along to Lexington Avenue, -and call on a lawyer whose acquaintance he had -made on a former visit to New York. He might by -chance be at home and disengaged; and an apology -could be made for disturbing him at such an -unusual hour. And this, accordingly, Vincent did; -found that Mr. Griswold was in the house; was -shown into the study; and presently the lawyer—a -tall, thin man, with a cadaverous and deeply-lined -face and cold grey eyes—came in and received his -unexpected visitor politely enough.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"De Lara?" said he, when Vincent had told his -story. "Well, yes, I know something of De Lara. -And a very disagreeable fellow he is to have any -dealings with."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But I don't want to have any dealings with -him," Vincent protested, "and I don't see how there -should be any necessity. The whole thing is a -preposterous attempt at extortion. If only he were -to put down on paper what he said to me this -evening, I would show him something—or at least -I should do so if he and I were in England."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He is not so foolish," the lawyer said. "Well, -what do you propose to do?—compromise for the -sake of peace and quietness?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Certainly not," was the instant reply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's a mischievous devil," said Mr. Griswold, -doubtfully. "And of course you don't want to -have things said about you in newspapers, however -obscure. Might get sent over to England. Yes, -he's a mischievous devil when he turns ugly. What -do you say now?—for the sake of peace and quietness—a -little matter of a couple of hundred dollars—and -nobody need know anything about it——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Give a couple of hundred dollars to that infernal -scoundrel?—I will see him d——d first!" said -Vincent, with a decision that was unmistakeable.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's no reason why you should give him a -cent—not the slightest," the lawyer went on. "But -some people do, to save trouble. However, you -will not be remaining long in this city; I see it -announced that you are going on a tour through the -United States and Canada."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The fact is, Mr. Griswold," said Vincent, "I -came along—at this unholy hour, for which I hope -you will forgive me—not to ask you what I should -do about that fellow's threats—I don't value them a -pin's-point—but merely to see if you knew anything -about those two——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The De Lara's?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, what does he do, to begin with? What's -his occupation—his business?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nominally," said Mr. Griswold, "he belongs to -my own profession; but I fancy he is more mixed -up with some low-class newspapers. I have heard, -indeed, that one of his sources of income is levying -black-mail on actresses. The poor girls lose nerve, -you understand: they won't fight; they would -rather 'see' him, as the phrase is, than incur his -enmity."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, then, what I want to know still more -particularly," the young man proceeded, "is this: -is Mrs. de Lara supposed to take part in these pretty -little plans for obtaining money?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The lawyer smiled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You ought to know her better than I do; in -fact, I don't know her at all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent was silent for a second.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No; I should not have imagined it of her. It -seems incredible. But if you don't know her -personally, perhaps you know what is thought of -her? What is her general reputation?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Her reputation? I can hardly answer that -question. I should say," Mr. Griswold went on, -in his slow and deliberate manner, "that there is -a kind of—a kind of impression—that, so long as -the money was forthcoming, Mrs. de Lara would -not be too anxious to inquire where it came from."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She was at the Captain's table!" Vincent exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ship captains don't know much about what is -going on on shore," was the reply. "Besides, if -Mrs. de Lara wanted to sit at the Captain's table, -it's at the Captain's table you would find her, and -that without much delay! In any case why are -you so anxious to find out about Mrs. de Lara's -peculiarities—apart from her being a very pretty -woman?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh," said Vincent, as he rose to apologise once -more for this intrusion, and to say good-night, "one -is always meeting with new experiences. Another -lesson in the ways of the world, I suppose."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But all the same, as he walked slowly and -thoughtfully back to his hotel, he kept saying to -himself that he would rather not believe that -Mrs. de Lara had betrayed him and was an accomplice -in this shameless attempt to make money out of -him. Nay, he said to himself that he would refuse -to believe until he was forced to believe: though -he did not go a step further, and proceed to ask -himself the why and wherefore of this curious -reluctance.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="west-and-east"><span class="large">CHAPTER III.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">WEST AND EAST.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>When Vincent went along the next morning to the -office of the </span><em class="italics">Western Scotsman</em><span>, he was at once -shown into the editorial room, and there he found -before him a short, thick-set man with a leonine -profusion of light chestnut hair thrown back from -a lofty forehead, somewhat irregular features, and -clear blue eyes that had at present something of a -cold scrutiny in them. To any one else, the editor -of the </span><em class="italics">Western Scotsman</em><span> might have appeared a -somewhat commonplace-looking person; but to -Vincent he was far from commonplace. Here was -one who had befriended the two world-wanderers; -who had known them in the bygone years; perhaps -Maisrie herself had sat, in this very room, patiently -waiting, while the two men talked. And yet when -he asked for news of old George Bethune and his -granddaughter, Mr. Anstruther's manner was -unaccountably reserved.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," said he, "I know nothing of them, nothing -whatever; but I can well understand that George -Bethune might be in New York, or might have -passed through New York, without calling on me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why?" said Vincent in surprise.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, well," said the Editor, with some touch of -asperity and even of indignation, "I should like to -believe the best of an old friend; and certainly -George Bethune always seemed to me a loyal -Scot—proud of his country—proud of the name he -bears, as well he might; but when you find him -trying to filch the idea of a book—from a -fellow-countryman, too—and making use of the letter of -introduction I gave him to Lord Musselburgh to -get money——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But that can all be explained," said Vincent, -eagerly—and he even forgot his immediate -disappointment in his desire to clear away those -imputations from Maisrie's grandfather. "The money -was repaid to Lord Musselburgh as soon as it was -found that the American book was coming out; I -know it was—I am certain of it; and when the -volume did come out, no one was so anxious to -welcome it, and give it a helping hand, as -Mr. Bethune himself. He wrote the review in the -</span><em class="italics">Edinburgh Chronicle</em><span>——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, did he?" said the Editor, with some slight -alteration in his tone. "I am glad of that. I -could see it was written by some one with ample -knowledge: in fact, I quoted the article in the -</span><em class="italics">Scotsman</em><span>, it seemed to me so well done. Yes, I am -glad of that," Mr. Anstruther repeated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And then," continued Vincent, "the old man -may easily have persuaded himself that, being -familiar with the subject, he was entitled to publish -a volume on the other side of the water. But I -know this, that what he desired above all was that -honour should be done to those Scotchmen who had -written about their affection for their native country -while living in other lands, and that the people at -home should know those widely-scattered poets; -and when he found that this work had already been -undertaken, and was actually coming out, there was -no jealousy in his mind—not the slightest—he was -only anxious that the book should be known -everywhere, but especially in Scotland."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can assure you I am very glad to hear it," -said Mr. Anstruther, who was clearly much mollified -by this vague but earnest vindication. "And I -may say that when some one came here making -inquiries about George Bethune, I did not put -matters in their worst light——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, some one has been here making inquiries?" -said Vincent, quickly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"About a month ago, or more."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who was it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I forget the name," the Editor replied. "In -fact, I was rather vexed at the time about my -friend Ross's book—and Mr. Bethune getting -money from Lord Musselburgh; and I did not say -very much. I am glad there is some explanation; -one likes to think the best of a brother Scot. But -you—you are not a Scot?" he demanded with a -swift glance of inquiry.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, I am not," said Vincent, "but I am very -much interested in Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter; -and as they quite suddenly disappeared from -London, I thought it very likely they had returned -to the United States; and also, if they had come to -New York, I imagined you would be sure to know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"One thing is pretty certain," said Mr. -Anstruther. "If George Bethune is in this city, -he will be heard of to-morrow evening."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To-morrow evening?" Vincent repeated, vaguely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The twenty-fifth!" exclaimed the Editor, with -an astonished stare.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And yet the young man seemed none the wiser.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is evident you are no Scotchman," Mr. Anstruther -said at length, and with good humour. -"You don't remember that 'a blast o' Janwar win' -blew hansel in on Robin'? The twenty-fifth of -January—the birthday of Robert Burns!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes—oh, certainly," said Vincent, with -guilty haste.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There will be a rare gathering of the clans -to-morrow night," the Editor continued; "and if -George Bethune is on this side the water, he'll -either show up himself or somebody will have heard -of him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think he must be over here," Vincent said. -"At first I imagined he might have gone to -Scotland: he was thinking of a topographical and -antiquarian book on the various places mentioned -in the Scotch songs—and he had often spoken of -making a pilgrimage through the country for that -purpose. So I went down to Scotland for a few -days, but I could hear nothing of him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you say—that you have been quite -recently in Scotland?" Mr. Anstruther said, with a -sudden accession of interest.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"About three weeks ago," was the answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, well, well!" the Editor exclaimed, and -he regarded the young man with quite a kindly -curiosity. "Do ye tell me that! In Scotland—not -more than three weeks since! And whereabouts—whereabouts?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was in Edinburgh most of the time," Vincent said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In Edinburgh?—did ye see the Corstorphine -Hills?" was the next eager question; and the man's -eyes were no longer coldly scrutinising, but full of -a lively interest and friendliness. "Ay, the -Corstorphine Hills: ye would see them if ye went up to -the top of Nelson's Monument, and looked away -across the town—away along Princes Street—that -wonderful view!—wonderful!—when I think of it, -I seem to see it all a silver-white—and Scott's -Monument towering high in the middle, like some -splendid fountain turned to stone. Ay, ay, and ye -were walking along Princes Street not more than -three weeks ago; and I suppose ye were thinking -of old Christopher, and the Ettrick Shepherd, and -Sir Walter, and Jeffrey, and the rest of them? -Dear me, it's a kind of strange thing! Did ye -go out to Holyrood? Did ye climb up Arthur's -Seat? Did ye see Portobello, and Inch Keith, and -the Berwick Law——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,'" Vincent -quoted, with a smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The other's eyes flashed recognition; and he -laughed aloud.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ay, ay, that was a great favourite with the old -man. Many's the time he has announced himself -coming up these very stairs with that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did Maisrie ever come with him?" Vincent -asked—with his heart going a bit quicker.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"His granddaughter? Oh, yes, to be sure—sometimes. -He was fond of coming down the night -before we went to press, and looking over the -columns of Scotch news, and having a chat. You -see we have to boil down the smaller Scotch papers -for local news—news that the bigger papers don't -touch; and very often you notice a name that is -familiar to you, or something of that kind. Well, -now, I wish the old man was here this very minute! -I do indeed—most heartily. We'd let bygones be -bygones—no doubt I was mistaken—I'll back -George Bethune for a true and loyal Scot. Ah say, -man," continued Mr. Anstruther, pulling out his -big silver watch—and now all his assumption of the -reserved American manner was gone, and he was -talking with enthusiastic emphasis—"There's a -countryman of mine—a most worthy fellow—close -by here, who would be glad to see any friend of old -George Bethune's. It's just about his lunch time; -and he'll no grudge ye a farl of oatcake and a bit of -Dunlop cheese; in fact nothing pleases him better -than keeping open house for his cronies. A man of -sterling worth; and a man of substance, too: sooner -or later, I expect, he'll be going away back to the -old country and buying a bit place for himself in his -native county of Aberdeen. Well, well," said the -Editor, as he locked his desk, and put on his hat, -and opened the door for his visitor, "and to think it -was but the other day ye were walking along Princes -Street in Edinburgh! Did ye go out at night, when -the old town was lit up?—a grand sight, wasn't -it—nothing like it in the world! Ye must tell honest -John—John MacVittie, that is—that ye've just come -straight from the 'land of brown heath and shaggy -wood,' and ye'll no want for a welcome!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And indeed it was a very frank and friendly -welcome he received when they at length reached -Mr. MacVittie's place of business, and were shown -into the merchant's private room. Here they found -himself and his two partners (all Scotchmen) about -to sit down at table; and places were immediately -prepared for the new-comers. The meal was a much -more varied affair than the Editor had foreshadowed: -its remarkable feature being, as Vincent was -informed, that nearly everything placed on the board -had been sent over from Scotland. Mr. MacVittie -made a little apology.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's a kind of hobby of mine," said he; "and even -with perishable things it's not so difficult nowadays, -the ice-houses of the big steamers being so convenient. -What would you like to drink, sir? I can give ye -a choice of Talisker, Glenlivet, Long John, and -Lagavulin; but perhaps ye would prefer something -lighter in the middle of the day. I hope you don't -object to the smell of the peats; we Scotch folk are -rather fond of it; I think our good friend here, -Anstruther, would rather have a sniff of the peat -than the smell of the best canvas-back duck that -was ever carried through a kitchen. I get those -peats sent over from Islay: you see, I try to have -Scotland—or some fragments of it—brought to me, -since I cannot go to it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But why don't you go to Scotland, sir?" said -Vincent—knowing he was speaking to a man of -wealth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"At my time of life," Mr. MacVittie answered, -"one falls into certain ways and grooves, and -it's an ill job getting out of them. No, I do -not think I shall ever be in Scotland again, until -I'm taken there—in a box. I shall have to be like -the lady in 'The Gay Goss-hawk'—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'An asking, an asking, my father dear,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>An asking grant ye me!</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>That if I die in merry England,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>In Scotland you'll bury me.'"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"Oh, nonsense, John!" one of his partners cried. -"Nonsense, man! We'll have you building a -castle up somewhere about Kincardine O'Neil; and -every autumn we'll go over and shoot your grouse -and kill your salmon for you. That's liker it!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now here were three sharp and shrewd business -men met together in the very heart of one of the -great commercial cities of the world; and the fourth -was a purveyor of news (Vincent did not count: he -was so wonderstruck at meeting people who had -known George Bethune and Maisrie in former days, -and so astonished and fascinated by any chance -reference to them that he did not care to propound -any opinions of his own: he was well content to -listen) and it might naturally have been supposed -that their talk would have been of the public topics -of the hour—politics home and foreign, the fluctuations -of trade, dealings with that portentous surplus -that is always getting in the way, and so forth. But -it was nothing of the kind. It was all about the -dinner of the Burns' Society of New York, to be -given at Sutherland's in Liberty-street the following -evening, in celebration of the birthday of the Scotch -poet; and Tom MacVittie—a huge man with a -reddish-brown beard and a bald head—in the -enthusiasm of the moment was declaring that again -and again, on coming across a song, by some one of -the minor Scotch poets, that was particularly fine, -he wished he had the power to steal it and hand it -over to the Ayrshire bard—no doubt on the principle -that, 'whosoever hath, to him shall be given.' Then -there was a comparison of this gem and that; -favourites were mentioned and extolled; the air was -thick with Willie Laidlaw, Allan Cunningham, Nicol, -Hogg, Motherwell, Tannahill, and the rest; while -the big Tom MacVittie, returning to his original -thesis, maintained that it would be only fair -punishment if John Mayne were mulcted of his 'Logan -Braes,' because of his cruel maltreatment of 'Helen -of Kirkconnell.'</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I will say," he continued—and his fist was -ready to come down on the table if needs were. -"Robbie himself might well be proud of 'Logan -Braes;' and John Mayne deserves to have something -done to him for trying to spoil so fine a thing -as 'Helen of Kirkconnell.' I cannot forgive that. -I cannot forgive that at all. No excuse. Do ye -think the man that wrote the 'Siller Gun' did not -know he was making the fine old ballad into a -fashionable rigmarole? Confound him, I would -take 'Logan Braes' from him in a minute, if I -could, and hand it over to Robbie——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you ever notice," interposed the editor of -the Scotch paper, "the clever little trick of -repetition in the middle of every alternate verse——</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'By Logan's streams that rin so deep,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep;</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Herded sheep, or gathered slaes,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes.</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>But wae's my heart, thae days are gane,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>And I wi' grief may herd alane;</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>While my dear lad maun face his faes,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Far, far frae me and Logan braes.'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>I do not remember Burns using that device, though -it was familiar in Scotch song—you recollect 'Annie -Laurie'—-'her waist ye weel might span.' And -Landor used it in 'Rose Aylmer'—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'Rose Aylmer, all were thine.</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes—'"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"I would like now," continued Tom MacVittie, -with a certain impatience over the introduction -of a glaiket Englisher, "to hand over to Robbie -'There's nae luck about the house.' The -authorship is disputed anyhow; though I tell you that -if William Julius Mickle ever wrote those verses -I'll just eat my hat—and coat, too! It was Jean -Adams wrote that song; I say it was none other -than Jean Adams. Mickle—and his Portuguese -stuff——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"God bless me, Tom, do you forget 'Cumnor -Hall'?" his brother exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Cumnor Hall?' I do not forget 'Cumnor -Hall?'" Tom MacVittie rejoined, with a certain -disdain. "'Cumnor Hall!'—a wretched piece of -fustian, that no one would have thought of twice, -only that Walter Scott's ear was taken with -the first verse. Proud minions—simple -nymphs—Philomel on yonder thorn: do ye mean that a man -who wrote stuff like that could write like this—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'Rise up and mak' a clean fireside,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Put on the mickle pot;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>Gie little Kate her cotton gown,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>And Jock his Sunday's coat;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Their stockins' white as snaw;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>It's a' to pleasure our gudeman—</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>He likes to see them braw.'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>That's human nature, man; there you've the -good-wife, and the goodman, and the bairns; none o' -your Philomels, and nymphs, and swains! That -bletherin' idiot, Dr. Beattie, wrote additional -verses—well, he might almost be forgiven for the last -couplet,</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'The present moment is our ain,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>The neist we never saw.'——"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"That was a favourite quotation of old George -Bethune's," said the elder MacVittie, with a smile, -to Vincent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The young man was startled out of a reverie. It -was so strange for him to sit and hear conversation -like this, and to imagine that George Bethune had -joined in it, and no doubt led it, in former days, and -that perhaps Maisrie had been permitted to listen.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he made answer, modestly; "and no man -ever carried the spirit of it more completely into his -daily life."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What makes ye think he is in New York, or -in the United States, at least?" was the next -question.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can hardly say," said Vincent, "except that I -knew he had many friends here."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If George Bethune is in New York," Tom -MacVittie interposed, in his decisive way, "I'll -wager he'll show up at Sutherland's to-morrow -night—I'll wager my coat and hat!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then the Editor put in a word.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I thought that," said he, "I would go along -to the Secretary, and see if I could have a ticket -reserved for him. I'm going to ask Mr. Harris -here to be my guest; for if he isn't a Scotchman, at -least he has been in Scotland since any of us were -there."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I hope you don't need to be a Scotchman -in order to have an admiration for Robert Burns," -said Vincent; and with that appropriate remark the -symposium broke up; for if MacVittie, MacVittie, -and Hogg chose to enliven their brief mid-day meal -with reminiscences of their native land and her -poets, they were not in the habit of wasting much -time or neglecting their business.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A good part of the next day Vincent spent in the -society of Hugh Anstruther; for in the stir and -ferment then prevailing among the Scotch circles in -New York, it was possible that George Bethune -might be heard of at any moment; and, indeed, -they paid one or two visits to Nassau-street, to ask -of the Secretary of the Burns Society whether -Mr. Bethune had not turned up in the company of some -friend applying for an additional ticket. And in -the meantime Vincent had frankly confessed to this -new acquaintance what had brought him over to the -United States.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Man, do ye think I could not guess that!" -Hugh Anstruther exclaimed: he was having -luncheon with Vincent at the latter's hotel. "Here -are you, a fresh-elected member of Parliament—and -I dare say as proud as Punch in consequence; -and within a measurable distance of your taking -your place in the House, you leave England, and -come away over to America to hunt up an old man -and a young girl. Do I wonder?—I do not wonder. -A bonnier lassie, a gentler creature, does not step -the ground anywhere; ay, and of good birth and -blood, too; though there may be something in that -to account for George Bethune's disappearance. A -proud old deevil, ye see; and wilful; and always -with those wild dreams of his of getting a great -property——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, but is there the slightest possibility of -their ever getting that property?" Vincent interposed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is a possibility of my becoming the -President of the United States of America," was the -rather contemptuous (and in point of fact, inaccurate) -answer. "The courts have decided: you can't go -and disturb people who have been in possession for -generations—at least, I should think not! As for -the chapter of accidents: no doubt the estates might -come to them for want of a more direct heir; such -things certainly do happen; but how often? -However, the old man is opinionated."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not as much as he was," Vincent said. "Not -on that point, at least. He does not talk as much -about it as he used—so Maisrie says."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Maisrie? I was not sure. A pretty name. -Well, I congratulate you; and when, in the ordinary -course of things, it falls upon you to provide her -with a home, I hope she will lead a more settled, a -happier life, than I fancy she could have led in -that wandering way."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent was silent. There were certain things -about which he could not talk to this new acquaintance, -even though he now seemed so well disposed -towards old George Bethune and that solitary girl. -There were matters about which he had given up -questioning himself: mysteries that appeared -incapable of explanation. In the meantime his hopes -and speculations were narrowed down to this one -point: would Maisrie's grandfather—from whichsoever -part of the world he might hail—suddenly -make his appearance at this celebration to-night? -For in that case she herself could not be far off.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And wildly enthusiastic this gathering proved to -be, even from the outset. Telegrams were flying -this way and that (for in the old country the -ceremonies had begun some hours previously); there -was no distinction between members and friends; -and as Scot encountered Scot, each vied with the -other in recalling the phrases and intonation of -their younger years. In the midst of this turmoil -of arrival and joyous greeting, Vincent's gaze was -fixed on the door; at any moment there might -appear there a proud-featured old man, white-haired, -keen-eyed, of distinguished bearing—a striking -figure—and not more picturesque than welcome! -For would not Maisrie, later on in the evening, be -still waiting up for him? And if, at the end of the -proceedings, one were to walk home with the old -man, and have a chance of saying five words to -Maisrie herself, by way of good-night? No, he -would not reproach her! He would only take her -hand, and say, 'To-morrow—to-morrow, Maisrie, I -am coming to scold you!'</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thin Scot, burly Scot, red-headed Scot, black-a-vised -Scot, Lowlander and Highlander—all came -trooping in, eager, talkative, delighted to meet -friends and acquaintances; but there was no George -Bethune. And when they had settled down in -their places, and when dinner had begun, Hugh -Anstruther, who was 'Croupier' on this occasion, -turned to his guest and said:—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must not be disappointed. I hardly -expected him; I could not hear of any one who -had invited him. But it is quite likely he may -turn up latter on—very likely, indeed, if he is -anywhere within travelling distance of New York. -George Bethune is not the one to forget the -twenty-fifth of January; and of course he must -know that many of his friends are assembled -here."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then presently the Croupier turned to his guest -and said in an undertone—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's a toast that's not down in the list; and -I'm going to ask ye to drink it; we'll drink it -between ourselves. Fill your glass, man—bless me, -what's the use of water!—see, here's some -hock—Sutherland's famous for his hock—and now this is -the toast. 'Here's to Scotch lassies, wherever they -may be!'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—'wherever they may be,'" Vincent repeated, -absently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, don't be downhearted!" his lion-maned -friend said, with cheerful good humour. "If that -self-willed old deevil has taken away the lassie, -thinking to make some grand heiress of her, he'll -find it's easier to talk about royal blood than to -keep a comfortable house over her head; and some -day he may be glad enough to bring her back and -see her safely provided with a husband well-to-do -and able to take care of her. Royal blood?—I'm -not sure that I haven't heard him maintain that -the Bethunes were a more ancient race than the -Stewarts. I shouldn't wonder if he claimed to be -descended from Macbeth, King of Scotland. Oh, -he holds his head high, the old scoundrel that has -'stole bonny Glenlyon away.' But you'll be even -with him yet; you'll be even with him yet. Why, -if he comes in to-night, and finds ye sitting here, -he'll be as astonished as Maclean of Duart was -at Inverary, when he looked up from the banquet -and saw his wife at the door."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So Vincent had perforce to wait in vague -expectancy; but nevertheless the proceedings of the -evening interested him not a little, and all the -more that he happened to know two of the principal -speakers. For to Mr. Tom MacVittie was entrusted -the toast of the evening—"The Immortal Memory -of Robert Burns"—and very eloquently indeed did -the big merchant deal with that well-worn theme. -What the subject lacked in novelty was amply -made up by the splendid enthusiasm of his -audience: the most familiar quotations—rolled out -with MacVittie's breadth of accent and strong -north-country burr—were welcome as the songs of -Zion sung in a strange land; this was the magic -speech that could stir their hearts, and raise visions -of their far-off and beloved native home. Nor were -they at all </span><em class="italics">laudatores temporis acti</em><span>—these perfervid -and kindly Scots. When the Croupier rose to -propose the toast that had been allotted to -him—"The Living Bards of Scotland"—cheer after cheer -greeted names of which Vincent, in his southern -ignorance, had never even heard. Indeed, to this -stranger, it seemed as if the Scotland of our own -day must be simply alive with poets; and not of the -kind that proclaimed at Paisley "They sterve us -while we're leevin, and raise moniments to us when -we're deed;" but of a quiet and modest character, -their subjects chiefly domestic, occasionally humorous, -more frequently exhibiting a sincere and effective -pathos. For, of course, the Croupier justified -himself with numerous excerpts; and there was no -stint to the applause of this warm-blooded audience; -insomuch that Vincent's idle fancies went wandering -away to those (to him) little known minstrels -in the old land, with a kind of wish that they -could be made aware how they were regarded by -their countrymen across the sea. Nay, when the -Croupier concluded his speech, "coupling with this -toast" a whole string of names, the young man, -carried away by the prevailing ardour, said—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mr. Anstruther, surely nothing will do justice to -this toast but a drop of whiskey!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>—and the Croupier, passing him the decanter, said -in reply——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Surely—surely—on an evening like this; and -yet I'm bound to say that if it had not been for the -whiskey, my list of living Scotch poets would have -been longer."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The evening passed; and Vincent's hopes, that -had been too lightly and easily raised, were slowly -dwindling. Had George Bethune been in New -York, or within any reasonable distance of it, he -would almost certainly have come to this -celebration, at which several of his old friends were -assembled. As Vincent walked home that night to -his hotel, the world seemed dark and wide; and he -felt strangely alone. He knew not which way to -turn now. For one thing, he was not at all -convinced, as Hugh Anstruther appeared to be, that it -was Mr. Bethune who had taken his granddaughter -away, and that, sooner or later, he would turn up at -one or other of those trans-Atlantic gatherings of -his Scotch friends. Vincent could not forget -Maisrie's last farewell; and if this separation were -of her planning and executing, then there was far -less chance of his encountering them in any such -haphazard fashion. 'It is good-bye for ever between -you and me,' she had written. And of what avail -now were her wild words, 'Vincent, I love you!—I -love you!—you are my dearest in all the world! -You will remember, always and always, whenever you -think of me, that that is so: you will not forget: -remember that I love you always, and am thinking -of you!' Idle phrases, that the winds had blown -away! Of what use were they now? Nay, why -should he believe them, any more than the pretty -professions that Mrs. de Lara had made on board -the steamer? Were they not both women, those -two? And then he drew back with scorn of -himself; and rebuked the lying Satan that seemed -to walk by his side. Solitariness—wounded -pride—disappointment—almost despair—might drive -him to say or imagine mad things at the moment; -but never—never once—in his heart of hearts had -he really doubted Maisrie's faith and honour. All -other things might be; not that.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He resolved to leave New York and go out west; -it was just possible that Maisrie had taken some -fancy for revisiting the place of her birth; he -guessed they might have certain friends there also. -Hugh Anstruther came to the railway station to see -him off.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he said, "you may hear something about -them in Omaha; but it is hardly probable; for those -western cities grow at a prodigious pace, and the -traces of people who leave them get very soon -obliterated. Besides, the population is more or less -shifting; there are ups and downs; and you must -remember it is a considerable time since -Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter left Omaha. -However, in case you don't learn anything of them there, -I have brought you a letter of introduction to -Daniel Thompson of Toronto—the well-known -banker—you may have heard of him—and he is as -likely as any one to know anything that can be -known of George Bethune. They are old friends."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent was very grateful.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I suppose," he said, as he was getting his -smaller belongings into the car, "I shan't hear -anything further of that fellow de Lara?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not a bit—not a bit!" the good-natured Scotch -Editor made answer. "You took the right way -with him at the beginning. He'll probably call you -a scoundrel and a blackguard in one or two obscure -papers; but that won't break bones."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have a stout oak cudgel that can, though," -said Vincent, "if there should be need."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was a long and a lonely journey; Vincent was -in no mood for making acquaintances; and -doubtless his fellow-passengers considered him an -excellent specimen of the proud and taciturn travelling -Englishman. But at last he came in sight of the -wide valley of the Missouri, with its long mud-banks -and yellow water-channels; and beyond that again -the flat plain of the city, dominated by the -twin-spired High School perched on a distant height. -And he could see how Omaha had grown even -within the short time that had elapsed since his last -visit; where he could remember one-storeyed -tenements stuck at haphazard amongst trees and waste -bits of green there were now streets with tram-cars -and important public buildings; the city had -extended in every direction; it was a vast wilderness -of houses that he beheld beyond the wide river. -Perhaps Maisrie had been surprised too—on coming -back to her old home? Alas! it seemed so big a -place in which to search for any one; and he knew -of no kindly Scotch Editor who might help.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And very soon he got to recognise that Hugh -Anstruther's warnings had been well founded. Omaha -seemed to have no past, nor any remembrance of -bygone things; the city was too busy pushing ahead -to think of those who had gone under, or left. It is -true that at the offices of the Union Pacific Railway, -he managed to get some scant information about -the young engineer with whom fortune had dealt so -hardly; but these were not personal reminiscences; -there were new men everywhere, and Maisrie's -father had not been known to any of them. As for -the child-orphan and the old man who had come to -adopt her, who was likely to remember them? -They were not important enough; Omaha had its -'manifest destiny' to think of; besides, they were -now gone some years—and some years in a western -city is a century.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This was not a wholesome life that Vincent was -leading—so quite alone was he—and anxious—and -despairing. He could not sleep very well. At -intervals during the night he would start up, making -sure that he heard the sound of a violin; and -sometimes the distant and almost inaudible notes seemed -to have a suggestion of Maisrie's voice in them—'</span><em class="italics">I -daurna tryst wi' you, Willie ... I daurna tryst ye -here ... But we'll hold our tryst in heaven, Willie -... In the spring-time o' the year</em><span>'—and then he would -listen more and more intently, and convince himself -it was only the moaning of the wind down the -empty street. He neglected his meals. When he -took up a newspaper, the printed words conveyed -no meaning to him. And then he would go away -out wandering again, through those thoroughfares -that had hardly any interest for him now; while he -was becoming more and more hopeless as the long -hours went by, and feeling himself baffled at every -point.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But before turning his face eastward again, he had -written to Mr. Daniel Thompson of Toronto, -mentioning that he had a letter of introduction from -Hugh Anstruther, and stating what had brought -him out here to the west. Then he went on:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mr. Bethune was never very communicative -about money-matters—at least, to me; indeed, he -seemed to consider such things too trivial for talking -about. At the same time I understood from him -that when his son, Miss Bethune's father, died, -there was either some remnant of his shattered -fortunes—or perhaps it was some fund subscribed -by sympathising friends—I never could make out -which, and was not curious enough to inquire—that -produced a certain small annual income. Now I -thought that if I could discover the trustees who -paid over this income, they would certainly know -where Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter were -now living; or, on the other hand, supposing the -fund was derived from some investment, if I could -find out the bank which held the securities, they -also might be able to tell me. But all my inquiries -have been in vain. I am a stranger; people don't -want to be bothered; sometimes I can see they are -suspicious. However, it has occurred to me that you, -as an old friend of Mr. Bethune, might chance to -know who they are who have this fund in trust; and -if you could tell me, you would put me under a -life-long debt of gratitude. If you were aware of all -the circumstances, you would be convinced that no -ill-use is likely to be made of the information. -When I first became acquainted with Mr. Bethune -and his granddaughter, they seemed to me to be -living a very happy and simple and contented life -in London; and I am afraid I am in some measure -responsible for their having suddenly resolved to -leave these quiet circumstances, and take to that -wandering life of which Miss Bethune seemed so -sadly tired. If I can get no news of them here, I -propose returning home by Toronto and Montreal, -and I shall then give myself the pleasure of calling -upon you, when I may be able to assure you that, if -you should hear anything of Mr. Bethune and Miss -Bethune, you would be doing no injury to them, or -to any one, in letting me know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then came the answer—from a cautious Scot.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dear Sir,—As you rightly observe, my old -friend George Bethune was never very -communicative about money matters; and perhaps he was -even less so with me than with others—fearing that -any such disclosures might be misconstrued into an -appeal for help. I was vaguely aware, like yourself, -that he had some small annual income—for the -maintenance of his granddaughter, as I understood; -but from whence it was derived I had, and have, no -knowledge whatever; so that I regret I cannot give -you the information you seek. I shall be pleased -to see you on your way through Toronto; and still -further pleased to give you any assistance that may -lie in my power."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was not much encouragement in this -letter; but after these weary and lonely days in -this hopeless city, he was glad to welcome any -friendly hand held out to him. And he grew to -think that he would be more likely to hear of -Maisrie in Toronto or Montreal than in this big -town on the banks of the Missouri. Canada had -been far longer her home. She used to talk of -Toronto or Montreal—more rarely of Quebec—as -if she were familiar with every feature of them; -whereas she hardly ever mentioned Omaha. He -remembered her telling him how she used to climb -up to the top of the tower of Toronto College, to -look away across the wide landscape to the lofty -column of soft white smoke that rose from -Niagara Falls into the blue of the summer sky. -He recalled her description of the small verandahed -villa in which they lived, out amongst the sandy -roads and trees and gardens of the suburbs. Why, -it was the </span><em class="italics">Toronto Globe</em><span> or the </span><em class="italics">Toronto Mail</em><span> that -old George Bethune was reading, when first he had -dared to address them in Hyde Park. Then -Montreal: he recollected so well her talking of the -Grey Nunnery, of Notre Dame, of Bonsecours -Market, of the ice palaces, and toboggan slides, and -similar amusements of the hard northern winter. -But a trivial little incident that befell him on his -arrival in Toronto persuaded him, more than any of -these reminiscences, that in coming to Canada he -was getting nearer to Maisrie—that at any moment -he might be within immediate touch of her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was rather late in the evening when he reached -his hotel; he was tired; and he thought he would -go soon to bed. His room looked out into a side -street that was pretty sure to be deserted at this -hour; so that, just as he was turning off the light, -he was a trifle surprised to hear a slight and distant -sound as of singing; and from idle curiosity he went -to the window. There was a full moon; the opposite -pavement and the fronts of the houses were white -in the cold and clear radiance; silence reigned save -for this chance sound he had heard. At the same -moment he descried the source of it. There were -two young girls coming along the pavement -opposite—hurrying home, apparently, arm-in-arm—while -they amused themselves by singing a little in an -underhand way, one of them even attempting a -second from time to time. And how could he -mistake the air?—it was the </span><em class="italics">Claire Fontaine</em><span>! The -girls were singing in no sad fashion; but idly and -carelessly to amuse themselves on their homeward -way; and indeed so quietly that even in this -prevailing silence he could only guess at the -words—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>J'ai perdu ma maîtresse</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Sans l'avoir mérité,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Pour un bouquet de roses</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Que je lui refusai.</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>* * * * *</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>Je voudrais que la rose</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Fût encore au rosier,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Et moi et ma maîtresse</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Dans les mêms amitiés.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>And then the two slight, dark figures went by in -the white moonlight; and eventually the sound -ceased in the distance. But he had been greatly -cheered and comforted. This was a friendly and -familiar air. He had reached Maisrie's home at -last; </span><em class="italics">la Claire Fontaine</em><span> proclaimed it. And if, -when he neared the realms of sleep, his heart was -full of the old refrain—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Jamais je ne t'oublierai,</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>there was something of hopefulness there as well: -he had left the despair of Omaha behind him.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="enlightenment"><span class="large">CHAPTER IV.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">ENLIGHTENMENT.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Next morning he was up and out betimes—wandering -through this town that somehow seemed to -be pervaded by Maisrie's presence, or, at least, by -recollections of her and associations with her. He -had hardly left his hotel when he heard a telegraph-boy -whistling the air of 'Isabeau s'y promène.' He -went from one street to another, recognising this -and that public building: the polished marble -pillars shining in the cold, clear sunlight. Then he -walked away up College Avenue, and entered -Queen's Park; and there, after some little delay, -he obtained permission to ascend to the top of the -University tower. But in vain he sought along the -southern horizon for the cloud of soft white smoke -of which Maisrie had often spoken; the distant -Niagara was frozen motionless and mute. When -he returned to the more frequented thoroughfares, -the business-life of the city was now in full flow; -nevertheless he kept his eyes on the alert; even -amid this hurrying crowd, the figure of George -Bethune would not readily escape recognition. -But, indeed, he was only seeking to pass the time, -for he thought he ought not to call on the banker -before mid-day.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Daniel Thompson he found to be a tall, spare -man, of well over sixty, with short white whiskers, -a face otherwise clean shaven, and eyes that were -shrewd and observant, but far from unkindly. He -listened to the young man's tale with evident interest.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And so you have come all the way across the -Atlantic," said he, "to look for my old friend -George Bethune and little Maggie."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maggie," repeated Vincent, somewhat startled. -"Maisrie, you mean."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maisrie!" the banker said, with a certain -impatience. "Does he still keep up that nonsense? -The girl's name is Margaret; Margaret Bethune—surely -a good enough name for any Christian. -But his head is just full of old ballads and stuff of -that kind; any fancy that strikes him is just as real -to him as fact; I dare say he could persuade -himself that he was intimately acquainted with Sir -Patrick Spens and the Scots lords who were -drinking in Dunfermline town——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But in any case," Vincent protested (for how -could he surrender the name that was so deeply -graven on his heart)? "Maisrie is only a form of -Margaret—as Marjorie is—a pet name—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maisrie!" said the banker, contemptuously. -"Who ever heard of any human creature being -called Maisrie—outside of poetry-books and old -ballads? I warned the little monkey, many and -many a day ago, when I first got her to write to me, -that she must sign her own name, or she would see -what I would do to her. Well, how is the little -Omahussy? What does she look like now? A sly -little wretch she used to be—making people fond of -her with her earnest eyes—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think you quite understand," said -Vincent, who resented this familiar tone, though -in truth it only meant an affectionate kindliness. -"Miss Bethune is no longer the little girl you seem -to imagine; she is quite a young lady now—and -taller than most."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The little Omahussy grown up to be a tall -young lady?" said he, in a pleased fashion. "Yes, -yes, I suppose so. No doubt. And tall, you say? -Even when she was here last she was getting on; -but the only photograph I have of her was done -long before that—when she was hardly more than -twelve; and then I'm an old bachelor, you see; I'm -not accustomed to watch children grow up; and -somehow I remember her mostly as when I first knew -her—a shy young thing, and yet something of a -little woman in her ways. Grown up good-looking, -too, I suppose?—both her father and mother were -handsome."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you saw her now," said Vincent, "I think -you would say she was beautiful; though it might -not be her beauty that would take your attention -the most."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The elderly banker regarded this young man for -a second or so—and with a favouring glance: he -was clearly well impressed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hope you will not consider me intrusive or -impertinent if I ask you a question," said he. "I -am an old friend of George Bethune's—perhaps the -oldest alive now; and besides that I have always -regarded myself as a sort of second father to the -little Margaret—though their wandering way of life -has taken her out of my care. Now—don't answer -unless you like—tell me to mind my own business—but -at the same time one would almost infer, -from your coming over here in search of them, that -you have some particular interest in the young -lady——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is the chief interest of my life," said Vincent, -with simple frankness. "And that is why I cannot -rest until I find them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, now, one question more," the banker -continued. "I don't wish to pry into any young -lady's secrets—but—but perhaps there may be some -understanding between her and you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hope so," said Vincent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the young wretch never wrote me a line -to tell me of it!" Mr. Thompson exclaimed—but -it was very obvious that this piece of news had -caused him no chagrin. "The little Omahussy -grows up to be a fine and tall young lady; chooses -her sweetheart for herself; thinks of getting -married and all the rest of it; and not a word to me! -Here is filial gratitude for you! Why, does she -forget what I have promised to do for her? Not -that I ever said so to her; you don't fill a -school-girl's head full of wedding fancies; but her -grandfather knew; her grandfather must have told her -when this affair was settled between you and -her——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But here Vincent had to interpose and explain -that nothing was settled; that unhappily everything -was unsettled; and further he went on to tell -of all that had happened preceding the disappearance -of Maisrie and her grandfather. For this man -seemed of a kindly nature; he was an old friend of -those two; then Vincent had been very much alone -of late—there was no one in Omaha in whom he -could confide. Mr. Thompson listened with close -attention; and at last he said—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can see that you have been placed in a very -peculiar position; and that you have stood the test -well. The description of my old friend Bethune that -your father put before you could be made to look -very plausible; and I imagine that most young -men would have been staggered by it. I can fancy -that a good many young men would have been apt -to say 'Like grandfather, like granddaughter'—and -would have declined to have anything more to -do with either. And yet I understand that, -however doubtful or puzzled you may have been, at -least you never had any suspicion of Margaret?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Suspicion?" said Vincent. "Of the girl whom -I hope to make my wife? I need not answer the -question."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Thompson give a bit of a laugh, in a quiet, -triumphant manner.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Evidently my little Omahussy had her eyes -widely and wisely open when she made her choice," -said he, apparently to himself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And what can I do now?" Vincent went on, in -a half-despairing way. "You say you are certain -they are not in Canada or they would have come to -see you. The Scotchmen in New York told me -they were positive Mr. Bethune was not there, or -he would have shown up at the Burns Anniversary. -Well, where can I go now? I must find her—I -cannot rest until I have found her—to have -everything explained—and—and to find out her reason -for going away——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wonder," said Mr. Thompson, slowly, "what -old George had in his head this time? To him, as -I say, fancies are just as real as facts, and I cannot -but imagine that this has been his doing. She -would not ask him to break up all his arrangements -and ways of living for her sake; she was too -submissive and dependent on him for that; it is she -who has conformed to some sudden whim of his. -You had no quarrel with him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A quarrel? Nothing of the kind—not the -shadow of a quarrel!" Vincent exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you mention to him those reports about -himself?" was the next question.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, yes, I did, in a casual sort of way," the -young man answered honestly. "But it was merely -to account for any possible opposition on the part -of my father; and, in fact, I wanted Mr. Bethune to -consent to an immediate marriage between Maisrie -and myself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And what did Margaret say to that?" Mr. Thompson -proceeded to ask; he was clearly trying -to puzzle out for himself the mystery of this -situation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You mean the last time I saw her—the very -last time?" the young man answered him. "Well, -she seemed greatly troubled: as I mentioned to -you, there was some wild talk about degradation—fancy -degradation having anything to do with -Maisrie Bethune!—and she said it would be better -for us to separate; and she made me promise -certain things. But I wouldn't listen to her; I was -going down to Mendover; I made sure everything -would come right as soon as I could get back. And -then, when I got back, they were gone—and not a -trace of them left behind."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Had old George got any news about the -Balloray estates?" the banker asked, with a quick -look.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not that I know of," Vincent answered. "Besides, -if there had been any news of importance, -it would have been in the papers; we should all -have seen it!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you and Margaret parted on good terms?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good terms?" said Vincent. "That is hardly -the phrase. But beyond what I told you, I cannot -say more. There are some things that are for -myself alone."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Quite right—quite right," said Mr. Thompson, -hastily, "I quite understand."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At this moment a card was brought in.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tell the gentleman I will see him directly," was -the reply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent, of course, rose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I confess," said the banker, "that the whole -affair perplexes me; and I should like a little time -to think it over. Have you any engagement for -this evening?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," said Vincent; "I only arrived in Toronto -last night: and I don't suppose I know any one in -the town."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come and dine with me at my club, then, this -evening, will you? Just our two selves: the —— -club, at seven. I want to talk to you about this -matter; for I have a particular interest, as you may -suppose, in the little Maggie; and I want to know -what it all means. I should like to learn something -more about you, too, in view of certain possibilities. -And perhaps I can give you a few hints about my -old friend George, for you don't quite seem to -understand, even with all the chances you have -had. Yes, I can see a little doubt in your mind -at times. You would rather shut your eyes—for -Margaret's sake, no doubt; but I want to show you -that there isn't much of that needed, if you only -look the right way. However, more of that when -we meet. At seven, then. Sorry to seem so -rude—but this is an appointment——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That proved to be a memorable evening. To -begin with small things: Vincent, after his late -solitary wanderings in unfamiliar conditions of life, -now and suddenly found himself at home. The -quiet, old-fashioned unobtrusive comfort of this -club; the air of staid respectability; the manner of -the waiters; the very cooking, and the order in -which the wines were handed—all appeared to him -to be so thoroughly English; and the members, -judging by little points here and there, seemed also -to be curiously English in their habits and ways. -He had received a similar impression on his first -visit to Toronto; but on this occasion it was more -marked than ever; perhaps the good-humoured -friendliness of this Scotch banker had something -to do with it, and their being able to talk about -people in whom they had a common concern. -However, it was after dinner, in a snug corner of the -smoking-room, that Mr. Thompson proceeded to -talk of his old friend in a fashion that considerably -astonished the young man who was his guest.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he continued, after he had examined and -cross-examined Vincent with regard to certain -occurrences, "there is no doubt at all that George -Bethune is a rank old impostor; but the person on -whom he has mostly imposed, all his life through, -has been—George Bethune. I suppose, now, every -one of us has in his nature a certain amount of -self-deception; it would be a pity if it weren't so. But -here is this man who has been gifted with a quite -unlimited faculty of self-deception; and with a -splendid imagination, too—the imagination of a -poet, without a poet's responsibilities; so that he -lives in a world entirely of his own creation, and -sees things just as he wants to see them. As I say, -he has the imagination of a poet, and the unworldliness -of a poet, without any one calling him to do -anything to prove his powers; he is too busy -constructing his own fanciful universe for himself; and -all the common things of life—debts, bills, -undertakings, and so forth—they have no existence for -him. Ah, well, well," Mr. Thompson went on, as -he lay back in his chair, and watched the blue -curls of smoke from his cigar, "I don't know -whether to call it a pity or not. Sometimes one is -inclined to envy him his happy temperament. I -don't know any human creature who has a braver -spirit, whose conscience is clearer to himself, who -can sleep with greater equanimity and content. -Why should he mind what circumstances are around -him when in a single second he can transport -himself to the Dowie Dens o' Yarrow or be off on a -raid with Kinmont Willie? And there's nothing -that he will not seize if he has a mind to it—a -sounding name, a tradition, a historical -incident—why, he laid hold of the Bonnie mill-dams o' -Binnorie, carried them off bodily to Balloray, and I -suppose wild horses wouldn't tear from him the -admission that Balloray never had anything to -do with those mill-dams or the story of the two -sisters——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know," said Vincent; "Maisrie told me about that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maisrie!" said Mr. Thompson, with a return -of his former impatience. "That is another of -his fantasticalities. I tell you her name is -Margaret——."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But she has been Maisrie to me, and Maisrie -she will be to me always," Vincent made answer -stoutly—for surely he had some right to speak on -this matter too. "As I said this morning, it is -only a pet name for Margaret; and if she chooses -to use it, to please her grandfather, or to please -herself even——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Stay a moment: I want to show you something."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The banker put his hand into his breast-pocket; -and pulled out an envelope.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not the photograph?" said Vincent, rather breathlessly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Thompson smiled in his quiet, sagacious way.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When I mentioned this portrait to you to-day," -said he, "I saw something in your eyes—though -you were too modest to put your request into -words. Well, I have brought it; here it is; and -if you'll look at the foot you'll see that the little -Omahussy signs herself, as she ought to sign -herself, 'Margaret Bethune.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And what a revelation was this, of what Maisrie -had been in the years before he had known her! -The quaint, prim, small miss!—he could have -laughed, with a kind of delight: only that here -were those calm, grave, earnest eyes, that seemed -to know him, that seemed to speak to him. Full -of wistfulness they were, and dreams: they said to -him, 'I am looking forward; I am waiting till I -meet you—my friend; life has that in store—for -you and me.'</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought you would be interested," said -Mr. Thompson, blandly. "And I know you would like -me to give you that photograph: perhaps you -think you have some right to it, having won the -young lady herself——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Won her?" said Vincent, still contemplating -this strange, quaint portrait that seemed to speak -to him somehow. "It hardly looks like it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I cannot give you the photograph," the -elderly Scotchman continued, in his friendly way, -"but, if you like, I will have it copied—perhaps -even enlarged, if it will stand it—and I will send -you one——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Will you?" said Vincent, with a flash of gratitude -in his eyes. "To me it would be simply a -priceless treasure."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I just thought it would be," Mr. Thompson said, -considerately. "I've seen something of the ways -of young people in my time. Yes; I'll send you a -copy or two as soon as I can get them done."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent handed back the photograph—reluctantly, -and keeping his eyes on it until it had disappeared.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I brought it out to show you she could sign her -name properly when under proper instruction," the -banker continued. "And now to return to her -grandfather, who seems to have puzzled you a -little, as well might be the case. I can see how -you have been trying to blind yourself to certain -things: no doubt you looked towards Margaret, and -thought she would make up for all. But I surmise -you have been a little unjust to my old friend; -notwithstanding your association with him, you -have not quite understood him; and perhaps that -is hardly to be wondered at. And certainly you -would never take him to be what I consider him to -be—a very great man who has been spoiled by a -fatal inheritance. I do truly and honestly believe -there were the makings of a great man in George -Bethune—a man with his indomitable pluck and -self-reliance, his imagination, his restless energy, -his splendid audacity and independence of character. -Even now I see something heroic in him: he seems -to me a man of heroic build—of heroic attitude -towards the rest of the world: people may say what -they like about George Bethune; but I know him -better than most, and I wholly admire him and -love him. If it hadn't been for that miserable -property! I suppose, now, a large estate may turn -out a fortunate or unfortunate legacy accordingly -as you use it; but if your legacy is only the -knowledge that the estate ought to be yours, and isn't, -that is a fine set of circumstances! And I have -little doubt it was to forget that wretched lawsuit, -to escape from a ceaseless and useless disappointment, -that he took refuge in a world of imagination, -and built up delusions round about him—just as -other people take refuge in gin or in opium. At -all events, his spirit has not been crushed. Did you -ever hear him whine and complain?—I should -think not! He has kept a stout heart, has old -George Bethune. Perhaps, indeed, his pride has -been excessive. Here am I, for example: I'm -getting well on in years, and I haven't a single -near relative now living; I've scraped together a -few sixpences in my time; and nothing would give -me greater pleasure than if George Bethune were -to come to me and ask me to share my purse with -him. And he knows it too. But would he? Not -a bit! Rather than come to me and get some useful -sum, he would go and get a few pounds out of some -newspaper-office on account of one of his frantic -schemes to do something fine for poor old Scotland. -No," the banker proceeded, with rather an injured -air, "I suppose I'm not distinguished enough. -Friend George has some very high and mighty -notions about the claims of long descent—and -</span><em class="italics">noblesse oblige</em><span>—and all that. It is a condescension -on his part to accept help from any one; and it is -the privilege of those who have birth and lineage -like himself to be allowed to come to his aid. I'm -only Thompson. If I were descended from Richard -Coeur de Lion I suppose it would be different. Has -he ever accepted any money from you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never," said Vincent—who was not going to -recall a few restaurant bills and cab fares.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," resumed the banker, "Your name is -Harris. But when it comes to Lord Musselburgh, -that is quite different, that is all right. No doubt -Lord Musselburgh was quite proud to be allowed to -subscribe—how much was it?—towards a book that -never came out."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, but I ought to explain that that money was -paid back," said Vincent, quickly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Paid back?" repeated the banker, staring. -"That is a new feature, indeed! The money paid -back to Lord Musselburgh? How did that come -about? How did friend George yield to a weakness -of that kind?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The fact is," said Vincent, blushing like a -school-boy, "I paid it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Without letting the old gentleman know?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then excuse my saying so," Mr. Thomson -observed, "but you threw away your money to very -little purpose. If George Bethune is willing to -take a cheque from Lord Musselburgh—if he can -do so without the slightest loss of self-respect or -dignity—why should not his lordship be allowed -to help a brother Scot? Why should you interfere?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was for Maisrie's sake," said Vincent, looking down.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, yes, yes," the banker said, knitting his -brows. "That is where the trouble comes in. I -shouldn't mind letting George Bethune go his own -way; he is all right; his self-sufficiency will carry -him through anything: but for a sensitive girl like -that it must be terrible. I wonder how much she -suspects," he went on. "I wonder how much she -sees. Or if it is possible he has blinded her as well -as himself to their circumstances? For you must -remember this—I am talking to you now, Mr. Harris, -as one who may have a closer relationship -with these two—you must remember this, that to -himself George Bethune's conscience is as clear as -that of a one-year-old child. Do you think he sees -anything shady or unsatisfactory in these little -transactions or forgetfulnesses of his? He is careless of -money because he despises it. If he had any, and -you wanted it, it would be yours."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know that," said Vincent, eagerly; and he -told the story of their meeting the poor woman in -Hyde Park.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Take that string of charges you spoke of," the -banker resumed. "I have not the least doubt that -from the point of view of the people who discovered -those things their story was quite accurate. Except, -perhaps, about his calling himself Lord Bethune: I -don't believe that, and never heard of it; that was -more likely a bit of toadyism on the part of some -bar-loungers. But, as I say, from a solicitor's point -of view, George Bethune would no doubt be regarded -as a habitual impostor; whereas to himself he is no -impostor at all, but a perfectly honourable person, -whose every act can challenge the light of day. If -there is any wrong or injury in the relations between -him and the world, be sure he considers himself the -wronged and injured one: though you must admit -he does not complain. The question is—does -Margaret see? Or has he brought her up in that -world of imagination—careless of the real facts of -life—persuading yourself of anything you wish to -believe—thinking little of rent or butchers' bills so -long as you can escape into the merry green-wood -and live with Burd Helens and May Colleans and -the like? You see, when I knew her she was little -more than a child; it would never occur to her to -question the conduct of her grandfather; but now -you say she is a woman—she may have begun to -look at things for herself——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Thompson paused, and eyed his companion -curiously. For a strange expression had come into -Vincent's face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What then?" asked the banker.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am beginning to understand," the young man -said, "and—and—perhaps here is the reason of -Maisrie's going away. Suppose she imagined that -I suspected her grandfather—suppose she thought I -considered those reports true: then she might take -that as a personal insult; she might be too proud to -offer any defence; she would go to her grandfather -and say 'Grandfather, if this is what he and his -friends think of us, it is time we should take definite -steps to end this companionship.' It has been all -my doing, then, since I was so blind?" Vincent -continued, evidently in deep distress. "I don't wonder -that she was offended and insulted—and—and she -would be too proud to explain. I have all along -had a kind of notion that she had something to do, -perhaps everything to do, with their going away. -And yet——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was silent. Mr. Thompson waited for a -second or two, not wishing to interrupt: then he -said—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course you know her better than I do; but -that is not how I should read the situation. It is -far more probable that her own eyes have been -gradually opening—not to what her grandfather is, -but to what he may appear to be in the eyes of the -world; and when she has come more and more to -perceive the little likelihood of his being -considerately judged, she may have determined that you -should be set free from all association with him and -with her. I think that is far more likely, in view -of the things you have told me. And I can imagine -her doing that. A resolute young creature; ready -to sacrifice herself; used to wandering, too—her -first solution of any difficulty would be to 'go -away.' A touch of pride, perhaps, as well. I dare say she -has discovered that if you look at George Bethune -through blue spectacles, his way of life must look -rather questionable; but if you look at him through -pink spectacles, everything is pleasant, and fine, and -even grand. But would she ask anyone to put on -a pair of pink spectacles? No; for she has the -stiff neck of the Bethunes. I imagine she can hold -her head as high as any one, now she is grown up. -And of course she will not ask for generous -interpretation; she will rather 'go away.'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent was still silent; but at length he said—as -if speaking to himself—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wonder what Maisrie must have thought of me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He had evidently been going over all that had -happened in those bygone days—by the light of -this new knowledge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you mean?" the banker said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, if there were any generous interpretation -needed or expected, surely it should have come first -of all from me. The outside world might be -excused for thinking this or that of Mr. Bethune; -but I was constantly with him; and then, look at -the relations that existed between Maisrie and -myself. I thought I was doing enough in the way -of generosity when I tried to shut my eyes to -certain things; whereas I should have tried to see -more clearly. I might have understood—if any -one. I remember now Maisrie's saying to me on one -occasion—it was about that book on the Scottish-American -poets—she said quite piteously: 'Don't -you understand? Don't you understand that -grandfather can persuade himself of anything? -If he has thought a thing over, he considers it -done, and is ready for something else.' And then -there was another time——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come, come," said Mr. Thompson, good-naturedly, -"I don't see you have much to reproach -yourself with. You must admit that that affair—if -he really did see the proof-sheets in New York—looked -pretty bad. You say yourself that Hugh -Anstruther was staggered by it——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, he was," said Vincent, "until I explained -that the money had been repaid to Lord Musselburgh, -and also that I had no doubt Mr. Bethune -considered himself, from his knowledge of the -subject, quite entitled to publish a volume on the -other side of the water. Mr. Ross's book was -published only on this side—at least, that is my -impression."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you tell Anstruther who repaid the money -to Lord Musselburgh?" Mr. Thompson asked, with -a shrewd glance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," answered Vincent, looking rather shame-faced.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, well," the banker said, "a freak of generosity -is very pardonable in a young man, especially -where a young lady is concerned. And you had -the means besides. Your father is a rich man, isn't he?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes, pretty well."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you—now forgive my curiosity—it only -arises from my interest in Margaret—I dare say -you are allowed a sufficient income?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have more money than I need," said Vincent, -frankly, "but of course that would not be the case -if I married Maisrie Bethune, for then I should have -to depend on my own resources. I should have to -earn my own living."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, earn your own living? Well, that is very -commendable, in any case. And how do you propose -to earn your own living?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By writing for the newspapers."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you had any experience?" Maisrie's -'second father' continued.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, a little; and I have had fair encouragement. -Besides, I know one or two important people -in the newspaper world."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And what about your seat in Parliament?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That would not interfere: there are several -journalists in the House."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The banker considered for a little while.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Seems a little hazardous, doesn't it, to break -away from a certainty of income?" he asked, at -length. "Are you quite convinced that if you married -Margaret your relatives would prove so implacable?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It isn't what they would do that is the question," -Vincent responded, with promptitude. "It is what -I should be inclined to do. At present they regard -Maisrie as nothing more nor less than a common -adventuress and swindler—or rather an uncommon -one—a remarkably clever one. Now do you think -I am going to take her by the hand, and lead her -up to them, and say, 'Dear Papa,' or 'Dear Aunt,' -as the case may be, 'Here is the adventuress and -swindler whom I have married, but she is not going -to be wicked any more; she is going to reform; and -I beg you to receive her into the family, and forgive -her all that she has been; and also I hope that you -will give me money to support her and myself.' You -see," continued Vincent, "before I did that I think -I would rather try to find out how much a week I -could make by writing leading-articles."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Quite right—quite right," said Mr. Thompson, -with a smile: for why this disdain?—</span><em class="italics">he</em><span> had not -counselled the young man to debase himself so.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And then it isn't breaking away from any -certainty of income," Vincent proceeded, "but -quite the reverse. The certainty is that as soon as -I announce my intention of marrying Miss Bethune, -my father will suggest that I should shift for -myself. Very well. I'm not afraid. I can take -my chance, like another. They say that poverty -is a good test of affection: I am ready to face it, -for one."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, as for that," the banker interposed, "I -wish you to understand this—that your bride won't -come to you empty-handed. George Bethune may -hold aloof from me as long as he likes. If he -thinks it is more dignified for him to go cadging -about with vague literary projects—all for the -honour and glory of Scotland, no doubt—instead -of letting his oldest friend share his purse with -him, I have nothing to say. My name's only -Thompson; </span><em class="italics">noblesse oblige</em><span> has nothing to do with -me. But when my little Margaret walks into -church to meet the man of her choice, it will -be my business to see that she is suitably provided -for. I do not mean to boast, or make rash promises, -or raise false expectations; but when her husband -brings her away it will be no pauper he is taking -home with him. And I want to add this, since we -are talking in confidence: I hope her husband will -be none other than yourself. I like you. I like -the way you have spoken of both grandfather and -granddaughter; and I like your independence. By -all means when you get back to the old country: by -all means carry out that project of yours of earning -an income for yourself. It can do you no harm, -whatever happens; it may be invaluable to you in -certain circumstances. And in the meantime, if I -may still further advise, give up this search of yours -for the present. I dare say you are now convinced -they are not on this side the water; well, let that -suffice for the time being. Here is Parliament -coming together; you have your position to make; -and the personal friend and protégé of —— should -surely have a great chance in public life. Of -course, you will say it is easy to talk. But don't -misunderstand me. What can you do except -attend to these immediate and practical affairs? -If George Bethune and Margaret have decided, for -reasons best known to themselves, to sever the -association between you and them, mere advertising -won't bring them back. And searching the streets -of this or that town is a pretty hopeless business. -No; if you hear of them, it will not be in that -way: it will be through some communication with -some common friend, and just as likely as not that -friend will be myself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>All this seemed very reasonable—and hopeless. -Vincent rose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I must not keep you up too late," said he, in am -absent sort of way. "I suppose you are right—I -may as well go away back to England at once. -But of course I will call to see you before I -go—to-morrow if I may—to thank you for all your -kindness."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, but you must keep up your heart, you -know," the banker said, regarding the young man -in a favouring way. "No despair. Why, I am sure -to hear from one or other of them; they cannot -guess that you have been here; even if they wish -to keep their whereabouts concealed from you they -would have no such secret from me. And be sure -I will send you word the moment I hear anything. -I presume the House of Commons will be your -simplest and surest address."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As he walked away home that night Vincent had -many things to ponder over; but the question of -questions was as to whether Maisrie had indignantly -scorned him for his blindness in not perceiving -more clearly her grandfather's nature and circumstances, -or for his supineness in wavering, and half-admitting -that these charges might bring disquiet. -For now the figure of old George Bethune seemed -to stand out distinctly enough: an amiable and -innocent monomaniac; a romantic enthusiast; a -sublime egotist; a dreamer of dreams; a thaumaturgist -surrounding himself with delusions and not -knowing them to be such. And if Daniel Thompson's -reading of the character of his old friend -was accurate—if George Bethune had merely in -splendid excess that faculty of self-deception which -in lesser measure was common to all mortals—who -was going to cast the first stone?</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="marriage-not-a-la-mode"><span class="large">CHAPTER V.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">MARRIAGE NOT A LA MODE.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>London had come to life again; the meeting of -Parliament had summoned fathers of families from -distant climes and cities—from Algiers and Athens, -from Constantinople and Cairo; the light blazed at -the summit of the Clock-tower; cabs and carriages -rattled into Palace Yard. And here, at a table in -the Ladies' Dining-room of the House of Commons, -sate Mrs. Ellison and her friend Louie Drexel, -along with Lord Musselburgh and Vincent Harris, -the last-named playing the part of host. This Miss -Drexel was rather an attractive-looking little person, -brisk and trim and neat, with a healthy complexion, -a pert nose, and the most astonishingly clear blue -eyes. Very frank those eyes were; almost ruthless -in a way; about as ruthless as the young lady's -tongue, when she was heaping contempt and -ridicule on some conventionality or social -superstition. "Seeva the Destroyer" Vincent used -gloomily to call her, when he got a little bit tired -of having her flung at his head by the indefatigable -young widow. Nevertheless she was a merry and -vivacious companion; with plenty of independence, -too: if she was being flung at anybody's head it -was with no consent of her own.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't say!" she was observing to her -companion. "Fancy any one being in Canada in -the winter and not going to see the night -tobogganing at Rideau Hall!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I never was near Ottawa," said Vincent, in -answer to her; "and, besides, I don't know the -Viceroy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A member of the British Parliament—travelling -in Canada: I don't think you would have to -wait long for an invitation," said she. "Why, you -missed the loveliest thing in the world—just the -loveliest thing in the whole world!—the toboggan-slide -all lit up with Chinese lanterns—the black -pine woods all around—the clear stars overhead. -Then they have great bonfires down in the hollow—to -keep the chaperons from freezing: poor things, -it isn't much fun for them; I dare say they find -out what a good thing hot coffee is on a cold night. -And you were at Toronto?" she added.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I was at Toronto," he answered, absently: -indeed at this time he was thinking much oftener of -Toronto than this young lady could have -imagined—wondering when, or if ever, a message was -coming to him from the friendly Scotch banker -there.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Ellison was now up in town making preparations -for her approaching marriage; but so anxious -was she that Louie Drexel and Vincent should get -thrown together, that she crushed the natural desire -of a woman's heart for a fashionable wedding, and -proposed that the ceremony should be quite a quiet -little affair, to take place at Brighton, with Miss -Drexel as her chief attendant and Vincent as best -man. And of course there were many consultations; -and Mrs. Ellison and her young friend were much -together; and they seemed to think it pleasanter, -in their comings and goings, to have a man's escort, -so that the Parliamentary duties of the new member -for Mendover were very considerably interfered with.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Look here, aunt," said he, at this little dinner, -"do you think I went into the House of Commons -simply to get you places in the Ladies' gallery and -entertain you in the Ladies' Dining-room?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I consider that a very important part of your -duties," said the young widow, promptly. "And -I tell you this: when we come back from the -Riviera, for the London season, I hope to be kept -informed of everything that is going on—surely, -with a husband in one House and a nephew in the -other!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But what I want to know is," said Lord Musselburgh -on this same occasion, "what Vin is going -to do about the taxation of ground rents. I think -that is about the hardest luck I ever heard of. -Here is a young man, who no sooner gets into -Parliament than he is challenged to say whether he -will support the taxation of ground rents; and lo -and behold! every penny of his own fortune is -invested in ground rents! Isn't that hard? Other -things don't touch him. Welsh Disestablishment -will neither put a penny in his pocket nor take one -out; while he can make promises by the dozen -about the abolition of the tea duty, extension of -Factory Acts, triennial Parliaments, and all the rest -of it. Besides, it isn't only a question of money. -He knows he has no more right to tax ground rents -than to pillage a baker's shop; he knows he -oughtn't to give the name of patriot to people who -merely want to steal what doesn't belong to them; -and I suppose he has his own ideas about contracts -guaranteed by law, and the danger of introducing -the legislation of plunder. But what is he going to -do? What are you going to do, Marcus Curtius? -Jump in, and sacrifice yourself, money and principles -and all?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are not one of my constituents," said -Vincent, "and I decline to answer."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Day after day went by, and week after week; -but no tidings came of the two fugitives. In such -moments of interval as he could snatch from his -various pursuits (for he was writing for an evening -paper now, and that occupied a good deal of his -time) his imagination would go wandering away -over the surface of the globe, endeavouring to -picture them here or there. He had remembered -Maisrie's injunction; he could not forget that; but -of what avail was it now? Busy as he was, he led -a solitary kind of life; much thinking, especially -during the long hours of the night, was eating -into his spirit; in vain did Mrs. Ellison scheme -and plan all kinds of little festivities and -engagements in order to get him interested in -Louie Drexel. But he was grateful to the girl, in -a sort of way; when they had to go two and two -(which Mrs. Ellison endeavoured to manage -whenever there was a chance) she did all the talking; -she did not seem to expect attention; she was -light-hearted and amusing enough. He bought her -music; sent her flowers; and so forth; and no -doubt Mrs. Ellison thought that all was going well; -but it is to be presumed that Miss Drexel herself -was under no misapprehension, for she was an -observant and shrewd-witted lass. Once, indeed, -as they were walking up Regent-street, she -ventured to hint, in a sisterly sort of fashion, that -he might be a little more confidential with her; -but he did not respond to this invitation; and she -did not pursue the subject further.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then the momentous wedding-day drew near; -and it was with curious feelings that Vincent found -himself on the way to Brighton again. But he was -not alone. The two Drexel girls and Lord -Musselburgh were with him, in this afternoon Pullman; -and Miss Louie was chattering away like twenty -magpies. Always, too, in an oddly personal way. -You—the person she was addressing—you were -responsible for everything that had happened to -her, or might happen to her, in this country; you -were responsible for the vagaries of the weather, for -the condition of the cab that brought her, for the -delay in getting tickets.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why," she said to Vincent, "you know perfectly -well that all that your English poets have written -about your English spring is a pure imposture. -Who would go a-Maying when you can't be sure of -the weather for ten minutes at a time? 'Hail, -smiling morn!'—just you venture to say that, on -the finest day you ever saw in an English spring; -the chances are your prayer will be answered, -and the chances are that the morn does begin to -hail, like the very mischief. You know perfectly -well that Herrick is a fraud. There never were -such people as Corydon and Phyllis—with ribbons -at their knees and in their caps. The farm-servants -of Herrick's time were no better off than the -farm-servants of this present time—stupid, ignorant louts, -not thinking of poetry at all, but living the most -dull and miserable of lives, with an occasional -guzzle. But in this country, you believe anything -that is told you. One of your great men says that -machine-made things are bad; and so you go and -print your books on hand-made paper—and worry -yourselves to death before you can get the edges -out. I call the man who multiplies either useful or -pretty things by machinery a true philanthropist; -he is working for the mass of the people; and it's -about time they were being considered. In former -days——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't you want to hire a hall, Louie?" said her -sister Anna.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I've no patience with sham talk of that -kind!" continued Miss Drexel, not heeding the -interruption. "As I say, in former days no one -was supposed to have anything fine or beautiful in -their house, except princes and nobles. The goldsmiths, -and the lapidaries, and the portrait-painters—and -the poor wretches who made Venetian lace—they -all worked for the princes and nobles; and the -common people were not supposed to have anything -to do with art or ornament; they could herd like -pigs. Well, I'm for machinery. I'm for -chromolithography, when it can give the labourer a very -fair imitation of a Landseer or a Millais to hang up -in his cottage; I'm for the sewing-machine that can -give the £150-a-year people a very good substitute -for Syrian embroidery to put in their drawing-room. -You've been so long used to princes and nobles -having everything and the poor people nothing——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But we're learning the error of our ways," -said Vincent, interposing. "My father is a -Socialist."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A Socialist," observed Lord Musselburgh, "who -broke the moulds of a dessert-service lest anybody -else should have plates of the same pattern!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who has been telling tales out of school?" -Vincent asked; but the discussion had to end here, -for they were now slowing into the station.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Nor did Mrs. Ellison's plans for throwing those two -young people continuously and obviously together -work any better in Brighton; for Vincent had no -sooner got down than he went away by himself, -seeking out the haunts he had known when Maisrie and -her grandfather had been there. Wretchedness, -loneliness, was destroying the nerve of this young man. -He had black moods of despair; and not only of -despair, but of remorse; he tortured himself with -vain regrets, as one does when thinking of the dead. -If only he could have all those opportunities over -again, he would not misunderstand or mistrust! -If only he could have them both here!—the -resolute, brave-hearted old man who disregarded -all mean and petty troubles while he could march -along, with head erect, repeating to himself a verse -of the Psalms of David, or perhaps in his careless -gaiety singing a farewell to Bonny Mary and the -pier o' Leith. And Maisrie?—but Maisrie had -gone away, proud, and wounded, and indignant. -She had found him unworthy of the love she had -offered him. He had not risen to her height. She -would seek some other, no doubt, better fitted to -win her maiden trust. He thought of 'Urania'—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'Yet show her once, ye heavenly Powers,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>One of some worthier race than ours!</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>One for whose sake she once might prove</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>How deeply she who scorns can love.'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>And that other one, that worthier one, she would -welcome—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'And she to him will reach her hand,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>And gazing in his eyes will stand,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>And know her friend, and weep for glee,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>And cry: </span><em class="italics">Long, long I've looked for thee</em><span>.'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Then again his mood would change. If Maisrie -were only here—if but for a second or so he could -look into her clear, pensive, true eyes, surely he -could convince her of one thing—that even when -his father had offered him chapter and verse to -prove that she was nothing but the accomplice of -a common swindler, his faith in her had never -wavered, never for an instant. And would she not -forgive his blindness in not understanding so -complex a character as that of her grandfather? -He had not told her of his half-suspicions; nay, -he had treated those charges with an open -contempt. And if her quick eyes had perceived that -behind those professions there lingered some -unconfessed doubt, would she not be generous and -willing to pardon? It was in her nature to be -generous. And he had borne some things for her -sake that he had never revealed to any mortal.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He ought to have been attending to his groomsman's -duties, and acting as escort to the young -ladies who had gone down; but instead of that he -paid a visit to German-place, to look at the house -in which the two Bethunes had lodged; and he -slowly passed up and down the Kemp-Town breakwater, -striving to picture to himself the look in -Maisrie's eyes when her soul made confession; and -he went to the end of the Chain Pier, to recall the -tempestuous morning on which Maisrie, with her -wet hair blown about by the winds, and her lips -salt with the sea-spray, had asked him to kiss her, -as a last farewell. And his promise?—"Promise -me, Vincent, that you will never doubt that you are -my dearest in all the world; promise me that you -will say to yourself always and always, 'Wherever -Maisrie is at this moment, she loves me—she is -thinking of me.'" He had made light of her wild -words; he could not believe in any farewell; and -now—now all the wide, unknown world lay between -him and her, and there was nothing for him but -the memory of her broken accents, her sobs, her -distracted, appealing eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Ellison affected not to notice his remissness; -nay, she went on the other tack.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't you think it is a pity, Vin," she said -on one occasion when she found him alone—and -there was a demure little smile on her very -pretty and expressive face: "Don't you think it -is a pity the two marriages couldn't be on the -same day?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What two marriages?" he demanded, with a stare.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes, we are so discreet!" she said, -mockingly. "We wouldn't mention anything for worlds. -But other people aren't quite blind, young gentleman. -And I do think it would have been so nice -if the four of us could have gone off on this trip -together; Louie despises conventions—she wouldn't -mind. Many's the time I've thought of it; four -make such a nice number for driving along the -Riviera; and four who all know each other so well -would be quite delightful. If it came to that, I -dare say it could be arranged yet: I'm sure I -should be willing to have our marriage postponed -for a month, and I have no doubt I could persuade -Hubert to agree: then the two weddings on the -same day would be jolly—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What are you talking about, aunt!" he exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, well," she said, with a wise and amiable -discretion, "I don't want to hurry on anything, -or even to interfere. But of course we all expect -that the attentions you have been paying to Louie -Drexel will lead to something—and it would have -been very nice if the two weddings could have been -together."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was still staring at her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mind you," she went on, "I wish you distinctly -to understand that Louie has not spoken a single -word to me on the subject—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I should hope not!" said Vincent, with -quick indignation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, don't be angry! Do you think a girl -doesn't interpret things?" continued Mrs. Ellison. -"She has her own pride, of course; she wouldn't -speak until she is spoken to. But </span><em class="italics">I</em><span> can speak; and -surely you know that it is only your interests I have -at heart. And that is why we have been so glad to -see this affair coming along—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who have been glad to see it?" he asked again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, Hubert, for one. And I should think -your father. Of course they must see how admirable -a wife she would make you, now you are really -embarked in public life. Clever, bright, amusing; -of a good family; with a comfortable dowry, no -doubt—but that would be of little consequence, so -long as your father was pleased with the match: -you will have plenty. And this is my offer, a very -handsome one, I consider it: even now, at the last -moment, I will try to get Hubert to postpone our -marriage, if you and Louie will have your wedding -on the same day with us. I have thought of it -again and again; but somehow I didn't like to -speak. I was waiting for you to tell me that there -was a definite understanding between you and -Louie Drexel——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, there is not," he said calmly. "Nor is -there ever likely to be."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, come, come," she said insidiously, "don't -make any rash resolve, simply because I may have -interfered a little too soon. Consider the -circumstances. Did you ever hear of any young man -getting into Parliament with fairer prospects than -you? Your friendship with —— is of itself enough -to attract attention to you. You have hardly -opened your mouth in the House yet; all the same -I can see a disposition on the part of the newspapers -to pet you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What has that got to do with Louie Drexel?" -Vincent asked bluntly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Everything," was the prompt reply. "You -must have social position. You must begin and -entertain—and make your own circle of friends and -allies. Then I shall want you to come to Musselburgh -House—you and your wife—so that my -dinner parties shan't be smothered up with elderly -people and political bores. You can't begin too -early to form your own set; and not only that, but -with a proper establishment and a wife at the head -of it, you can pay compliments to all kinds of -people, even amongst those who are not of your own -set. Why shouldn't you ask Mr. Ogden to dinner, -for example?—there's many a good turn he might -do you in time to come. Wait till you see how I -mean to manage at Musselburgh House—if only -Hubert would be a little more serious, and profess -political beliefs even if he hasn't any. For I want -you to succeed, Vincent. You are my boy. And you -don't know how a woman who can't herself do -anything distinguished is proud to look on and admire -one of her own family distinguishing himself, and -would like to have all the world admiring him too. -I tell you you are losing time; you are losing your -opportunities. What is the use—what on earth -can be the use," continued this zealous and surely -disinterested councillor, "of your writing for -newspapers? If the articles were signed, then I could -understand their doing you some good; or if you -were the editor of an important journal, that would -give you a position. But here you are slaving -away—for what? Is it the money they give you? -It would be odd if the son of Harland Harris had -to make that a consideration. What otherwise, -then? Do you think half-a-dozen people know that -you write in the —— ——."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear aunt," he answered her, "all that you -say is very wise and very kind; but you must not -bother about me when your own affairs are so much -more important. If I have been too attentive to -Miss Drexel—I'm sure I wasn't aware of it, but I -may have been—I will alter that——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Vin, don't be mean!" Mrs. Ellison cried. -"Don't do anything shabby. You won't go and -quarrel with the girl simply because I ventured to -hope something from your manner towards her—you -wouldn't do such a thing as that——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Certainly not," said he, in a half-amused way. -"Miss Drexel and I are excellent friends——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you will continue to be so!" said Mrs. Ellison, -imploringly. "Now, Vincent, promise me! -You know there are crises in a woman's life when -she expects a little consideration—when she expects -to be petted—and have things a little her own way: -well, promise me now you will be very kind to -Louie—kinder than ever—why, what an omen at a -wedding it would be if my chief attendant and the -groomsman were to fall out——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, we shan't fall out, aunt, be sure of that," he -said good-naturedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, but I want more," she persisted. "I shall -consider myself a horrid mischief-maker if I don't -see that you are more attentive and kind to Louie -Drexel than ever. It's your duty. It's your place -as groomsman. You'll have to propose their health -at the wedding-breakfast; and of course you'll say -something nice about American girls—could you -say anything too nice, I wonder?—and you'll have -to say it with an air of conviction. For they'll -expect you to speak well, of course: you, a young -member of Parliament; and where could you find -a more welcome toast, at a wedding-breakfast, than -the toast of the unmarried young ladies? Yes, yes; -you'll have plenty of opportunity of lecturing a -sleepy House of Commons about Leasehold Enfranchisement -and things of that kind; but this is quite -another sort of chance; and I'm looking forward to -my nephew distinguishing himself—as he ought to -do, when he will have Louie and Anna Drexel -listening." And here this astute and insidious adviser -ceased, for her future husband came into the room, -to pay his last afternoon call.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Whether Vincent spoke well or ill on that -auspicious occasion does not concern us here: it -only needs to be said that the ceremony, and the -quiet little festivities following, all passed off very -satisfactorily; and that bride and bridegroom (the -former being no novice) drove away radiant and -happy, amid the usual symbolic showers. It was -understood they were to break their journey -southward at Paris for a few days; and Vincent—who -had meanwhile slipped along to his hotel to change -his attire—went up to the railway station to see -them off. He was surprised to find both the Drexel -girls there.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, look here, Vin," said the charming, tall, -pretty-eyed, and not inexperienced bride, "I want -you to do me a favour. If a woman isn't to be -humoured and petted on her wedding day—when, -then? Well, Louie and Anna don't return to town -till to-morrow morning; and what are they to do in -that empty house with old Mrs. Smythe? I want -you to take them in hand for the afternoon—to -please me. Leave that wretched House of Commons -for one more evening: in any case you couldn't go -up now before the five o'clock express."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then she turned to the two young ladies. -"Louie, Vincent has promised to look after you -two girls; and he'll see you safely into your train -to-morrow morning. So you must do your best to -entertain him in the meanwhile; the afternoon will -be the dullest—you must find something to amuse -yourselves with——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miss Drexel seemed a little self-conscious, and -also inclined to laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If he will trust himself entirely to us," said she, -with covertly merry eyes fixed on the bride, "Anna -and I will do our best. But he must put himself -entirely in our charge. He must be ruled and -governed. He must do everything we ask——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Training him for a husband's duties," said Lord -Musselburgh, without any evil intention whatever; -for indeed he was more anxious about getting a -supply of foot-warmers into the carriage that had -been reserved for him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then the kissing had to be gone through; there -were final farewells and good wishes; away went the -train; there was a fluttering of handkerchiefs; and -here was Vincent Harris, a captive in the hands of -those two young American damsels—who, at first, -did not seem to know what to do with him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But very soon their shyness wore off; and it must -be freely conceded that they treated him well. To -begin with, they took him down into the town, and -led him to a little table at a confectioner's, and -ordered two ices for themselves and for him a glass -of sherry and a biscuit. When that fluid was placed -before him, he made no remark: his face was -perfectly grave.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's the matter now?" Louie Drexel asked, -looking at him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I said nothing," he answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What are you thinking, then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nothing—nothing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But I insist on knowing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, very well," he said. "But it isn't my fault. -I promised to obey. If you ask me to drink a glass -of confectioner's sherry I will do so—though it -seems a pity to die so young."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What would you rather have then—tea or an ice?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She got an ice for him; and duly paid for the -three—much to his consternation, but he had -undertaken to be quite submissive. Then they took him -for a walk and showed him the beauties of the -place, making believe to recognise the chief features -and public buildings of New York. Then they -carried him with them to Mrs. Ellison's house, and -ascended into the drawing room there, chatting, -laughing, nonsense-making, in a very frank and -engaging manner. Finally, towards six o'clock, -Miss Drexel rang the bell, and ordered the -carriage.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I say, don't do that," Vincent interposed, -grown serious for a moment. "People don't like -tricks being played with their horses. You may do -anything else in a house but that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And pray who asked you to interfere?" she -retorted, in a very imperious manner; so there was -nothing for it but acquiescence and resignation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And very soon—in a few minutes, indeed—the -carriage was beneath the windows: coachman on -the box, footman at the door, maidservant descending -the steps with rugs, all in order. It did not -occur to Vincent to ask how those horses came to be -harnessed in so miraculously brief a space of time; -he accepted anything that might befall; he was as -clay in the hands of the potter. And really the -two girls did their best to make things lively—as -they drove away he knew not, and cared not, -whither. The younger sister was rather more -subdued, perhaps; but the elder fairly went daft, as -the saying is; and her gaiety was catching. Not -but that she could be dexterous in the midst of her -madness. For example, she was making merry -over the general inaptitude of Englishmen for -speech-making; and was describing scenes she had -herself witnessed in both Houses of Parliament, when -she suddenly checked herself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"At all events," she said, "I will say this for -your House of Commons, that there are a number -of very good-looking men in it. No one can deny -that. But the House of Lords—whew! You know, -my contention is that my pedigree is just as long as -that of any of your lords; but I've got to admit that, -some of them more nearly resemble their -ancestors—I mean their quadrumanous ancestors—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Louie!" said the sister, reprovingly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And she was going on to say some very nice -things about the House of Commons (as contrasted -with the Upper Chamber) when Vincent happened -to look out into the now gathering dusk.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why," said he, "we're at Rottingdean; and -we're at the foot of an awfully steep hill; I must -get out and walk up."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no, no," said Miss Drexel, impatiently. -"The horses have done nothing all day but hang -about the church door. You English are so absurdly -careful of your horses: more careful of them than -of yourselves—as I've noticed myself at country -houses in wet weather. I wonder, when I get back -home, if the people will believe me when I tell -them that I've actually seen horses in England with -leather shoes over their feet to keep the poor things -warm and comfortable. Yes, in this very town of -Brighton—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But here Miss Louie had the laugh turned -against her, when he had gravely to inform her -that horses in England wore over-shoes of leather, -not to keep their feet warm, but to prevent their -cutting the turf when hauling a lawn-roller.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But where are we going?" said he again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, never mind," she answered, pertly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All right—all right," he said, and he proceeded -to ensconce himself still more snugly in the back -seat. "Well, now, since you've told us of all the -absurd and ludicrous things you've seen in England, -won't you tell us of some of the things you have -admired? We can't be insane on every point, -surely."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know what you think I am," she said of a -sudden. "A comparison-monger."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You were born in America," he observed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you despise people who haven't the -self-sufficiency, the stolid satisfaction, of the -English."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We don't like people who are too eager to assert -themselves—who are always beating drums and -tom-toms—quiet folk would rather turn aside, and -give them the highway."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But all the same, you know," Miss Drexel -proceeded, "some of your countrymen have been -very complimentary when they were over with us: -of course you've heard of the one who said that the -biggest things he had seen in America were the -eyes of the women?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What else could he say?—an Englishman prides -himself on speaking the truth," he made answer, -very properly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>By this time, however, he was beginning seriously -to ask himself whither those two young minxes -meant to take him—a runaway expedition carried -out with somebody else's horses! At all events -they were going to have a fine night for it. For by -now it ought to have been quite dark; but it was -not dark: the long-rolling downs, the wide strip of -turf along the top of the cliffs, and the far plain of -the sea were all spectrally visible in a sort of grey -uncertainty; and he judged that the moon was rising, -or had risen in the east. What did Charles and -Thomas, seated on the box, think of this pretty -escapade? In any case, his own part and lot in the -matter had already been decided: unquestioning -obedience was what had been demanded of him. It -could not be that Gretna Green was the objective -point?—this was hardly the way.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At last they descended from those grey moonlit -solitudes, and got down into a dusky valley, where -there were scattered yellow lights—lamp lights and -lights of windows. "This is Newhaven," he thought -to himself; but he did not say anything; for Miss -Drexel was telling of a wild midnight frolic she and -some of her friends had had on Lake Champlain. -Presently the footfalls of the horses sounded hollow; -they were going over a wooden bridge. Then they -proceeded cautiously for a space, and there was -a jerk or two; they were crossing a railway line. -And now Vincent seemed to understand what those -mad young wretches were after. They were going -down to the Newhaven Pier Hotel. To dine there? -Very well; but he would insist on being host. It -was novel, and odd, and in a certain way fascinating, -for him to sit in a restaurant and find himself -entertained by two young ladies—-find them pressing -another biscuit on him, and then paying the bill; -but, of course, the serious business of dinner -demanded the intervention of a man.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What followed speedily drove these considerations -out of his head. The enterprising young damsels -having told the coachman when to return with the -carriage, conducted their guest to the hotel, and -asked for the coffee-room. A waiter opened the -door for them. The next thing that Vincent saw -was that, right up at the end of the long room, -Lord Musselburgh and his bride were seated at a -side table, and that they were regarding the new -comers—especially himself—with some little -amusement. They themselves were in no wise -disconcerted, as they ought to have been.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come along!" the bridegroom said, rather -impatiently. "You're nearly half-an-hour late, and -we're famishing. Here, waiter, dinner at once, -please! Vin, my boy, you sit next Miss -Drexel—that's all right!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At this side-table, covers were already laid for -five. As Vincent took his place, he said:—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, this is better than being had up before -a magistrate for stealing a carriage and a pair of -horses!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sure they didn't let on?" the bride demanded, -with a glance at the two girls.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not a word!" he protested. "I had not the -remotest idea where or what we were bound for. -Looked more like Gretna Green than anything else."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The nearest way to Gretna Green," said she, -regarding Vincent with significant eyes, "is through -Paris—to the British Embassy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now although this remark (which Miss Drexel -affected not to hear—she was so busy taking off -her gloves) seemed a quite haphazard and casual -thing, it very soon appeared, during the progress of -this exceedingly merry dinner, that Lady Musselburgh, -as she now was, had been wondering whether -they might not carry the frolic a bit further; -whether, in short, this little party of five might not -go on to Paris together by the eleven o'clock boat -that same night.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, Louie, you despise conventionalities," she -exclaimed. "Well, now is your chance!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Miss Louie pretended to be much frightened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, but I couldn't do that!" she cried. "Neither -Nan nor I have any things with us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The idea of American girls talking of taking -things with them to Paris!" the bride said, with -a laugh. "That is the very reason you should go -to Paris—to get the things."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you really mean to cross to-night?" Vincent -asked, turning to Musselburgh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes, certainly. The fixed service—eleven -o'clock—so there's no hurry, whatever you decide on."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For he, too, seemed rather taken with this -audacious project; said he thought it would be -good fun; pleasant company, and all that; also -he darkly hinted—perhaps for the benefit of the -American young ladies—that Paris had been -altogether too pallid of late, and wanted a little -crimson added to its complexion. And indeed as -the little banquet proceeded, these intrepid schemes -widened out, in a half-jocular way. Why should -the runaway party stop at Paris? Why should -they not all go on to the Mediterranean together, -to breathe the sweet airs blown in from the sea, and -watch the Spring emptying her lavish lap-full of -flowers over the land? Alas! it fell to Vincent's -lot to demolish these fairy-like dreams. He said -he would willingly wait to see the recruited party -off by that night's steamer; and would send any -telegrams for them, or deliver any messages; but -he had to return to London the next morning, -without fail. And then Miss Louie Drexel said it -was a pity to spoil a pleasant evening by talking of -impossibilities; and that they had already -sufficiently outraged conventionalities by running away -with a carriage and pair and breaking in upon a -wedding tour. So the complaisant young bride had -for the moment to abandon her half-serious, -half-whimsical designs; and perhaps she even hoped -that Miss Drexel had not overheard her suggested -comparison between the British Embassy at Paris -and Gretna Green.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At nine o'clock the carriage came round, and -at nine o'clock the younger people, having got -their good-byes said all over again, set out for home.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose we ought to keep this little expedition -a secret," said Vincent, as they were climbing up -from the dusky valley to the moonlight above, -which was now very clear and white.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why?" said Miss Louie.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Rather unusual—isn't it?" he asked, doubtfully, -for he knew little of such matters.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's what made it so nice," she answered, -promptly. "Don't you think they were charmed? -Fancy their being quite alone in that big hotel, -waiting for a steamer! We had it all planned out -days ago. Didn't you suspect in the least—when -you knew they were going by Newhaven and -Dieppe, and that they would have to wait till -eleven to-night? I'm sure they would have been -delighted if we had gone over to Paris with them, -and down to the Mediterranean: but I suppose that -would have been a little too much—just a little too -much!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And if Miss Drexel was vivacious and talkative -or her way out, she was equally so on the way -back; so that Vincent, in such cheerful company, -had little reason to regret their having captured -and run away with him. Then again the night was -surpassingly beautiful—the moonlight grey on the -land and white on the sea; the heavens cloudless; -the world everywhere apparently silent and asleep. -Not that they were to get all the way home without -a little bit of an adventure, however. When they -reached the top of the height just west of -Rottingdean, Louie Drexel proposed that they should get -out and walk along the cliff for a while, leaving the -carriage to go slowly on by road. This they -accordingly did; and very soon the carriage was out of -sight; for at this point the highway is formed by a -deep cutting in the chalk. It was pleasant to be by -themselves on such a night—high up on this lofty -cliff, overlooking the wide, far-shimmering, silver sea.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Presently there came into the stillness a sound -of distant voices; and shortly afterwards, at the -crest of the hill, a band of strayed revellers -appeared in sight, swaying much in their walk, and -singing diverse choruses with energy rather than -with skill. They were in high good humour, all -of them. As they drew near, Vincent perceived -that one of them was a soldier; and he seemed the -centre of attraction; this one and that clung to his -arm, until their legs, becoming involved, carried -them wide away, when two other members of the -group would occupy the twin places of honour. The -soldier was drunk, too; but he had the honour of -the flag to maintain; and made some heroic effort -to march straight.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now what with their insensate howling and -staggering, they were almost on Vincent and his two -companions before they were aware; but instantly -there was a profusion of offers of hospitality. The -gentleman must drink with them, at the Royal Oak. -The gentleman declined to drink, and civilly bade -them good-night. At the same moment another -member of the jovial crew appeared to have -discovered that there were also two young ladies here; -most probably he had a dim suspicion there might -only be one; however, it was this one, the one -nearest, he insisted should also go down and have -a glass at the Royal Oak. It was all done in good -fellowship, with no harm meant; but when at the -same time this particular roysterer declared he -would have his sweetheart come along o' him, and -caught Miss Louie by the arm, he had distinctly -overstept the bounds of prudence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hands off!" said Vincent; and he slung the -fellow a clip on the ear that sent him staggering, -until his legs got mixed up somehow, and away he -went headlong on to the grass.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he said in a rapid undertone to the two girls—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Off you go to the carriage—quick!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned to the now murmuring group.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you want?" he said. "I can't fight -all of you: I'll fight the soldier—make a ring, to -see fair play——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He glanced over his shoulder: the two girls had -disappeared: now he breathed freely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, look here," said he in a most amicable -tone, "you've had a glass—any one can see that—and -it's no use a man trying to fight if he's a bit -unsteady on his pins; you know that quite well. -And I don't want to fight any of you. If you ask -me in a friendly way, I'll go down to the Royal Oak -and have something with you; or I'll treat you, if -you like that better. I call that fair."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And they seemed to think it fair, too; so they -picked up their companion (who looked drowsy) and -helped him along. But they hadn't gone half-a-dozen -yards when two dark figures appeared at the -top of the chalk cutting; and these, when they -came quickly up, Vincent to his surprise discovered -to be the coachman and footman.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where are the young ladies?" he demanded, -instantly and angrily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Miss Drexel is on the box, sir—she sent us to -you," said the coachman—staring with amazement -at the revellers, and no doubt wondering when the -fighting was about to begin.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, go away back!" said he. "Get the ladies -into the carriage and drive them home! I'm going -to have a drink with these good fellows—I'll follow -on foot!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm quite sure, sir, Miss Drexel won't go," said -the coachman.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But here the soldier stepped forward. He had -arrived at some nebulous perception of the predicament; -and he constituted himself spokesman of the -party. They had no wish to inconvenience the -gentleman. He hoped some other night—proud to -see such a gentleman—wouldn't interfere with -ladies—not interfere with anybody—all gentlemen -and good friends—no use in animosity—no offence -I meant—no offence taken——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This harangue might have gone on all night had -not Vincent cut it short by requesting to be allowed -to hand his friends five shillings to drink his health -withal; and away the jocund brethren went to -obtain more liquor—if haply they could induce the -landlord of the Royal Oak to serve them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And here, sure enough, was Miss Louie Drexel -seated sedately on the box, whip and reins in hand; -and there was Miss Anna, in the white moonlight, -at the horses' heads. When Vincent and his two -companions were in the carriage again, he said to -the elder of them—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why didn't you drive away home?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Drive away home?" said she, with some touch -of vibrant indignation in her voice. "And leave -you there? I was just as near as possible going -back myself, with the whip in my hand. Do you -think I couldn't have lashed my way through those -drunken fools?"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-split-at-last"><span class="large">CHAPTER VI.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">A SPLIT AT LAST.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The renovation of Musselburgh House took more -time than had been hoped; bride and bridegroom -remained abroad, basking in the sweet airs and -sunlight of the Mediterranean spring; and it was not -until well on in the month of May that they returned -to London. Immediately after their arrival Vincent -called on them—one afternoon on his way down -to St. Stephen's. He stayed only a few minutes; -and had little to say. But the moment he had left -Lady Musselburgh turned to her husband.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Hubert, isn't it dreadful! Did you ever -see such a change in any human being? And no -one to tell us of it—not even his own father—nor -a word from Louie Drexel, though she wrote often -enough about him and what he was doing in the -House——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, he does look ill," said Lord Musselburgh, -with a seriousness not usual with him. "Very ill, -indeed. Yet he doesn't seem to know it—declares -there is nothing the matter with him—shows a little -impatience, even, when you begin to ask questions. -I suppose he has been working too hard; too eager -and anxious all the way round; too ambitious—not -like most young men. He'd better give up that -newspaper-nonsense, for one thing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, it isn't that, Hubert; it isn't that!" she -exclaimed, in rather piteous accents; and she walked -away to the window (this was the very room in -which Vincent had first set eyes on Maisrie Bethune -and her grandfather).</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stood there, alone, for a time. Then her -husband went and joined her, and linked his arm -within hers. She was crying a little.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I did it for the best, Hubert," she sobbed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did what for the best?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Getting that girl away. I never thought it -would come to this."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, now, Madge," said he, in a very affectionate -fashion, "don't you worry about nothing—or rather, -it isn't nothing, for Vin does look pretty seedy; but -you mustn't assume that you are in any way -responsible. People don't die nowadays of separation -and a broken heart—not nowadays. He is fagged; -he is not used to the late hours of the House of -Commons; then there's that newspaper work——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But his manner, Hubert, his manner!" she -exclaimed. "He seemed as if he no longer cared -for anything in life; he hardly listened when I told -him where we had been; he appeared to be thinking -of something quite different—as if he were looking -at ghosts."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And perhaps he was looking at ghosts," said her -husband. "For it was by that table there he first -saw those two people who have made all this -trouble. But why should you consider yourself -responsible, Madge? It wasn't your money that -sent them out of the country. It wasn't you who -found out what they really were."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She passed her handkerchief across her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was quite sure," she went on—not heeding this -consolation—"that as soon as she was got away—as -soon as he was removed from the fascination of her -actual presence—he would begin to see things in -their true light. And then, thrown into the society -of a charming and clever girl like Louie Drexel, I -hoped everything for him. And is this all that has -come of it, that he looks as if he were at death's -door? It isn't the House of Commons, Hubert; -and it isn't the newspaper-work: it is simply that -he still believes in that girl, and that he is eating -his heart out about her absence, and has no one -to confide in. For that is the worst of it all: it is -all a sealed book now, as between him and us. He -was for leaving my house in Brighton—oh, the rage -he was in with me about her!—and it would have -been for the last time too, I know; only that I -promised never again to mention the subject to him, -and on that condition we have got on fairly well -since. But how am I to keep silence any longer? -I cannot see my boy like that. I must speak to -him; I must ask him if he is still so mad as to -believe in the honesty of those two people; and -then, if I find that his infatuation still exists, even -after all this time, then I must simply tell him that -they took money to go away. How can he get over -that? How can he get over that, Hubert?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In her despair, this was almost a challenge as well -as an appeal. But her husband was doubtful.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When a man is in love with a woman," said he, -"he can forgive a good lot—confound it, he can -forgive everything, or nearly everything, so long as -she can persuade him she loves him in return——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But not this, Hubert, not this!" the young -wife exclaimed. "Even if he could forgive her -being a thief and the accomplice of an old charlatan -and swindler—and what an 'if!—imagine that -of Vincent—of Vincent, who is as proud as Lucifer—imagine -that of him!—but even if he were willing -to forgive all that, how could he forgive her being -bought over, her taking money to remain away from -him? No, no, Hubert: surely there is a limit, even -to a young man's folly!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course you know best," her husband said, in -a dubious kind of way. "I've seen some queer -things in my time, with young men. And Vin is -an obstinate devil, and tenacious: he sticks to -anything he takes up: look at him and that wretched -newspaper-work, for example. If he has persuaded -himself of the innocence and honour of this girl, it -may be hard to move him. And I remember there -was something very winning and attractive about -her—something that bespoke favour——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That was what made her so useful to that old -impostor!" Lady Musselburgh said, vindictively.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course," he admitted, "as you say, here is -the undoubted fact of their taking the money. If -Vin is to be convinced at all, it is possible that may -convince him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very well, then," said she, with decision, "he -must and shall be convinced; and that no further -off than to-morrow morning. I'll tell Harland I'm -coming along to lunch; so that he may be in the -house, to give me any papers I may want. And -surely, surely, when Vincent perceives what these -people are, and what an escape he has had, he will -cease to mope and fret: at his time of life there -ought to be other things to think of than a girl who -has deceived him all the way through, and ended by -taking money to leave the country!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But notwithstanding all this brave confidence, -Lady Musselburgh felt very nervous and anxious -as she went down next morning to Grosvenor Place. -She was alone—her husband was coming along -later, for lunch; and she went on foot, to give her -a little more time to arrange her plan of procedure. -For this was her last bolt, and she knew it. If his -fatal obstinacy withstood this final assault, then -there was no hope for him, or for her far-reaching -schemes with regard to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She went into the drawing-room; and he came -as soon as he was sent for. These two were now -alone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you know, Vin," she began at once, "Hubert -and I have been much concerned about you; for -though you won't admit there is anything the -matter, the change in your appearance struck us -yesterday the moment you came in: indeed, it -made me quite anxious; and after you were gone, -Hubert and I talked a little about you and your -affairs—you may be sure with only the one wish in -our minds. Hubert thinks you are over-fagged; -that you are too close in your attendance at the -House; and that you should give up your -newspaper-writing for a time. I wish it were no more -than that. But I suspect there is something -else——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aunt," said he, interrupting her—and yet with -something of a tired air, "do you think there is -any use in talking, and inquiring, and suggesting? -What has happened, has happened. It is something -you don't understand; and something you couldn't -put right—with all your good wishes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, yes," she said eagerly, for she was rejoiced -to find that he took her interference so amiably: -"that is quite right; and mind you, I don't forget -the agreement we came to at Brighton, that a -certain subject should never be referred to by either -of us. I quite remember that; and you know I -have never sought to return to it again in any way -whatever. But your looks yesterday, Vin, frightened -me; and at this moment—why, you are not like my -dear boy at all. I wish in all seriousness you had -come over to Paris with us—you and Louie—and -gone with us to the Mediterranean; we should not -have allowed you to fall into this condition—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I'm well enough, aunt!" said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are not well!" she insisted. "And why? -Because your mind is ill at ease—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And very little comfort I have to hope for from -you," said he, remembering former conversations: -but there was no bitterness in his tone—only a sort -of resigned hopelessness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, that is not fair, Vin!" she protested. -"If I said things to you you did not like, what -motive had I but your happiness? And now at -this moment, if I re-open that subject, it is not the -kind of comfort you apparently hope for that I am -prepared to bring you, but something quite different. -I should like to heal your mental ailment, once and -for all, by convincing you of the truth."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I think we have heard something of that -sort on previous occasions," he said, rather -scornfully. "The truth as it is in George Morris! Well, -I will tell you what would be more useful, more -to the point, and more becoming. Before saying -anything further about that old man and his -granddaughter, I think you ought to go and seek them -out, and go down on your knees to them, and ask -their pardon—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For what?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For what you have already said of them—and suspected."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Really you try my patience too much!" she -exclaimed, with some show of temper. "What -have I said or suspected of them that was not amply -justified by the account of them that your father -offered to show you? Of course you wouldn't look -at it. Certainly not! Facts are inconvenient -things, most uncomfortable things, where one's -prepossessions are involved. But I had no objection -to looking at it—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose not!" said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And my eyes were not blinded: I could accept -evidence when it was put before me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Evidence!" he repeated. "You forget that I -have been across the Atlantic since that precious -document was compiled. I heard how that evidence -had been got: I could see how it could be perverted -to suit the malignant theories of a pack of detectives. -And if I came back with any settled conviction, it -was that you and one or two others—myself, too, in -a way—could do no better than go and humble -ourselves before that old man and that girl, and beg -for their forgiveness, and their forgetfulness of the -wrongs and insults we have put upon them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, this is beyond anything!" she cried—rather -losing command of herself. "You drive me -to speak plain. Everything your father and I could -think of was tried to cure you of this mad -infatuation—the most patient inquiry—expenditure of -money—representations that would have convinced -any sane person. Nothing was of any use. What -was to be done next? Well, we could only buy up -those honourable persons—who were not adventurers -in any kind of way—oh, certainly not!—but all the -same they were willing to be bought; and so, on -payment of a substantial consideration, they agreed -to pack up their traps and be off. What do you -think of that? What do you say to that? Where -was the old gentleman's indomitable pride?—where -was the girl's pretended affection for you?—when -they consented to take a good round sum of money -and be off? How can you explain that away?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She regarded him with a certain defiance—for -she was moved to anger by his obduracy. But if -she expected him to wince under this sudden stab -she was mistaken.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How do I know that this is true?" he said, calmly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am not in the habit of speaking untruths," -she said, slightly drawing herself up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, of course not," he answered. "But all -through this matter there has been a good deal of -twisting about and misrepresentation. I should -like to know from whom Mr. Bethune got this -money—and in what form."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Well, she was prepared.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose you would be convinced," said she, -"if I showed you the receipt—a receipt for -£5,000—which he signed and gave to George Morris?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where is that receipt?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In this house. I will go to your father, and get -it. Shall I ask him at the same time for those -other documents which you would not read? Perhaps -all taken together they might enable you to -realise the truth at last."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, thank you," said he, coldly. "I know how -those other documents were procured. I shall be -glad to see the receipt."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She hurried away, anxious to strike while the -iron was hot, and certain she had already made a -profound impression. And so she had, in one way, -all unknowing. When she left the room, he -remained standing, gazing blankly at the sides of -the books on the table: outwardly impassive, but -with his brain working rapidly enough. He made -no manner of doubt that she could produce this -receipt. He took it for granted that George -Bethune had accepted the money. Of course, -Maisrie had nothing to do with it; her grandfather -kept her in ignorance of his pecuniary affairs; and -it would be enough for him to say that she must go -away with him from England—she was obedient in -all things. And no doubt the old man had been -cajoled and flattered into believing he was acting -justly and in the best interests of every one -concerned; there could have been little difficulty about -that; he was quick to persuade himself of -anything that happened to fall in with the needs of -the moment. All this Vincent understood at once. -But when he came to consider that it was his own -relatives who had brought upon him all the long -torture and suffering of these bygone months—and -not only that: for what was he or his hidden pain?—but -also that they had once more driven forth -those two tired wanderers—the old man who had -some wistful notion of ending his days in his own -country, the young girl whose maiden eyes had just -made confession of her love-secret—then his heart -grew hot within him. It was too cruel. When -Lady Musselburgh returned with the receipt in -her hand, he took the paper, and merely glanced -at it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And whose clever and original idea was this?" -he demanded—with what she took to be indifference.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But Vincent—are you convinced at last!" she -exclaimed. "Surely you must see for yourself -now. You will give up thinking of them—thinking -of that girl especially when you see what she is——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Whose idea was it to get them sent away?" he -repeated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, it was my idea," she said; "but your -father paid the money."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was silent for a second or two, and then he -said slowly——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you are my nearest relatives; and this is -what you have done, not to me only, but to one -who is dearer to me than life. So be it. But you -cannot expect me to remain longer under this roof, -or to sit down at table, anywhere, with my cruellest -enemies——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned very pale.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vincent!" she exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is a question of taking sides," he went on, -with perfect composure; "and I go over to the -other side. They most need help: they are poor -and friendless. I hope the mischief you have done -is not irreparable; I cannot tell; but I dare say -when you and I meet again time will have shown."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was thunderstruck and stupefied; she did -not even seek to detain him as he left the room. -For there was a curious air of self-possession, of -resolution, about his manner: this was no pique of -disappointed passion, nor any freak of temper. -And she could not but ask herself, in a breathless -sort of way, whether after all he might not be in -the right about those people; and, in that case, -what was this that she had brought about? She -was frightened—too frightened to reason with -herself, perhaps: she only saw Vincent leaving his -father's roof—cutting himself off from his own -family—and she had a dumb consciousness that it -was her work, through some fatal error of judgment. -And she seemed to know instinctively that this -step that he had taken was irrevocable—and that -she was in some dim way responsible for all that -had occurred.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When Lord Musselburgh arrived, he and Harland -Harris came upstairs together; and almost directly -afterwards luncheon was announced. As they were -about to go down to the dining-room the great -Communist-capitalist looked round with a little air -of impatience and said—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But where is Vin?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He was here a short time ago," said Lady -Musselburgh: she dared not say more.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mr. Harris, from below, sent a message to his -son's room: the answer—which Lady Musselburgh -heard in silence—was that they were not to wait -luncheon for him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Too busy with his reply to the </span><em class="italics">Sentinel</em><span>," -Musselburgh suggested. "Sharp cuts and thrusts -going. I wonder that celestial minds should grow -so acrid over such a subject as the nationalisation of -tithe."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was some scuffle on the stairs outside, to -which nobody (except Lady Musselburgh, whose -ears were painfully on the alert) paid any attention; -but when a hansom was called up to the front door, -Harland Harris happened to look out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What, is he going off somewhere? I never -knew any creature so careless about his meals. I -presume his indifference means a good digestion."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Vin's digestion is all right," Lord Musselburgh -said. "I hear he dines every night at the -House of Commons—and yet he is alive——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But there are his portmanteaus!" Mr. Harris -exclaimed, and he even rose and went to the -window for a second. Well, he was just in time -to see Vincent step into the cab, and drive off; and -therewith he returned to his place at table, and -proceeded, in his usual bland and somewhat patronising -manner, to tell Lord Musselburgh of certain -experiments he was having made in copper-lustre. He -was not in the least concerned about that departing -cab; nor did he know that that was the last glimpse -of his son he was to have for many and many a day.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And meanwhile Lady Musselburgh sate there -frightened, and guilty, and silent. And that -without reason; for what she had done she had done with -the full concurrence and approval of her brother-in-law -and her </span><em class="italics">fiancé</em><span> (as he then was). Yet somehow -she seemed to feel herself entirely answerable -for all that had happened—for the failure of all her -schemes—for the catastrophe that had resulted. -And the moment she got outside her brother-in-law's -house, she began and confessed the whole -truth to her husband.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But why didn't you tell Harris?" said he, -pausing as if even now he would go back.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I couldn't, Hubert; I daren't!" she said, -evidently in great distress. "I was so confident -everything would come right—I advised him—I -persuaded him to pay the £5,000——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, nonsense!" was the impatient reply. "A -man doesn't hand over £5,000 unless he is himself -convinced that it is worth while. And he got what -he bargained for. Those people have gone away; -they don't interfere any more——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, but that is not all," Lady Musselburgh put -in, rather sadly. "I made so sure that Vin would -forget—that as soon as the hallucination had worn -off a little, he would see what those people really -were, and turn his eyes elsewhere: yet apparently -he believes in their honesty more firmly than -ever—talks of my going and asking their pardon—and -the like; and now he has wholly broken away from -us—declares he will never be under the same roof -with us, or sit down at the same table with us. He -has gone over to the other side, he says, because they -are poor and friendless. Poor and friendless!" she -repeated, with a snap of anger—"living on the fat -of the land through their thieving! And yet——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And here again she paused, as if recalling -something to herself: "Do you know, Hubert, I was -startled and frightened by Vin's manner to-day; for -I had suddenly to ask myself whether after all it -was possible he might be in the right, and we -altogether wrong. In all other things he shows himself -so clear-headed and able and shrewd; and then he -has seen the world; you would not take him to be -one who could be easily deceived. Sometimes I -hardly know what to think. But at all events, this -is what you must do now, Hubert: you must get -hold of him, and persuade him to go back home, -before Harland knows anything of what had been -intended. He can invent some excuse about the -portmanteaus. You can go down to the House -to-night, and see him there; and if you persuade -him to return to Grosvenor Place, that will be so -much of the mischief set straight. That is the first -thing to be done; but afterwards——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was quite clear that she knew not what to -think, for she went on again, almost as if talking to -herself—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course, if the girl were a perfectly good and -honest girl, and above suspicion of every kind, Vin's -constancy and devotion to her would be a very fine -and noble thing; and I for one should be proud of -him for it. But as things are, it is a monomania—nothing -else than a monomania! He must see that -she is in league with that old man to get money on -false pretences."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He sees nothing of the kind," said her husband -bluntly. "She may or she may not be; I know -little or nothing about her; but if she is, Vin doesn't -see it: you may make up your mind about that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And yet he seems sharp-sighted in other things," -said Lady Musselburgh in a pensive sort of way; -and then she added: "However, the first step to be -taken is to get him back to his own family; and -none can do that so well as you, Hubert; you are -his old friend; and you stand between us, as it -were. And there's one thing about Vin: he can't -disappear out of the way; you can always get hold -of him—at the House of Commons."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lord Musselburgh had not been long married; -he did as he was bid. And very eagerly did -Vincent welcome this ambassador, when he -encountered him in the Lobby.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come out on to the Terrace. I was just going -to write to you: I want you to do me the greatest -service you can imagine!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Here I am, ready to do anybody any number of -services," said Lord Musselburgh, as they proceeded -to stroll up and down this dark space, with the wide -river flowing silently by, and the innumerable small -beads of gold showing where London lay in the -dusk. "Only too happy. And I am in the best -position for being mediator, for I have nothing to -gain from either side—except, of course that I -should be extremely sorry to see you quarrelling -with your relations. This is always a mistake, Vin, -my boy: bad for you, bad for them. And I hope -you will let me go back with the important part of -my commission done—that is to say, I was to -persuade you to return to Grosvenor Place, just as if -nothing had happened. My wife is awfully upset -about it—thinks it is entirely owing to her; whereas -I don't see that it is at all. She has been trying to -do her best for everybody—for your father as well -as for yourself. And the notion that you should -cut yourself off from your family naturally seems -very dreadful to her; and if I can take her the -assurance that you don't mean anything of the -kind—very well!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, but look here, Musselburgh," said Vincent, -"you entirely mistake. It was not about that I -wished to see you: not at all: on that point it is -useless saying anything. You must assure Lady -Musselburgh that this is no piece of temper on my -part—nothing to be smoothed over, and hushed up. -I have seen all along that it was inevitable. From -the moment that my aunt and my father took up -that position against—against Maisrie Bethune and -her grandfather—I foresaw that sooner or later this -must come. I have tried to reason with them; I -have assured them that their suspicions and their -definite charges were as cruel as they were false; -and all to no purpose. And this last thing: this -bribing of an old man, who can be too easily -persuaded, to take his granddaughter away with -him and subject her to the homeless life she had led -for so many years—perhaps there are some other -considerations I need not mention—this is too much. -But I knew that sooner or later a severance would -come between them and me; and I am not unprepared. -You wondered at my drudging away at -that newspaper work, when my father was allowing -me a handsome income. Now do you see the use -of it? I am independent. I can do as I please. I -can't make a fortune; but I can earn enough to -live—and something more. Let them go their way, as -I go mine: it has not been all my doing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lord Musselburgh was disconcerted; but he was -a dutiful husband; he went on to argue. He found -he might as well attempt to argue with a milestone. -Nothing could shake this young man's determination.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I told Lady Musselburgh I had gone over to -the other side, this time for good," said he. "We -are in opposite camps now. We have been so all -along—but not openly. This piece of treachery -has been too much for me: we are better apart: I -could not sit down at table with people who had -acted like that—whatever their motives were. But -you, Musselburgh, you were not concerned in that -wretched piece of scheming; and as I tell you, you -can do me the greatest possible service. Will you -do it? Or will you rather cast in your lot with -them?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, well," said Musselburgh, rather -disappointedly, "I don't see why I should be -compelled to take sides. I want to do my best for -everybody concerned. I've just come into the -family, as you might say; and it seems a pity there -should be any quarrel or break up. I had a kind -of notion that we should all of us—but particularly -my wife and myself and you and—and—your -wife—I thought our little party of four might have a -very pleasant time together, both at home and -abroad. My wife and I have often talked of it, and -amused ourselves with sketching out plans. Seems -such a pity——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," said Vincent, abruptly, "but there are -other things in life besides going to Monte Carlo -and staking five-franc pieces."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is this that you want me to do?" his -friend asked next—seeing that those inducements -did not avail.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well," said Vincent, "I suppose you know that -Lady Musselburgh showed me this morning the -receipt Mr. Bethune gave George Morris for the -£5,000. It was a simple receipt: nothing more. -But everybody knows George Morris is not the man -to part with money unconditionally; there must -have been arrangements and pledges; and I want -to discover what Mr. Bethune undertook to do, -where he undertook to go. Morris won't tell me, -that is certain enough: but he would probably tell you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lord Musselburgh hesitated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why," said he, "you know why that money -was paid. It was paid for the express purpose of -getting them away—so that you should not know -where they are——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Precisely so," said Vincent. "And you would -therefore be undoing a part of the wrong that has -been done them, by your wife and my father."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I don't call it doing a wrong to a man to -give him £5,000," said Lord Musselburgh, with a -touch of resentment. "He needn't have taken the -money unless he liked."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you know what representations were made -to him to induce him to take it?" Vincent said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I don't," was the reply. "They settled -all that amongst themselves; and I was merely -made acquainted with the results. It would hardly -have been my place to interfere, you see; it was -before my marriage, remember; in any case, I -don't know that I should have wanted to have any -say in the matter. However, the actual outcome -we all of us know; and you must confess, Vin, -whatever persuasions were used, it looks a rather -shady transaction."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—on the part of those who induced him to -accept the bribe!" Vincent said, boldly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, come, come," Lord Musselburgh interposed, -rather testily, "don't be so bigoted. It isn't only -your considering that girl to be everything that is -fine and wonderful—I can understand that—the -glamour of love can do anything; but you go too -far in professing the greatest admiration and respect -for this old man. Leave us some chance of agreeing -with you, of believing you sane. For you can't -deny that he took the money: there is the plain -and simple fact staring you in the face. More than -that, his taking it was the justification of those -who offered it: it proved to them that he was not -the kind of person with whom you should be -connected by marriage. I say nothing about the -young lady; I don't know her; perhaps her -association all these years with this old—well, I won't -call him names—has not affected her in any way; -perhaps she believes in him as implicitly as you -appear to do. But as for him: well, take any -unprejudiced outsider, like myself; what am I to -think when I find him accepting this money from -strangers?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," said Vincent, a little absently, "I -suppose, to an outsider, that would look bad. But -it is because you don't know him, Musselburgh; or -the story of his life; or his circumstances. I -confess that at one time there were things that -disquieted me; I rather shut my eyes to them; -but now that I understand what this man is, and -what he has gone through, and how he bears -himself, it isn't only pity I feel for him, it is -respect, and more than respect. But it's a long -story; and it would have to be told to sympathetic -ears; it would be little use telling it to my father -or to my aunt—they have the detectives' version -before them—they have the detectives' reading of -the case."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, tell me, at least," said his friend. "I -want to get at the truth. I have no prejudice or -prepossession one way or the other. For another -thing, I like to hear the best of everybody—and to -believe it, if I can; it makes life pleasanter; and I -can't forget, either, that it was through me you got -to know George Bethune."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was a long story, as Vincent had said; and it -was a difficult one to set in order and in a proper -light: but it was chiefly based on what had been -told him by the Toronto banker; and Mr. Thompson's -generous interpretation of it ran through it -all. Lord Musselburgh listened with the greatest -interest and attention. What seemed mostly to -strike him was the banker's phrase—'Call George -Bethune an impostor, if you like; but the man he -has imposed on, his whole life through, has -been—George Bethune.'</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, it's all very extraordinary," he said, when -Vincent had finished. "I wish I had taken the -trouble to become a little better acquainted with -him; one is so apt to judge by the outside; I -thought he was merely a picturesque old fellow -with a mad enthusiasm about Scotland. And -yet I don't know what to say even now. All that -you have told me sounds very plausible and -possible—if you take that way of looking at it; -and the whole thing seems so pitiable, especially -for the girl: he has his delusions and -self-confidence—she has only her loneliness. But at the -same time, Vin, you must admit that these little -weaknesses of his might easily be misconstrued——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Certainly," said Vincent, with promptitude. -"It is just as Mr. Thompson said: if you choose -to look at George Bethune through blue spectacles, -his way of life must appear very doubtful: if you -choose to look at him through pink spectacles, -there is something almost heroic about him. And -I think, Musselburgh, if you knew the lion-hearted -old man a little better, you wouldn't shrink from -acknowledging that there was something fine and -even grand in his character. As for Maisrie—as -for Miss Bethune—she asks for no generous -consideration, or forbearance, or anything of the kind; -she asks for no leniency of judgment, and needs -none; she is beyond and above all that. I know -her—none better than I; and she has only to -remain what she is—'dass Gott sie erhalte, so schön -und rein und hold'!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a break in his voice as he spoke. Lord -Musselburgh was silent for a moment—he felt like -an intruder upon something too sacred. And yet -he had his mission; so presently he forced himself -to resume:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, after all, Vin, I think you must grant -that there is something to be said for your relatives, -even if they have been mistaken. They could not -know all that you know—all that you learned in -Canada as well; they could only judge from -the outside; they could only believe what they -heard——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why did they interfere at all?" Vincent -demanded, in his turn. "Why had they -Mr. Bethune's steps dogged by detectives?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You should be the last to protest. It was -entirely for your sake that it was done."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," said Vincent, with a certain scorn. "It -was for my sake they were so ready to suspect—it -was for my sake they were so eager to regard -everything from the attorney's point of view! -They would not take my word for anything; they -would rather trust to their private enquiry offices. -I was supposed to be so easily blinded; the -swindlers had such a willing dupe; no reliance was -to be placed but on the testimony of spies. What -childish rubbish! Why, I introduced my aunt to -Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter: she could not -find a word to say against them—but her suspicions -remained all the same! And then apparently she -went and consulted with my father. It was so -dreadful that I was being cheated by those two -dangerous characters! Couldn't the lawyers and -their private inquiry agents—couldn't they make -out some story that would appal me? Couldn't -they make up some bogey—straw, and an old -coat—that would terrify me out of my wits? And then -when I wasn't appalled by their idle trash of -stories—oh, for goodness sake, get those desperate -creatures smuggled away out of the country! No -safety unless they were hidden away somewhere! -And then they went to the old man; and I can -imagine how they persuaded him. The greatest -kindness to every one concerned if only he would -fall in with their views; he would save his -granddaughter from entering a family who had mistaken, -but undoubted, prejudices against her; and of course -they couldn't allow him to put himself so much -about without endeavouring to pay part of the cost. -It was no solatium to the young lady—oh, no, -certainly not!—probably she was destined for much -higher things; and it was no gift to himself; it -was merely that the relatives of that hot-headed -young man were desirous of pleasing themselves -by showing how much they appreciated his, Mr. Bethune's, -generosity in making this little sacrifice. -Well, they succeeded: but they little knew—and -they little know—what they have done!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Perhaps there was something in the proud and -withal disdainful tones of the young man's voice -that was quite as convincing as his words; at all -events, his friend said—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I sympathise with you, Vin, I do really. -But you see how I am situated. I am an -emissary—an intermediary—I want peace——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is no use saying peace where there is no -peace," Vincent broke in. "Nor need there be war. -Silence is best. Let what has been done go; it -cannot be undone now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vincent—if you would only think how fond -your aunt is of you—if you would think of her -distress——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was she who ought to have considered first," -was the rejoinder. "Do you imagine I have -suffered nothing, before I went to America, and -then, and since? But that is of little account. I -could forgive whatever has happened to myself. It -is when I think of some one else—sent adrift upon -the world again—but it is better not to talk!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, yes," persisted Lord Musselburgh, who -was in a sad quandary; for the passionate -indignation of this young man seemed so much stronger -than any persuasive argument that could be brought -against it, "I can perfectly understand how you -may consider yourself wronged and injured; and -how much more you feel what you consider wrong -and injury done to others; but you ought to be a -little generous, and take motives into account. -Supposing your father and your aunt were mistaken -in acting as they did, it was not through any selfishness -on their part. It was for your welfare, as they -thought. Surely you must grant that to them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I will grant anything to them, in the way of -justification," said Vincent, "if they will only take -the first step to make atonement for the mischief -they have wrought. And that they can do through -you. They can tell you on what conditions -Mr. Bethune was persuaded to take the money; so -that I may go to him, and bring him back—and her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But probably they don't know where he is!" his -friend exclaimed, in perfect honesty. "My -impression was that Mr. Bethune agreed to leave this -country for a certain time; but of course no one -would think of banishing him to any particular spot."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And so they themselves don't know where -Mr. Bethune has gone?" said Vincent, slowly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I believe not. I am almost certain they don't. -But I will make inquiries, if you like. In the -meantime," said Musselburgh, returning to his -original prayer, "do consider, Vin, and be -reasonable, and go back to your father's house to-night. -Don't make a split in the family. Give them credit -for wishing you well. Let me take that message -from you to my wife—that you will go home to -Grosvenor Place to-night."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, no," said Vincent, with an air of quiet -resolve. "No, no. This is no quarrel. This is no -piece of temper. It is far more serious than that; -and, as I say, I have seen all along that it was -inevitable. After what I have told you, you must -recognise for yourself what the situation is. I have -spoken to you very freely and frankly; because I -know you wish to be friendly; and because I think -you want to see the whole case clearly and honestly. -But how could I talk to them, or try to explain? -Do you think I would insult Miss Bethune by -offering them one word of excuse, either on her -behalf or on that of her grandfather? No, and it -would be no use besides. They are mad with -prejudice. No doubt they say I am mad with -prepossession. Very well; let it stand so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lord Musselburgh at length perceived that his -task was absolutely futile. His only chance now -was to bring Vincent into a more placable -disposition by getting him the information he sought; -but he had not much hope on that score; for people -do not pay £5,000 and then at once render up all -the advantages they fancy they have purchased. So -here was a deadlock—he moodily said to himself, -as he walked away home to Piccadilly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And as for Vincent? Well, as it chanced, on the -next morning—it was a Wednesday morning—when -he went across from the Westminster Palace Hotel -to the House of Commons, and got his usual little -bundle of letters, the very first one that caught his -eye bore the Toronto post-mark. How anxiously -he had looked for it from day to day—wondering -why Mr. Thompson had heard no news—and -becoming more and more heart-sick and hopeless -as the weary time went by without a sign—and -behold! here it was at last.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="new-ways-of-life"><span class="large">CHAPTER VII.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">NEW WAYS OF LIFE.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>But no sooner had he torn open the envelope than -his heart seemed to stand still—with a sort of fear -and amazement. For this was Maisrie's own -handwriting that he beheld—as startling a thing as if -she herself had suddenly appeared before him, after -these long, voiceless months. Be sure the worthy -banker's accompanying letter did not win much -regard: it was this sheet of thin blue paper that he -quickly unfolded, his eye catching a sentence here -and there, and eager to grasp all that she had to -say at once. Alas! there was no need for any such -haste: when he came to read the message that she -had sent to Toronto, it had little to tell him of -that which he most wanted to know. And yet it -was a marvellous thing—to hear her speak, as it -were! There was no date nor place mentioned in -the letter; but none the less had this actual thing -come all the way from her; her fingers had penned -those lines; she had folded up this sheet of paper -that now lay in his hands. It appeared to have -been written on board ship: further than that all -was uncertain and unknown.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He went into the Library, and sought out a quiet -corner; there was something in the strange reticence -of this communication that he wished to study with -care. And yet there was an apparent simplicity, -too. She began by telling Mr. Thompson that her -grandfather had asked her to write to him, merely -to recall both of them to his memory; and she went -on to say that they often talked of him, and thought -of him, and of bygone days in Toronto. "Whether -we shall ever surprise you by an unexpected visit -in Yonge-street," she proceeded, "I cannot tell; for -grandfather's plans seem to be very vague at -present, and, in fact, I do not think he likes to be -questioned. But as far as I can judge be does not -enjoy travelling as much as he used; it appears to -fatigue him more than formerly; and from my -heart I wish he would settle down in some quiet -place, and let me care for him better than I can -do in long voyages and railway-journeys. You -know what a brave face he puts on everything—and, -indeed, becomes a little impatient if you show -anxiety on his behalf; still, I can see he is not -what he was; and I think he should rest now. -Why not in his own country?—that has been his -talk for many a day; but I suppose he considers -me quite a child yet, and won't confide in me; so -that when I try to persuade him that we should go -to Scotland, and settle down to a quiet life in some -place familiar to him, he grows quite angry, and -tells me I don't understand such things. But I -know his own fancy goes that way. The other -morning I was reading to him on deck, and somehow -I got to think he was not listening; so I raised my -head; and I saw there were tears running down his -cheeks—he did not seem to know I was there at -all—and I heard him say to himself—'The beech-woods -of Balloray—one look at them—before I -die!' And now I never read to him any of the -Scotch songs that mention places—such as Yarrow, -or Craigieburn, or Logan Braes—he becomes so -strangely agitated; for some time afterwards he -walks up and down, by himself, repeating the name, -as if he saw the place before him; and I know that -he is constantly thinking about Scotland, but won't -acknowledge it to me or to any one.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then here is another piece of news, which is all -the news one can send from on board a ship; and -it is that poor dear grandfather has grown very -</span><em class="italics">peremptory</em><span>! Can you believe it? Can you -imagine him irritable and impatient? You know how -he has always scorned to be vexed about trifles; -how he could always escape from everyday -annoyances and exasperations into his own dream-world; -but of late it has been quite different; and as I am -constantly with him, I am the chief sufferer. Of -course I don't mind it, not in the least; if I minded -it I wouldn't mention it, you may be sure; I know -what his heart really feels towards me. Indeed, it -amuses me a little; it is as if I had grown a child -again, it is 'Do this' and 'Do that'—and no reason -given. Ah, well, there is not much amusement for -either of us two: it is something." And here she -went on to speak of certain common friends in -Toronto, to whom she wished to be remembered; -finally winding up with a very pretty message -from "Yours affectionately, Margaret Bethune."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Vincent bethought him of the banker; what -comments had he to make?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dear sir, I enclose you a letter, received to-day, -from the pernicious little Omahussy, who says -neither where she is nor where she is going, gives -no date nor the name of the ship from which she -writes, and is altogether a vexatious young witch. -But I imagine this may be the old gentleman's -doing; he may have been 'peremptory' in his -instructions; otherwise I cannot understand why -she should conceal anything from me. And why -should he? There also I am in the dark; unless, -indeed (supposing him to have some wish to keep -their whereabouts unknown to you) he may have -seen an announcement in the papers to the effect -that you were going to the United States and -Canada, in which case he may have guessed that -you would probably call on one whose name they -had mentioned to you as a friend of theirs. And -not a bad guess either: George Bethune is -long-headed—when he comes down from the clouds; -though why he should take such elaborate -precautions to keep away from you, I cannot surmise."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent knew only too well! The banker proceeded:—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I confess I am disappointed—for the moment. -I took it for granted you would have no difficulty -in discovering where they were; but, of course, -if friend George is not going to give his address -to anybody, for fear of their communicating with -you, some time may elapse before you hear -anything definite. I forgot to mention that the -postmark on the envelope was Port Said——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Port Said! Had Maisrie been at Port Said—and -not so long ago either? Instantly there sprang -into the young man's mind a vision of the place -as he remembered it—a poor enough place, no doubt, -but now all lit up by this new and vivid interest: -he could see before him the rectangular streets of -pink and white shanties, the sandy roads and arid -squares, the swarthy Arabs and yellow Greeks and -Italians, the busy quays and repairing-yards and -docks, the green water and the swarming boats. -And did Maisrie and her grandfather—while the -great vessel was getting in her coals, and the air -was being filled with an almost imperceptible black -dust—did they escape down the gangway, and go -ashore, and wander about, looking at the strange -costumes, and the sun-blinds, and the half-burnt -tropical vegetation? Mr. Thompson went on to -say that he himself had never been to Port Said; -but that he guessed it was more a calling-place for -steamers than a pleasure or health resort; and no -doubt the Bethunes had merely posted their letters -there en route. But were they bound East or West? -There was no answer to this question—for they had -not given the name of the ship.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So the wild hopes that had arisen in Vincent's -breast when he caught sight of Maisrie's -handwriting had all subsided again; and the world was -as vague and empty as before. Sometimes he tried -to imagine that the big steamer which he pictured -to himself as lying in the harbour at Port Said was -homeward-bound; and that, consequently, even -now old George Bethune and his granddaughter -might have returned to their own country; and -then again something told him that it was -useless to search papers for lists of passengers—that -the unknown ship had gone away down the -Red Sea and out to Australia or New Zealand, -or perhaps had struck north towards Canton or -Shanghai. He could only wait and watch—and he -had a sandal-wood necklace when he wished to -dream.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the truth is he had very little time for -dreaming; for Vin Harris was now become one of -the very busiest of the millions of busy creatures -crowding this London town. He knew his best -distraction lay that way; but there were other reasons -urging him on. As it chanced, the great statesman -who had always been Vincent's especial friend and -patron, finding that his private secretary wished to -leave him, decided to put the office in commission; -that is to say, he proposed to have two private -secretaries, the one to look after his own immediate -affairs and correspondence, the other to serve as his -'devil,' so to speak, in political matters; and the -latter post he offered to Vincent, he having the -exceptional qualification of being a member of -the House. It is not to be supposed that the -ex-Minister was influenced in his choice by the fact -that the young man was now on the staff of two -important papers, one a daily journal, the other a -weekly; for such mundane considerations do not -enter the sublime sphere of politics; nor, on the -other hand, is it to be imagined that Vincent -accepted the offer with all the more alacrity that -his hold on those two papers might probably be -strengthened by his confidential relations with the -great man. Surmises and conjectures in such a -case are futile—the mere playthings of one's -enemies. It needs only to be stated that he -accepted the office with every expectation of hard -work; and that he got it. Such hunting up of -authorities; such verification of quotations; such -boiling-down of blue-books; such constant -attendance at the House of Commons: it was all hardly -earned at a salary of £400 a year. But very well -he knew that there were many young men in this -country who would have rejoiced to accept that -position at nothing a year; for it is quite wonderful -how private secretaries of Parliamentary chiefs -manage, subsequently, to tumble in for good things.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then it is probable that his journalistic -enterprises—which necessarily became somewhat more -intermittent after his acceptance of the -secretaryship—brought him in, on the average, another -£400 a year. On this income he set seriously to -work to make himself a miser. His tastes had -always been simple—and excellent health may -have been at once the cause and the effect of his -abstemiousness; but now the meagre fare he -allowed himself, and his rigidly economical habits -in every way, had a very definite aim in view. He -was saving money; he was building up a miniature -fortune—by half-crowns and pence. Food and -drink cost him next to nothing; if he smoked at -all, it was a pipe the last thing in the morning -before going to bed. Omnibusses served his turn -unless some urgent business on behalf of his chief -demanded a hansom. He could not give up his -club; for that was in a way a political institution; -and oftentimes he had to rush up thither to find -someone who was not in the precincts of -St. Stephen's; but then, on the other hand, in a good -club things are much cheaper than in any restaurant -or in the members' dining-room of the House of -Commons. It was remarkable how the little -fortune accumulated; and it was a kind of -amusement in a fashion. He pinched himself—and -laughed. He debated moral questions—for -example as to whether it was lawful to use -club-stationery in writing articles for newspapers; but -he knew something of the ways of Government -offices, and perhaps his conscience was salved by -evil example. What the manager of the -Westminster Palace Hotel thought of his manner of -living can be imagined—if so august an official -cared to enquire into such details. His solitary -room, breakfast, and washing: no more: those were -small bills that he called for week by week. And -so his little hoard of capital gradually augmented—very -gradually, it is true, but surely, as the rate of -interest on deposits rose and fell.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In the meanwhile Lord Musselburgh had not been -very successful in his endeavours to bring about a -reconciliation between Vin Harris and his family; -nor had he been able to obtain the information that -Vincent demanded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You see, Vin," he said (they were again walking -up and down the lamp-lit Terrace, by the side of -the deep-flowing river), "my wife is awfully upset -over this affair. She thinks it is entirely owing to -her mismanagement. She would never have told -you about the £5,000 if she had not been certain -that that would be conclusive proof to you of the -character of those two people; and now that she -sees what has come of her telling you so much, she -is afraid to tell you any more. Not that I suppose -there is much to tell. Mr. Bethune and Miss -Bethune are no longer in this country; but I doubt -whether any one can say precisely where they are——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nonsense!" Vincent broke in, impatiently. -"They're humbugging you, Musselburgh. -Consider this for a moment. Do you imagine that -George Morris handed over that £5,000, as a lump -sum, without making stipulations, and very definite -stipulations? Do you imagine he would be -content to take the word of a man whom he considered -a thief? It is absurd to think so. </span><em class="italics">Do ut facias</em><span> -would be his motto; and he would take precious -good care to keep control over the money in case of -non-fulfilment——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But there is the receipt!" put in Lord Musselburgh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A receipt—for theatrical purposes!" said -Vincent, with something of contempt. "You may -depend on it the money was not handed over -in that unconditional fashion: that is not the way -in which George Morris would do business. He -has got some hold over Mr. Bethune; and he must -know well enough where he is. Supposing -Mr. Bethune had that money in his pocket, what is to -prevent his returning to this country to-morrow? -Where would be the penalty for his breaking his -covenant? You don't trust a man whom you -consider a swindler; you must have some guarantee; -and the guarantee means that you must be able to -get at him when you choose. It stands to reason!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I suppose so—it would seem so," said Lord -Musselburgh, rather doubtfully; "but at all events -it isn't George Morris who is going to open his -mouth. I've been to him; he declines; refers me -to your family. And then, you see, Vin, I'm rather -in an awkward position. I don't want to take sides; -I don't want to be a partisan; I would rather act as -the friend of all of you; but the moment I try to -do anything I am met by a challenge—and a -particularly inconvenient challenge it is. Do I -believe with them, or do I believe with you? I -told your aunt what you said about Mr. Bethune—how -you described his character, and all that; but -I didn't do it as well as you; for she remains -unconvinced. As you told the story, it seemed -natural and plausible; but as I told it—and I was -conscious of it at the time—it was less satisfactory. -And mind you, if you stick to hard facts, and don't -allow for any interpretation——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you look through the blue spectacles, in short——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Precisely. Well, then, you are confronted with -some extremely awkward things. I don't wonder -that your aunt asks pertinently why, if you are to -begin and extend this liberal construction of -conduct—this allowing for motives—this convenient -doctrine of forgiving everything to self-deception—I -don't wonder that she asks why anybody should -be sent to prison at all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, as for that," said Vincent, frankly, "I don't -say it would be good for the commonwealth if all -of us were George Bethunes. Far from it. I look -upon him as a sort of magnificent lusus naturæ; and -I would not have him other than he is—not in any -one particular. But a nation of George Bethunes?—it -would soon strike its head against the stars."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very well, then," said his friend, "you are not -contending for any general principle. I don't see -why you and your family shouldn't be prepared to -agree. You may both of you be right. You don't -insist upon having the justifications you extend to -Mr. Bethune extended to everyone else, or to any -one else; you make him the exception; and you -needn't quarrel with those who take a more literal -view of his character."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Literal?" said Vincent, with a certain coldness. -"Blindness—want of consideration—want of -understanding—is that to be literal? Perhaps it is. But -I thought you said something just now about Mr. Bethune -and a prison: will you tell me of any one -action of his that would suggest imprisonment?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your aunt was merely talking of theories," said -Musselburgh, rather uneasily, for he had not -intended to use the phrase. "What I urge is -this—why shouldn't both of you admit that there may -be something in the other's view of Mr. Bethune, -and agree to differ? I stand between you: I can -see how much can be advanced on both sides."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And so you would patch up a truce," said -Vincent. "How long would it last? Of course I -do not know for what period of banishment my kind -relatives stipulated; £5,000 is a considerable sum -to pay; I suppose they bargained that Mr. Bethune -and his granddaughter should remain away from -England for some time. But not for ever? Even -then, is it to be imagined that they cannot be found? -Either in this country or abroad, Miss Bethune and -I meet face to face again; and she becomes my -wife—I hope. It is what I live for. And then? Where -will your patched-up truce be then? Besides, I -don't want any sham friendships with people who -have acted as they have done——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was in your interest, Vin," his friend again -urged. "Why not give them a little of the -lenient judgment you so freely extend to those -others——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To those others?" replied Vincent, firing up -hotly. "To whom?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To Mr. Bethune, then," was the pacific reply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think Mr. Bethune ever consciously -wronged any human being. But they—were they -not aware what they were doing when they played -this underhand trick?—sending that girl out into -the world again, through her devotion to her -grandfather? I have told you before: there is no use -crying peace, peace, when there is no peace. Let -them undo some of the mischief they have done, -first: then we will see. And look at this silly -affectation of secrecy! They told me too much -when they told me they had paid money to get -George Bethune out of the country: then I -understood why Maisrie went: then I knew I must have -patience until she came back—in the same mind -as when she left, that I know well. I was puzzled -before, and sometimes anxious; but now I -understand; now I am content to wait. And I have -plenty to do in the meantime. I have to gain a -proper foothold—and make some provision for the -future as well: already I am independent of -anybody and everybody. And perhaps, in time to -come, when it is all over, when all these things have -been set right, I may be able to forgive; but I -shall not be able to forget."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This was all the message that Lord Musselburgh -had to take home with him, to his wife's profound -distress. For she was very fond of her nephew, and -very proud of him, too, and of the position he had -already won for himself; and what she had done -she had done with the best intentions towards him. -Once, indeed, she confessed to her husband that in -spite of herself she had a sort of sneaking -admiration for Vincent's obdurate consistency and faith; -insomuch (she said) that—if only the old man and -all his chicaneries were out of the way—she could -almost find it in her heart to try to like the girl, for -Vincent's sake.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The real question," she continued, "the thing -that concerns me most of all to think of is this: can -a girl who has been so dragged through the mire -have retained her purity of mind and her proper -self-respect? Surely she must have known that -her grandfather was wheedling people out of money -right and left—and that he took her about with -him to enlist sympathy? Do you suppose she was -not perfectly aware that Vincent invariably paid -the bills at those restaurants? When tradespeople -were pressing for money, do you fancy she was in -ignorance all the time? Very well: what a life -for any one to lead! How could she hold up her -head amongst ordinarily honest and solvent people? -Even supposing that she herself was all she ought -to be, the humiliation must have sunk deep. And -even if one were to try to like her, there would -always be that consciousness between her and you. -You might be sorry for her, in a kind of way; but -you would be still sorrier for Vincent; and that -would be dreadful."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear Madge," her husband said—in his -character of mediator and peacemaker, "you are -arguing on a series of assumptions and prejudices. -If Vin does hold on to his faith in those two—and -if he does in the end marry Miss Bethune—I shall -comfort myself with the conviction that he was -likely to know more about them than anybody else. -He and they have been on terms of closest intimacy, -and for a long time; and you may be pretty sure -that the girl Vin wants to marry is no tarnished -kind of a person—in his eyes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, yes—in his eyes!" said Lady Musselburgh, -rather sadly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, his eyes are as clear as most folks'—at -least, I've generally found them so," her husband -said—trying what a little vague optimism would do.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One afternoon Vincent was walking along Piccadilly—and -walking rapidly, as was his wont, for the -twin purposes of exercise and economy—when he -saw, some way ahead of him, Lady Musselburgh -crossing the pavement to her carriage. She saw -him, too, and stopped—colour mounting to her face. -When he came up he merely lifted his hat, and -would have kept on his way but that she addressed -him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vincent!" she said, in an appealing, -half-reproachful fashion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then she said—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I want you to come into the house for a few -minutes—I must speak with you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is there any use?" he asked, rather coldly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>However, she was very much embarrassed, as her -heightened colour showed; and he could not keep -her standing here in Piccadilly; he said 'Very -well,' and followed her up the steps and into the -house. When they had got into the drawing-room -she shut the door behind them, and began at -once—with not a little piteous agitation in her -manner.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vin, this is too dreadful! Can nothing be -done? Why are you so implacable? I suppose -you don't understand what you have been to me, -always, and how I have looked to your future as -something almost belonging to me, something that -I was to be proud of; and now that it is all likely -to come true, you go and make a stranger of -yourself! When I see your name in the papers, or hear -you spoken of at a dinner-table—it is someone who -is distant from me, as if I had no concern with him -any longer. People come up to me and say 'Oh, -I heard your nephew speak at the Mansion House -the other afternoon,' or 'I met your nephew at the -Foreign Office last night;' and I cannot say 'Don't -you know; he has gone and made himself a stranger -to us—?'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wonder who it was who made a stranger of -me!" he interposed—but quite impassively.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can only say, again and again, that it was -done for the best, Vin!" she answered him. "The -mistake I made was in letting you know. But I -took it for granted that as soon as you were told -that those people had accepted money from us to go -away—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Those people? What people?" he demanded, -with a sterner air.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I meant only Mr. Bethune himself," said -she, hastily. "Oh, yes, certainly, only him; there -were no negotiations with any one else."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Negotiations!" he said, with a touch of scorn. -"Well, perhaps you can tell me what those -negotiations were? How long did Mr. Bethune undertake -to remain out of this country?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Three years, Vin," said she, timidly regarding him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Three years?" he repeated, in an absent way.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But there is no reason," she added quickly, -"why he should not return at any moment if he -wishes: so I understand: of course, I did not make -the arrangement—but I believe that is so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Return at any moment?" he said, slowly. -"Do you mean to tell me that you put £5,000 -into that old man's hands, on condition he should -leave the country for three years, and that all the -same you left him free to return at any moment?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course he would forfeit the money," said she, -rather nervously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But how could he forfeit the money if he -already has it? He has got the money: you -showed me the receipt. Come, aunt," said he, in -quite a different tone, "Let us be a little more -honest and above-board. Shall I tell you how I -read the whole situation? You can contradict me -if I am wrong. But that receipt you showed me: -wasn't it produced for merely theatrical purposes? -Wasn't it meant to crush and overwhelm me as a -piece of evidence? The money wasn't handed over -like that, was it? Supposing I were to conjecture -that somebody representing you or representing my -father has still got control over that money; and -that it is to be paid in instalments as it is -earned—by absence? Well isn't that so?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He fixed his eyes on her; she hesitated—and was -a little confused.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I tell you, Vin," she said, "I had personally -nothing to do with making the arrangement; all -that was left in George Morris's hands; and of -course he would take whatever precautions he -thought necessary. And why should you talk -about theatrical purposes? I really did think that -when I could show you Mr. Bethune was ready to -take money from strangers to go away from England -you would change your opinion of him. But -apparently, in your eyes, he can do no wrong. He -is not to be judged by ordinary rules and standards. -Everything is to be twisted about on his behalf, and -forgiven, or even admired. Nobody else is allowed -such latitude of construction; and everything is -granted to him—because he is George Bethune. -But I don't think it is quite fair: or that you -should take sides against your own family."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This was an adroit stroke, following upon a very -clever attempt to extricate herself from an -embarrassing position; but his thoughts were -otherwise occupied.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I should like you to tell me," said he, "if you -can, what moral wrong was involved in Mr. Bethune -consenting to accept that money. Where was the -harm—or the ignominy? Do you think I cannot -guess at the representations and inducements put -before him, to get him to stay abroad for three -years? Why, I could almost tell you, word for -word, what was said to him! Here was an arrangement -that would be of incalculable benefit to everybody -concerned. He would be healing up family -dissensions. He would be guarding his -granddaughter from a marriage that could only bring her -disappointment and humiliation. Three years of -absence and forgetfulness would put an end to all -those projects. And then, of course, you could not -ask him to throw up his literary engagements and -incur the expense of travel, without some compensation. -Here is a sum of £5,000, which will afford -him some kind of security, in view of this disturbance -of his engagements. A receipt? oh, yes, a -receipt, if necessary! But then, again, on second -thoughts, wouldn't it only be prudent to lodge this -£5,000 with some third person, some man of position -whom all could trust, and who would send it in -instalments, to avoid the risk of carrying so large -a sum about with one? There might be a little -harmless condition or two attached, moreover. You -undertake, for example, that the young people shall -not have communication with each other; you say -your granddaughter will do as you wish in all -things. Very well, take her away: disappear, both -of you; you are doing us an immense kindness, and -you are acting in the best interests of all concerned. -Never mind a little misery here or there, or the risk -of a broken heart; we can afford to pay for such -things; we can afford to have the moulds of a -dessert service destroyed—and a little matter of -£5,000 is not much, when we have plans.... And -so those two go out into the world again." He -paused for a second. "Well, aunt, you've had your -way; and there's no more to be said, except this, -perhaps, that you don't seem to realise the greatest -of all the mistakes you have made. Your three -years, even if they should be three years of absence, -will not be years of forgetfulness on either Maisrie -Bethune's part or mine. Oh, no; nothing of the -kind; don't cherish any illusions on that score. -It happened curiously that just before they left -Brighton she and I had a little talk over one or two -things; and she asked me for a promise, which I -gave her, and which I mean to keep."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Well, the handsome lad now standing before her -had a great hold on her affection; and she even -admired, in a covert way, this very bigotry of -constancy and unswerving faith of his, so that for -an instant her head swam, and she was on the -point of crying out 'Vincent—Vincent—go and -bring her to me—and I will take her to my -heart—for your sake!' But the next moment she had -recovered from that mad impulse: she saw that -what had been done was not to be undone in that -happy-go-lucky fashion, even if it could be undone -at all; and she was silent and embarrassed. It was -he who spoke.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, you must excuse me, aunt; I've to be -down at the House by question time."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're not going like that, Vin!" she exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you want of me?" he asked in a coldly -civil way.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I—I—want you to be as you once were, to all -of us," she cried, rather incoherently. "I want you -to go back to Grosvenor Place; and to accept the -allowance your father has made you ever since you -came of age; and to resume the old bygone relations -with us. Surely it might be possible, with a little -consideration on both sides. What we have done -was done entirely out of thoughtfulness for you; -and if we have made a mistake—we are only human -beings! And remember, it is quite possible that -you may be mistaken too, Vin; you may be -mistaken just as much as we—and—and—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What you propose, aunt," said he (for time was -precious with him) "even if it were practicable, -would only be temporary. I am looking forward to -marrying Maisrie Bethune—in spite of your three -years of forgetfulness!—and when that happens, -your patched-up state of affairs would all come to -bits again. So what is the use of professing a sort -of sham reconciliation? I have no wish to return -to Grosvenor Place. I have taken some rooms at -the foot of Buckingham-street; and I have a key -that lets me through by the Embankment Gardens -into Villiers-street; it will be convenient for getting -to the House. And I can tide along pretty well -without any allowance from my father; in fact, I'm -saving a little money in a quiet way—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But at what a cost, Vincent—at what a cost!" -she protested. "I wish you could see how worn and -ill you are looking—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I've had some things to think of lately—thanks -to my kind relatives!" said he. "But really -I must be off—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vincent," she said, making one last despairing -effort to bring things back to their former footing, -"when are you going to ask Louie Drexel and me -to dine with you at the House?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm so busy, aunt, just now," said he, as he -opened the door for her. Then he saw her into her -carriage; and she drove away—a most perplexed -and unhappy woman.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>These rooms that Vincent had taken at the foot -of Buckingham-street were right up at the top of -the building; and commanded a spacious prospect -of the river, the Embankment gardens, the bridges, -the great dusky world of London lying all around, -and the dome of St. Paul's rising dim and -phantasmal in the east. They were bachelor chambers, -that had doubtless seen many tenants (the name of -one, George Brand, was still over the door, and -Vincent did not think it worth while to change it), -but the young man had no sooner entered into -possession than he began a series of alterations and -improvements that bachelor chambers did not seem -to demand. Not in any hurry, however; nor -perhaps with any fixed intent; it was a kind of -amusement for this or that odd half-hour he could snatch -from his multifarious duties. To begin with, he -had the woodwork painted a deep Indian red, and -the walls a pearly-blue grey: while the former -colour was repeated in the Japanese window-curtains, -and the latter by the great world outside, -on the lambent moonlight nights, or sometimes in -the awakening of the dawn, as he lay in a low -easy-chair, and watched the vast, silent city coming out -of its sleep. This top-floor was a very still place, -except for the early chattering of the tree-sparrows, -into whose nests, swaying on the branches just -beneath him, he could have tossed a biscuit. And -then his peregrinations through London, rapid -though they were as a rule, occasionally brought -him face-to-face with a bric-a-brac shop; and from -time to time he picked up one thing or another, just -as it happened to strike his fancy. Perhaps these -modest purchases were just a trifle too elegant for -a bachelor's apartments; the sitting-room away up -in that lofty situation came to look rather like a -boudoir; for example, there was a music-stand in -rosewood and ormulu—a tall stand it was, as if -for a violin player—which he himself never used. -Pictures he could not afford; but books he could; -and the volumes which were one by one added to -those shelves were of a more graceful and literary -stamp than you would have expected to find in the -library of a young and busy member of Parliament. -It was not a lordly palace of art, this humble suite -of apartments in the neighbourhood of the Strand; -but there was a prevailing air of selection and good -taste; perhaps, one ought to say, of expectancy, -also, in the presence of things not yet in use. Then -the two large and low windows of the sitting-room -were all surrounded with ivy, of long training; but -besides that, there were flower-boxes; and at a -moment's notice, and at small expense, these could -be filled with potted geraniums, if one wished to be -gay. And always outside was the varied panorama -of the mighty city; the wide river and the bridges, -the spires and the towers, the far masses of buildings -becoming more and more spectral as they receded -into the grey and wavering mist. Sometimes the -rose and saffron of the dawn were there, ascending -with a soft suffusion behind the purple dome of -St. Paul's; sometimes there were blown and breezy -days, with flying showers and watery gleams of -sunlight; and sometimes the night lay blue and still -and clear, the Surrey side in black and mysterious -shadow, the white moon high in the south. These -silent altitudes were a fine place for dreaming, after -all the toil and moil of the working-hours were -over; and a fine place for listening, too; sometimes, -towards the morning, just as the leaves began to -stir, you could fancy the wind was bringing a -message with it—it seemed, coming from far away, -to say something about </span><em class="italics">Claire Fontaine</em><span>.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="in-a-northern-village"><span class="large">CHAPTER VIII.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">IN A NORTHERN VILLAGE.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>But there were to be no three years of absence, -still less of forgetfulness. One afternoon, on -Vincent's going down to the House, he found a -telegram along with his letters. He opened it -mechanically, little thinking; but the next moment -his eyes were staring with amazement. For these -were the words he saw before him:—"</span><em class="italics">Grandfather -very ill; would like to see you. Maisrie Bethune, -Crossmains, by Cupar</em><span>." Then through his -bewilderment there flashed the sudden thought: why, the -lands of Balloray were up in that Fifeshire -region!—had, then, the old man, tired of his -world-wanderings, and feeling this illness coming upon him, -had he at length crept home to die, perhaps as a -final protest? And Maisrie was alone there, among -strangers, with this weight of trouble fallen upon -her. Why could not these intervening hours, and -the long night, and the great distance, be at once -annihilated?—he saw Maisrie waiting for him, with -piteous eyes and outstretched hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He never could afterwards recall with any -accuracy how he passed those hours: it all seemed -a dream. And a dream it seemed next day, when -he found himself in a dogcart, driving through a -placid and smiling country, with the sweet summer -air blowing all around him. He talked to the -driver, to free his mind from anxious and futile -forecasts. Crossmains, he was informed, was a -small place. There was but the one inn in it—the -Balloray Arms. Most likely, if two strangers were -to arrive on a visit, they would put up at the inn; -but very few people did go through—perhaps an -occasional commercial traveller.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And where is Balloray House—or Balloray -Castle?" was the next question.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Just in there, sir," said the man, with a jerk of -his whip towards the woods past which they were -driving.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And of course it was with a great interest and -curiosity that Vincent looked out for this place of -which he had heard so much. At present nothing -could be seen but the high stone wall that surrounds -so many Scotch estates; and, branching over that, -a magnificent row of beeches; but by and bye they -came to a clearing in the "policies"; and all at -once the Castle appeared in sight—a tall, -rectangular building, with a battlemented parapet and -corner turrets, perched on a spacious and lofty -plateau. It looked more modern than he had -imagined to himself; but perhaps it had been -recently renovated. From the flag-staff overtopping -the highest of the turrets a flag idly dropped and -swung in the blue of the summer sky: no doubt -the proprietor was at home—in proud possession; -while the old man who considered himself the -rightful owner of the place was lying, perhaps -stricken unto death, in some adjacent cottage or -village inn. Then the woods closed round again; -and the mansion of Balloray was lost from view.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent was not in search of the picturesque, or -he might have been disappointed with this village -of Crossmains—which consisted of but one long and -wide thoroughfare, bordered on each hand with a -row of bare and mean-looking cottages and -insignificant houses. When they drove up to the inn, -he did not notice that it was a small, two-storied, -drab-hued building of the most common-place -appearance; that was not what he was thinking of -at all; his heart was beating high with emotion—what -wonder might not meet his eager gaze at any -instant? And indeed he had hardly entered the -little stone passage when Maisrie appeared before -him; she had heard the vehicle arrive, and had -quickly come down-stairs; and now she stood quite -speechless—her trembling, warm hands clasped in -his, her face upturned to him, her beautiful sad eyes -all dimmed with tears, and yet having a kind of joy -in them, too, and pride. She could not say a single -word: he would have to understand that she was -grateful to him for his instant response to her -appeal. And perhaps there was more than -gratitude; she seemed to hunger to look at him—for -she had not seen him for so long a while: perhaps -she had never thought to see him again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you any better news, Maisrie?" said he.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned and led the way into a little parlour.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," said she (and the sound of her voice -startled him: the Maisrie of his many dreams, -sleeping and waking, had been all so silent!). -"Grandfather is rather better. I think he is asleep -now—or almost asleep. It is a fever—a nervous -fever—and he has been so exhausted—and often -delirious; but he is quieter now—rest is -everything—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maisrie," he said again (in his bewilderment) -"it is a wonderful thing to hear you speak! I can -hardly believe it. Where have you been all this -while? Why did you go away from me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I went because grandfather wished it," said she. -"I will tell you some other time. He is anxious to -see you. He has been fretting about so many things; -and he will not confide in me—not entirely—I -can see that there is concealment. And Vincent," -she went on, with her appealing eyes fixed on -him, "don't speak to him about Craig-Royston!—and -don't let him speak about it. When he got -ill in Cairo, it was more home-sickness than -anything else, as I think; and he said he wanted to -go and die in his own country and among his own -people; and so we began to come to Scotland by -slow stages. And now that we are here, there is no -one whom he knows; he is quite as much alone -here as he was in Egypt; far more alone than we -used to be in Canada. I fancy he expects that a -message may come for me from Balloray—that I -am to go there and be received; and of course that -is quite impossible; I do not know them, they do -not know me; I don't suppose they are even aware -that we are living in this place. But if he is -disappointed in that, it is Craig-Royston he will think -of next—he will want to go there to seek out -relatives on my account. Well, Vincent, about -Craig-Royston——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She hesitated; and the pale and beautiful face -became suffused with a sort of piteous embarrassment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But I understand, Maisrie, quite well!" said -he, boldly. "Why should you be troubled about -that? You have found out there is no such -place?—but I could have told you so long ago! There -was a district so-named at one time; and that is -quite enough for your grandfather; a picturesque -name takes his fancy, and he brings it into his own -life. Where is the harm of that? There may -have been Grants living there at one time—and -they may have intermarried with the Bethunes: -anyhow your grandfather has talked himself into -believing there was such a relationship; and even -if it is a delusion, what injury does it do to any -human creature? Why," he went on, quite cheerfully, -to reassure her and give her comfort, "I am -perfectly aware that no Scotch family ever had -'Stand Fast, Craig-Royston!' as its motto. But -if the phrase caught your grandfather's ear, why -should not he choose it for his motto? Every -motto has been chosen by some one at some one -time. And then, if he thereafter came to persuade -himself that this motto had been worn by his -family, or by some branch of his family, what harm -is there in that? It is only a fancy—it is an innocent -delusion—it injures no one——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, but, Vincent," she said—for these heroic -excuses did not touch the immediate point—"grandfather -is quite convinced about the Grants of -Craig-Royston; and he will be going away in search -of them, so that I may find relatives and shelter. -And the disappointment will be terrible. For he -has got into a habit of fretting that never was usual -with him. He has fits of distrusting himself, too, -and begins to worry about having done this or done -that; and you know how unlike that is to his old -courage, when he never doubted for a moment but -that everything he had done was done for the -best. And to think that he should vex himself by -imagining he had not acted well by me—when he -has given his whole life to me, as long as I can -remember——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maisrie," said he, "when your grandfather gets -well, and able to leave this place, where are you -going?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How can I say?" she made answer, wistfully enough.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For I do not mean to let you disappear again. -No, no. I shall not let you out of my sight again. -Do you know that I have a house waiting for you, -Maisrie?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For me?" she said, looking up surprised.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For whom else, do you imagine? And rather -pretty the rooms are, I think. I have got a stand -for your music, Maisrie: that will be handier for -you than putting it on the table before you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head, sadly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My place is with my grandfather, Vincent," she -said. "And now I will go and see how he is. -He wished to know as soon as possible of your -arrival."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She left the room and was absent only for a -couple of minutes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes; will you come upstairs, Vincent?" she -said on her return. "I'm afraid you will find him -much changed. And sometimes he wanders a little -in his talking; you must try to keep him as quiet -as may be."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As they entered the room, an elderly -Scotchwoman—most probably the landlady—who had -been sitting there, rose and came out. Vincent -went forward. Despite Maisrie's warning he was -startled to notice the ravages the fever had wrought; -but if the proud and fine features were pinched and -worn, the eyes were singularly bright—bright and -furtive at the same time. And at sight of his -visitor, old George Bethune made a desperate effort -to assume his usual gallant air.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ha?" said he—though his laboured breathing -made this affectation of gaiety a somewhat pitiable -thing—"the young legislator—fresh from the -senate—the listening senate, the applause of -multitudes——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned his restless eyes on Maisrie; and said -in quite an altered tone——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go away, girl, go away!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Well, Maisrie's nerves were all unstrung by -anxiety and watching; and here was her lover just -arrived, to listen to her being so cruelly and sharply -rebuked; and so, after a moment of indecision, she -lost her self-control, she flung herself on her knees -by the side of the bed, and burst out crying.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't speak to me like that, grandfather," she -sobbed, "don't speak to me like that!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, well, well," said he, in an altered tone, -"I did not mean to hurt you. No, no, Maisrie; -you're a good lass—a good lass—none better in -the whole kingdom of Scotland. I was not thinking—I -beg your pardon, my dear—I beg your pardon."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She rose, and kissed his hand, and left the room. -Then old George Bethune turned to his visitor, and -began to talk to him in a curiously rapid way—rapid -and disconnected and confused—while the -brilliant eyes were all the time fixed anxiously on -the young man.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I am glad you have come—I have been -sorely perplexed," he said, in his husky and -hurried fashion; "—perhaps, when one is ill, -confidence in one's own judgment gives way a -little—and it is not—every one whom you can consult. -But that is not the main thing—not the main thing -at all—a question of money is a minor thing—but -yesterday—I think it was yesterday—my voice -seemed to be going from me—and I thought—I -would leave you a message. The book there—bring -it—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked towards a red volume that was lying -on the window-sill. Vincent went and fetched it; -though even as he did so, he thought it strange -that a man who was perhaps lying on his deathbed -should bother about a book of ballads. But when, -he might have asked himself, had George Bethune -ever seemed to realise the relative importance of -the things around him? To him a harebell brought -from the Braes of Gleniffer was of more value than -a king's crown.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Open at the mark," said the sick man, eagerly. -"See if you understand—without much said—to -her, I mean. Poor lass—poor lass—I caught her -crying once or twice—while we were away—and I -have been asking myself whether—whether it was -all done for the best." Then he seemed to pull -himself together a little. "Yes, yes, it was done -for the best—what appeared best for every one; -but now—well, now it may be judged differently—I -am not what I was—I hope I—have done no wrong."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent turned to the marked page; and there -he found a verse of one of the ballads pencilled -round, with the last line underscored. This is what -he read:</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>He turned his face unto the wa',</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>And death was with him dealing;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a'—</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><em class="italics">Be kind to Barbara Allen!</em><span>"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The old man was watching him anxiously and intently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I understand," Vincent said. "And I think -you may depend on me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then there is another thing," the old man -continued—his mind leaping from one point to another -with marvellous quickness, though he himself -seemed so languid and frail. "I—I wish to have -all things left in order. If the summons—comes—I -must be able to meet it—with head up—fear -never possessed me during life. But who has not -made mistakes—who has not made mistakes?—not -understood at the time. And yet perhaps it was -not a mistake—I am not the man I was—I have -doubts—I thought I was doing well by all—but -now—I am uneasy—questions come to me in -the night-time—and I have not my old strength—I -cannot cast them behind me as in better days."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He glanced towards the door.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Keep Maisrie out," said he. "Poor lass—poor -lass—I thought I was doing well for her—but when -I found her crying— Take care she does not come -back for a minute or two——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She won't come until you send for her," Vincent -interposed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then I must make haste—and you must listen. -The money—that I was persuaded to take from your -family—that must be paid back—to the last -farthing; and it will not be difficult—oh, no, not -difficult—not much of it has been used—Bevan -and Morris will tell you—Bevan and Morris, Pall -Mall, London. And indeed I meant to do what I -promised—when I went away—but when I got ill—I -could not bear the idea of being buried out of -Scotland—I was like the Swiss soldier—in the -trenches—who heard the Alphorn—something arose -in my breast—and Maisrie, she was always a -biddable lass—she was just as willing to come away. -But the money—well, is there one who knows me -who does not know how I have scorned that—that -delight of the ignoble and base-born?—and yet -this is different—this must be paid back—for -Maisrie's sake—every farthing—to your family. -She must be no beggar—in their eyes. And you -must not tell her anything—I trust you—if I can -trust you to take care of her I can trust you in -smaller things—so take a pencil now—quick—when -I remember it—and write down his address—Daniel -Thompson——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of Toronto?" said Vincent. "I know him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At this moment George Bethune turned his head -a little on one side, and wearily closed his eyes. -Vincent, assuming that he now wished for rest—that -perhaps he might even have sunk into sleep, which -was the all-important thing for him—thought it an -opportune moment to retire; and on tiptoe made -for the door. But even that noiseless movement -was sufficient to arouse those abnormally sensitive -faculties; those restless eyes held him again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—no—do not go," the old man said, in the -same half-incoherent, eager fashion. "I must have -all put in order—Daniel Thompson—banker—Toronto—he -will make all that straight with your -family. For Maisrie's sake—and more than that he -would do for her—and be proud and glad to do it -too. He will be her friend—and you—well, I leave -her to you—you must provide a house for her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is ready," said Vincent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She will make a good wife—she will stand firm -by the man she marries—she has courage—and a -loyal heart. Perhaps—perhaps I should have seen -to it before—perhaps you should have had your -way at Brighton—and she—well, she was so willing -to go—that deceived me. And there must be -laughing now for her—it is natural for a young lass -to be glad and merry—not any more weeping—she -is in her own land. Why," said he, and his eyes -burned still more brightly, and his speech became -more inconsecutive, though always hurried and -panting. "I remember a story—a story that a -servant lass used to tell me when I was a child—I -used to go into the kitchen—when she was making -the bread—it was a story about a fine young man -called Eagle—he had been carried away to an -eagle's nest when he was an infant—and his -sweetheart was called Angel. Well, I do not remember -all the adventures—I have been thinking -sometimes that they must have been of Eastern -origin—Eastern origin—yes—the baker who tried to burn -him in an oven—the Arabian Nights—but no -matter—at the end he found his sweetheart—and -there was a splendid wedding. And just as they -were married, a white dove flew right down the -middle of the church, and called aloud '</span><em class="italics">Kurroo, -kurroo; Eagle has got his Angel now!</em><span>' I used to -imagine I could see them at the altar—and the -white dove flying down the church——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't you think you should try to get a little -rest now?" Vincent said, persuasively. "You have -arranged everything—all is put in order. But -what we want is for you to get rest and quiet, until -this illness leaves you, and you grow strong and -well again."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, yes," said the old man, quickly, "that is -quite right—that is so—for I must pay off -Thompson, you know, I must pay off Thompson. -Thompson is a good fellow—and an honest Scot—but he -used to talk a little. Let him do this—for Maisrie's -sake—afterwards—afterwards—when I am well and -strong again—I will square up accounts with him. -Oh, yes, very easily," he continued; and now he -began to whisper in a mysterious manner. "Listen, -now—I have a little scheme in mind—not a word -to anybody—there might be some one quick to -snatch it up. It is a volume I have in mind—a -volume on the living poets of Scotland—think of -that, now—a splendid subject, surely!—the voice -of the people—everyday sorrows and joys—the -minstrelsy of a whole race. There was the American -book—but something went wrong—I did not blame -any one—and I was glad it was published—Carmichael -let me review it—yes, yes, there may be -a chance for me yet—I may do something yet—for -auld Scotland's sake! I have been looking into -the </span><em class="italics">domus exilis Plutonia</em><span>—the doors have been -wide open—but still there may be a chance—there -is some fire still burning within. But my memory -is not what it was," he went on, in a confused, -perplexed way. "I once had a good memory—an -excellent memory—but now things escape me. -Yesterday—I think it was yesterday—I could not -tell whether Bob Tennant was still with us—and -his verses to Allander Water have all gone from -me—all but a phrase—'How sweet to roam by -Allander'—'How sweet to roam by Allander'—no, -my head is not so clear as it ought to be——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, of course not," said Vincent, in a soothing -sort of way. "How could you expect it, with this -illness? But these things will all come back. And -I'm going to help you as much as I can. When -I was in New York I heard your friend, Hugh -Anstruther, deliver a speech about those living -Scotch poets, and he seemed to be well acquainted -with them; I will write to him for any information -you may want. So now—now that is all settled; -and I would try to rest for a while, if I were you: -that is the main thing—the immediate thing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the old man went on without heeding him, -muttering to himself, as it were:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Chambers's Journal—perhaps as far back as -thirty years since—there's one verse has rung in -my ears all this time—but the rest is all blank—and -the name of the writer forgotten, if it ever was -published ... ''Tis by Westray that she wanders -... 'Tis by Westray that she strays ... O waft me, -Heavens, to Westray ... in the spring of the young -days!' ... No, no, it cannot be Westray—Westray -is too far north—Westray?—Yet it sounds right -... ''Tis by Westray that she wanders ... 'tis by -Westray that she strays—'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a tap at the door, and the doctor -appeared: a little, old, white-haired man, of sharp -and punctilious demeanour. Behind him was the -landlady, hanging back somewhat as if it were for -further instructions; so, she being there to help, -Vincent thought he would go downstairs and seek -out Maisrie. He found her in the little -parlour—awaiting him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you think, Vincent?" she said, quickly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I haven't spoken to the doctor yet," he made -answer. "Of course, everyone can see that your -grandfather is very ill; but if courage will serve, -who could have a better chance? And I will tell -you this, Maisrie, he is likely to have more peace of -mind now. He has been vexing himself about many -things, as you guessed; and although he was -wandering a good deal while I was with him—perhaps -all the time—I could not quite make sure—still, it -is wonderful how he has argued these matters out, -and how clearly you can follow his meaning. It -was about you and your future he was most -troubled—in the event of anything happening to him; and -he has not been afraid to look all possibilities in the -face; he told me the doors of the </span><em class="italics">domus exilis -Plutonia</em><span> had stood wide open before him, and I -know he was not the one to be alarmed, for himself. -But about you, Maisrie: do you know that he has -given you over to me—if the worst comes to the -worst? He asked me to provide a home for you: I -told him it was already there, awaiting you. You -see I have not forgotten what you said to me at -Brighton; and I knew that some day you and I -should find ourselves, as we now find ourselves, face -to face—perhaps in sad circumstances, but all the -more dependent on each other——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you think he is so very ill, Vincent?" she -said: she seemed to have no thought of herself—only -of her grandfather.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must see he is very ill, Maisrie—very," he -answered her. "But, as I say, if splendid courage -will serve, then you may hope for the best. And -he ought to be quieter in mind now. We will hear -what the doctor has to say——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But at this moment there was an unwonted -sound without in the still little village—the sound -of carriage-wheels on the stony street; and presently -some vehicle, itself unseen, was heard to stop in -front of the inn. In another second or so, a servant-girl -opened the door of the parlour and timidly said -to Maisrie—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Miss Bethune, Miss."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Miss Bethune?" Maisrie repeated, wondering.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"From the Castle, Miss," the girl said, in awe-stricken tones.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And it was curious that at such a crisis Maisrie's -eyes should turn instinctively to Vincent—as if to -appeal for advice. Of course his decision was taken -on the instant.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ask Miss Bethune to step this way, then," he -said to the girl.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Maisrie rose—pale a little, but absolutely -self-possessed. She did not know who this might -be—perhaps the bearer of grave and harassing tidings -for her grandfather; for she had grown to fear -Balloray, and all its associations and belongings. -As it turned out she had not much to fear from this -emissary. There came into the room a tall and -elegant lady of about thirty, not very pretty, but -very gentle-looking, with kind grey eyes. For a -brief second she seemed embarrassed on finding a -third person present; but that passed directly; she -went up to Maisrie, and took her hand and held it, -and said, in a voice so sweet and winning that it -went straight to the heart—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dr. Lenzie has told me of your trouble. I'm -very, very sorry. Will you let me help you in any -way that is possible? May I send to Edinburgh -for a trained nurse to give you assistance; and in -the meantime, if you wished it, I could send -along my maid to do anything you wanted—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Maisrie pressed her to be seated, and tried, in -rather uncertain accents, to thank her for her -exceeding kindness. For this stranger, with the -greatest tact, made no apology for her intrusion; it -was no case of the castle coming to the cottage, -with acts of officious benevolence; it was simply -one woman appealing to another woman to be -allowed to help her in dire straits. Whether she -knew that the old man upstairs claimed to be the -rightful owner of Balloray, whether she knew that -the beautiful pensive-eyed girl who was speaking to -her had indirectly suffered through that legal -decision of generations ago, Vincent could not at -the moment guess: what was obvious was merely -this womanly act of sympathy and charity, for -which Maisrie Bethune showed herself abundantly -grateful. When the doctor came down, this visitor -with the friendly eyes and the soft voice explained -that, just in case the patient should need brandy to -keep up his strength, she had taken the liberty of -bringing some with her—of good quality: the -resources of the Balloray Arms being limited in -that respect. As she said this she hesitatingly -blushed a little; and Vincent thought she looked -really beautiful. He recalled to himself his aunt, -Lady Musselburgh; and wondered whether she, -with all her fine presence and eloquent eyes, could -look as nobly beautiful as this poor woman, who -was rather plain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The doctor's report was on the whole encouraging; -the temperature of the patient was the least -thing lower, and he was more equable in mind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He appears to have been greatly pleased by -your visit, sir," the little doctor said, in a strong -east-country accent, to the young man. "Very -pleased indeed. And it is just wonderful how he -can reason and explain; though I'm not so sure -he'll be able to remember all he's been saying. -But now, he tells me, all his dispositions are made; -he is content; there is nothing more on his -mind—except, as I gather, about some book."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know all about that," said Maisrie. "I can -pacify him about that; and I'm going upstairs directly."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Of course she had to wait and see Miss Bethune -and the doctor leave; then she turned to Vincent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Will you go out for a walk, Vincent? I have -asked Mrs. MacGill to let you have some dinner at -seven."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, don't you bother about me, Maisrie!" -he said. "Can't I be of any use to you upstairs?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not unless grandfather asks for you again—then -I will send for you," she answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was going away when he interrupted her for a moment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I will come up whenever you want me," he -said; and then he added: "But—but—you know -him so much better than I do, Maisrie. Do you -think we should tell him of Miss Bethune having -been here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, no, no, Vincent!" she said, in earnest -remonstrance. "Nothing would excite him more -terribly. You know he has already been talking of -some message coming from Balloray to me—of the -possibility of it—and this would set his brain -working in a hundred different directions. He -might think they were coming to take me away -from him—perhaps to do me some harm—or he -might imagine that I had humbled myself before -them, to make friends with them, and that would -trouble him more than anything else: you cannot -tell what wild fancies might not get into his head. -So there must not be a word said about Miss -Bethune, Vincent."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course you know best, Maisrie," said he. -And still he did not let her go. What was he to -say next, to detain her? It was so long since he -had heard her voice! "When you go upstairs, -Maisrie, I wish you would look at the book of -ballads that is lying on the table. There are some -lines marked—you will see a bit of paper to tell -you the page. Do you know what that means? -Your grandfather thought that he might not have -strength enough left to speak to me when I came; -and so this was to be a last message for me. Isn't -it strange that in the face of so serious an illness he -should be thinking about a ballad; but you know -better than anyone that ballads are as real to your -grandfather as the actual things around him. And -I want you to look at that message. I have told -your grandfather that he may depend on me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She went upstairs; he passed out into the golden -glow of the afternoon. It was not a beautiful -village, this: plain, unlovely, melancholy in the -last degree; moreover, his own mind was filled with -dim and dark forebodings; so that a sort of gloom -of death and separation seemed to hang over those -houses. Nor was there anything to look at, for the -distraction of thought. An English village would -have had a picturesque old church and a pretty -churchyard; here there was nothing but a small -mission-house of the most dull and forbidding -exterior, while, just beyond the last of the hovels, -there was a cemetery—a mound enclosed by a stone -wall. He went to the gate, and stood there a long -time, with some curious fancies and imaginings -coming into his head. He seemed to see an open -grave there, and a small knot of people, himself the -chief mourner. And then, after the simple and -solemn ceremony, he saw himself leave the sad -enclosure and go away back through the unlovely -street, rather fearing what lay before him. For how -was he to attempt to console the solitary girl -awaiting him there in her despair and her tears? But -behold now, if there were any charity and commiseration -left in the world—if one, hitherto obdurate, -would but consent to bury her enmity in that open -grave they had left—as well she might, for there -was no one to offend her now—and if she were to -reach out a woman's hand to this lonely girl, and -take her with her, and shelter her, until the time of -her sorrow was over? This was a bleak, plain, -commonplace sort of a burial ground into which he -was gazing: but none the less had human hearts -come away from it heavy and remorseful—remorseful -when it was too late. And if some little atonement -were to be offered in the way he had imagined—if -it were the only thing now left? This girl, -sitting alone there in her desperate grief—without -kindred—without friends—without any home or -habitation to turn her face to: surely her situation -was of all things possible most forlorn—surely no -woman's heart could resist that mute appeal for -sympathy and association?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As he walked slowly and aimlessly back to the -inn, he began to think he had been a little too hard -on those relatives of his. Death, or even the -menace of death, was a solvent of many things: it -made all antagonisms, animosities, indignations -appear so trivial and unworthy. He could not but -remember that it was not through any selfishness -those relatives of his had acted (unless some small -trace of family ambition were a minor motive): -what they had done they had done, as they -imagined, to serve him; there might have been -errors of judgment, but no ill-will on their part. -And now, in this terrible crisis, if he were to write -to Lady Musselburgh—write in all conciliation and -kindness—and tell her how Maisrie Bethune was -situated, would she not allow her heart to answer? -She was a woman; she professed to be a Christian. -And if the worst befel, or even if the worst were -threatened, surely she would come at once to -Scotland, and make what little amends were now -within her power? How many homes had she—in -London, Brighton, Mendover—how many friends, -relations, well-wishers—as compared with this -tragically lonely girl, who had nothing but the -wide world around her, and no one offering her -a sympathetic hand? He would write to his aunt -a long and urgent letter—appealing to her own -better nature—and asking to be allowed to summon -her, by telegram, if there were need. He would -even humble and abase himself—for Maisrie's sake.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But when he got back to the inn, he found that -all these sombre prognostications were, happily, not -immediately called for. On the contrary, Maisrie -came running down to say that her grandfather had -been asleep, or apparently asleep, and that, when he -woke up, he seemed much refreshed, with his -memory grown infinitely clearer. He was especially -proud that he could remember the verses about -Allander Water. He wanted Vincent to go up to -him at once.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you must please him, Vincent," she said, -breathlessly, "by promising to do everything to -help him with the book. Promise whatever he -wishes. But be sure you don't mention that Miss -Bethune was here—don't say a word about that—or -anything about Balloray."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-babble-o-green-fields-the-end"><span class="large">CHAPTER IX.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">A BABBLE O' GREEN FIELDS: THE END.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>There was a wonderful vitality, especially of the -brain, in this old man; after long periods of languor -and exhaustion, with low moanings and mutterings -quite unintelligible to the patient watchers, he -would flame up into something like his former self, -and his speech would become eager and voluble, -and almost consecutive. It was in those intervals -that he showed himself proud of his recovered -memory: again and again they could hear him -repeat the lines that for a time had baffled him—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'How sweet to roam by Allander, to breathe the balmy air,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>When cloudless are the summer skies, and woods and fields are fair;</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>To see the skylark soaring high, and chanting on the wing,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>While in yon woods near Calder Kirk the wild birds sweetly sing.'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>He was busy with the new book—choosing and -arranging; and Maisrie, as his amanuensis, jotted -down memoranda as to the poets to be included, and -the pieces most characteristic of them. For he was -not to be pacified into silence and acquiescence—in -these clearer moods. There was hurry, he said. -Some one else might step in. And he cross-examined -Vincent about the quotations that Hugh -Anstruther had made at the Burns' Celebration in -New York.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hardly remember," Vincent answered him. -"There were a good many. But there was one piece -I thought rather pathetic—I don't recall the name -of it—but it was about a little pair of shoes—the -mother thinking of her dead child."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What?—what?" said the old man, quickly. -"Not James Smith's? Not 'The Wee Pair o' Shoon'?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, yes, I think that was the title," said -Vincent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>An anxious and troubled expression came into -the sick man's eyes: he was labouring with his -memory—and Maisrie saw it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never mind, grandfather: never mind just now: -if you want it, I'll write to Mr. Anstruther for it. -See, I will put it down in the list; and I'll send for -it; and it will be back here in plenty of time."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But I know it quite well!" he said, fretfully, -"The last verse anyway. 'The eastlin wind blaws -cauld, Jamie—the snaw's on hill and plain——'" He -repeated those two lines over and over again, -with half-shut eyes; and then all at once he went -on with the remainder—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"'The flowers that decked my lammie's grave</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Are faded noo, an' gane!</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>O, dinna speak! I ken she dwells</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>In yon fair land aboon;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>But sair's the sicht that blin's my e'e—</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>That wee, wee pair o' shoon.'"</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>There was a kind of proud look in his face as he finished.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, yes; it's a fine thing to have a good -memory—and I owe that to my father—he said -there never was a minute in the day that need be -wasted—you could always repeat to yourself a verse -of the Psalms of David. I think the first word of -approval—I ever got from him—ye see, Maisrie, we -were brought up under strict government in those -days—was when I repeated the CXIX. Psalm—the -whole twenty-two parts—with hardly a mistake. -And what a talisman to carry about with ye—on -the deck of a steamer—on Lake Ontario—in the -night—with the stars overhead—then the -XLVI. Psalm comes into your mind—you are back in -Scotland—you see the small church, and the -boxed-in pews—the men and women standing up -to sing—the men all in black—I wonder if they -have </span><em class="italics">Ballerma</em><span> in the Scotch churches now—and -</span><em class="italics">Drumclog</em><span>—and </span><em class="italics">New St. Ann's</em><span>—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shut his eyes—those unnaturally brilliant -eyes—for a second or so; but the next second they were -open and alert again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The book, Maisrie—the book—are you getting -on?—no delay—no delay—in case someone should -interfere. Ye've got Shairp in, haven't ye?—the -burn of Quair—up yonder—above the Minch Moor—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>'I heard the cushies croon,</span></div> -<div class="line"><span>Through the gowden afternoon,</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>And Quair burn singin' doon to the vale o' Tweed.'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Well do I know the very spot where he must have -written those verses. Yes, yes; well I remember -it," he continued, more absently. "But I have had -my last look. I will see it no more—no more. -You, Maisrie, you will go there—your young -husband will take you there—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Grandfather, we will all go there together!" -said Maisrie, piteously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And both of you," the old man went on, paying -no attention to her, for he was apparently gazing at -some distant thing, "both of you are young, and -light of step—and light of heart, which is still -better—well, well, my lass, perhaps not so light of -heart as might be at your years—but all that will -change for you—and I think when you are up at -the burn of Quair—you will find it—in your mind—to -cross the Minch Moor to Yarrow Water. Newark -Castle you will see—then you will turn to go down -the Yarrow Vale—but not with any sad heart, -Maisrie—I forbid ye that—it's a beautiful place, -Yarrow, though it had its tragedies and sorrows in -the olden time—and you—you are young—you -have life before you—and I tell ye it is with a light -and glad heart you must go down the Yarrow Vale. -Why, lass, you'll come to Mount Benger—you'll -come to Dryhope Tower—you'll come to Altrive—and -St. Mary's Loch—and the Loch o' the Lows—and -Chapel-hope—but mind ye now—if it's bad -weather—ye're not to come running away, and -altogether mistaking the place—ye'll just stop -somewhere in the neighbourhood until it clears." -And then he added, in a wistful kind of way: "I once -had thoughts—of taking ye there myself, Maisrie."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And so you will, grandfather!" she pleaded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No more—no more," he said, as if not heeding -her. "And why should a young life be clouded?—the -two of them—they'll be fine company for each -other—when they're wandering—along by the side -of Yarrow Water." But here he recalled himself; -and would have Maisrie sit down again to that list; -in order that the book might be pushed rapidly -forward.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was on this same evening that Dr. Lenzie, on -arriving to pay his accustomed visit, went into the -little parlour and sent for Vincent. Vincent came -downstairs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do ye see that?" said he, holding out a book -that was in his hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vincent took the volume from him and glanced -at the title—Recent and Living Scottish Poets, by -A. G. Murdoch. He was not in the least astonished—but -he was angry and indignant.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very well," said he, "what of it? Do you mean -to say you are going to vex an old man, who may -be on his death-bed, by bringing charges of -plagiarism against him? I dare say Mr. Bethune never -saw the book, or, if he has seen it, he has -forgotten it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I perceive ye do not understand," said the little -doctor, without taking offence. "When I came to -know what undertaking it was that Mr. Bethune -had on his mind, I made sure I had either seen or -heard of some such collection; and I sent to -Edinburgh; and here it is, just arrived. Now the -one thing he seems anxious about, the one that -troubles him, is getting on with this work; and it -occurred to me that if I could show him there was -a similar book already published, he might cease -fretting——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Cease fretting!" Vincent exclaimed, with a -stare of astonishment. And then he hesitated. -"Well, you are an older man than I, and you -have more experience in these cases; but I should -have said that a cruel disappointment such as this -is sure to cause would distress his mind beyond -measure. He must occupy himself with something; -his brain is incessantly working; and so long as he -is talking of getting out his book, he is at least -looking forward with hope. But if you show him -this volume, it will be a crushing blow; the very -thing he seems to live for will be taken from him; -he will feel injured by being anticipated, and brood -over it. Of course I have no right to speak; I am -not a relative; but ask his granddaughter—she -knows him better than any one——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps you are right—perhaps you are right," -said the little doctor. "It was merely an idea of -mine—thinking it would quiet him. But on -reflection I will not risk it; it may be better not to -risk it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In that case," Vincent struck in, promptly, -"will you let me tie up the book in paper, and will -you take it away with you when you go? I mean, -that I don't wish Miss Bethune to see it. She has -plenty to think of at present: don't worry her with -a trifling matter like this. It is of no consequence -to her, or to any human being, how many collections -of Scotch poems may be published—the more the -merrier—so long as readers can be found for them; -but she is anxious and nervous and tired at -present—and it might surprise her, perhaps vex her, to -find that this volume had been published."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, certainly, certainly," the doctor said, taking -the failure of his ingenuous little scheme with much -equanimity. "I will put the book into that -sideboard drawer until I come down; and then I can -take it away with me without her or any one -having seen it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The next day brought Vincent an unexpected and -welcome surprise. He had been out-of-doors for a -brief breathing-space, and was returning to the -inn, when he saw in the distance, coming down -the Cupar road, a waggonette and pair. He seemed -somehow to recognise the two figures seated in the -carriage; looked again; at last made certain—they -were Lord and Lady Musselburgh. Of course, in -such circumstances, when they drove up to the -door of the inn, there was no great joyfulness of -greeting; only a few customary questions, and -professions of hope for the best; but at the same time, -Vincent, who was touched by this friendly act, could -not help saying—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, this is like you, aunt."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, your letter was too much for me, Vin," she -said, with frank good nature. "I did not wait for -the telegram—I trust there will be no need to -telegraph for anybody. But I don't want you to -give me any credit. I want to appear as I am; and -I've always told you I'm a selfish woman—the -generous creature is Hubert here, who insisted on -coming all this distance with me. And now I want -you to understand the full extent of my selfishness. -You are doing no good here—of course. You are -probably in the way. But all your affairs in London -will be compromised if you remain here: ——'s -private secretary cannot be absent at such a -time——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's St. John!" Vincent exclaimed, referring -to his colleague in the office that had been put in -commission.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's not in the House," rejoined this practical -and very charming person; "and the short and the -long of it is that you must get back to London at -once. That is part of my scheme; the other is, -that I shall take your place. I shall be of more use. -You say there is no immediate danger. So much -the better. Go away back to your post. If -anything should happen—I could be of more service -than you. What could you do? Miss Bethune -could not return to London with you—and go into -lodgings of your choosing. I will look after -her—if she will allow me—if she will let bygones be -bygones. I will ask her pardon, or do anything; -but I don't suppose she is thinking of that at present. -You go back with Hubert and leave me here. I can -shift for myself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think it is a sensible arrangement," her -husband said, idly looking around at the rather -shabby furniture.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is very kind of you, aunt," Vincent said—"and -very far from being selfish. But it is -impossible. I must remain here. I have duties -here as well as elsewhere—perhaps more important -in my own sight. But—but—now that you are -here—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes, I'll stay," said she good-naturedly. -"Well, Hubert, it is you who are packed off: I -suppose you can return to Edinburgh to-night. -I brought a few things with me, Vincent, in case -I should be wanted: will you fetch them in from -the waggonette? Still, I wish I could persuade -you to go back to London!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And in this manner it was that Lady Musselburgh -became installed in the inn, making some little -excuses to Maisrie. She and her husband had been -in the neighbourhood. They had heard of -Mr. Bethune's serious illness, and of Vincent's having -come down from town. Could she be of any help? -And so forth. Maisrie thanked her, of course; but -did not take much notice of her; the girl just then -having many things in her mind. For her grandfather's -delirium was at times more pronounced now; -and in these paroxysms she alone could soothe him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lady Musselburgh, indeed, rather hung back -from entering the sick-room, without stating her -reasons to anyone. On every occasion that she -saw Maisrie she was most kind and considerate, -and solicitous about the girl herself; but she -betrayed no great concern about the old man, -further than by making the usual enquiries. -When Vincent suggested to her that, if she did -not go into the room and see Mr. Bethune, his -granddaughter might think it strange, she said -in reply—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But he won't remember me, Vin. We never -met but at Henley."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He remembers everything that ever happened -to him," was the answer. "His memory is wonderful. -And perhaps—afterwards—you may wish you had -said a civil word or two."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, very well," she said. "Whatever you think -right. Will you come with me now?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She seemed a little apprehensive—she did not -say why. They went upstairs together. The door -of the sick-room was open. Maisrie, when she -perceived this visitor, rose from her seat by the -bedside; but Lady Musselburgh motioned her to -keep her place, while she remained standing in the -middle of the room, waiting to see if Mr. Bethune -would take any notice of her. But his eyes were -turned away; and he was muttering to himself -almost inaudibly—they could only catch a word -here and there—Galashiels—Torwoodlee—Selkirk—Jedburgh—no -doubt he was going over in his -own mind those scenes of his youth. Then Maisrie -said, very gently—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Grandfather!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned his eyes, and they rested on the -stranger for a second or so, with a curiously puzzled -expression. She went forward to the bedside.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm afraid you don't remember me," said she, -diffidently. "It was at Henley we met——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I remember you very well, madam, very well -indeed," said he, receiving her with a sort of -old-fashioned and ceremonious politeness—as far as -the wasted frame and poor wandering wits would -allow. "I am sorry—to have to welcome you—to -so poor a house—these are altered conditions -truly—" He was still looking curiously at her. -"Yes, yes, I remember you well, madam—and—and -I will not fail to send you my monograph on -the—the Beatons of the Western Isles—I will -not fail to send it—but if ye will forgive me—my -memory is so treacherous—will you forgive me, -madam, if your name has escaped me for the -moment—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This is Lady Musselburgh, grandfather," Maisrie -interposed, quietly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Musselburgh—Musselburgh," he said; and -then he went on, amid the pauses of his laborious -breathing: "Ah, yes—your husband, madam, is -a fine young man—and a good Scot—audacious, -intrepid, and gallant—perhaps a little cynical in -public affairs—great measures want earnest -convictions—it may be that his lot has fallen in -over-pleasant places—and he has chosen the easier path. -Well, why not?—why not? There are some whose -fate it is to—to fight a hard fight; while -others—others find nothing but smoothness and peace—let -them thank Heaven for it—and enjoy it. I hope -he will hold on his way with a noble cheerfulness—despising -the envy of enemies—a noble cheerfulness—I -hope it may be his always—indeed, I know -none deserving of better fortune."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was now abundantly clear to Lady Musselburgh -that he did not in any way associate her with the -arrangement that had been effected by George -Morris; and she was much relieved.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I mustn't disturb you any longer," said she. -"Indeed, I only came along to see if I could be -of any assistance to Miss Bethune. I hear she has -been doing far too much. Now that is very unwise; -for when you are getting better, and need constant -care, then she will find herself quite worn out."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, yes, that is right," said he, "I wish ye -would persuade her—take her in hand—make her -look after herself—but she has a will of her own, -the creature—a slim bit of a lass, ye might -think—but it's the spirit that endures—shining -clear—clearer and clearer in dark times of trouble. And -she—she has had her own troubles—and suffering—but -never a word of complaining—obedient—willing—ready -at all times and seasons—loyal—dutiful—and -brave. What more could I say of her?—what -more? Sometimes I have thought to myself—there -was the—the courage of a man in that slim bit -creature—and the gentleness of all womankind as -well—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Grandfather," said Maisrie, "you mustn't talk -any more now—you are keeping Lady Musselburgh -waiting."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, madam," he continued, not heeding the -girl at all, "you must remember her descent—she -comes of an inflexible race—she is of pure blood—it -is the thoroughbred that holds on till its heart -breaks in two. How could she help being -proud-spirited, and silent in endurance, and brave? -Perhaps you may know that it was of one of her -ancestors—as he lay in his grave—that some one -said—'There lies one who never feared the face of -man,'—a noble inscription for a tombstone—'who -never feared the face of man'—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Maisrie leant over and said to him, quite gently—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Grandfather, you are forgetting; it was of -John Knox that was said."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked at her doubtfully; and then seemed -to be puzzling with his own memory.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps—perhaps," he said; and then he -added, quite humbly, "I beg your pardon for -misleading you, madam—I did not intend it—but I -forget things—and Maisrie is generally right. -John Knox?—perhaps—perhaps—I thought it was -a Beaton or a Bethune—but I cannot remember -which of them—perhaps she is right—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He closed his eyes, and turned away a little, as if -to debate this question with himself—or perhaps to -seek some rest: seeing which Lady Musselburgh -and Vincent quietly withdrew, and went downstairs. -"Poor old man!" said she, when they were in -the small parlour. "There is a great change in -him, entirely apart from his illness. Even in -manner he is not nearly so—so grandiose as he -used to be: sometimes he was quite humble. And -as for her—my heart bleeds for her. I will do -anything you like, Vin—if she will accept. What -is more, I will confess to you now that, as far as she -is concerned, I am convinced I was quite wrong. -You were right: your eyes were wide open, after all. -How can one judge of any one by an afternoon and -an evening at Henley? That was my only chance. -Then perhaps there was a little excuse for -prejudice—there was the association—. But we'll say no -more about that. I confess I was wrong; you were -right. That girl is as true as steel. If she gives -her husband half the devotion she bestows on that -old man, he'll do very well." She looked at her -nephew. Then she said suddenly: "Vin, you don't -say a word. I believe you have never forgiven me -one bit!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes, I have, aunt," he made answer, uneasily. -"But there are some things that need never have -happened."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She regarded him again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vin, you are too unforgiving! But can I not -make up? See, now! If Miss Bethune is left -alone—I should like to call her Maisrie, if she will -let me: indeed I should: but it is so difficult to get -any nearer her—she is all wrapped up in her anxiety -about her grandfather: well, if she is left alone, I -will take her with me. I will take her to London. -She will stay with me; there will be a home for her -there, at any rate; and we may become better friends. -Oh, I know we shall; it is only that at present she -cares for nothing, and thinks of nothing, but her -duty towards her grandfather. I intend to be very -kind to her—I intend to win her affection if I -can—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I shall be very grateful to you, aunt," said -he. "But it is hardly time yet to speak of such a -thing: Mr. Bethune has always had a wonderful -constitution."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you notice how reticent the doctor was this -morning?" she asked,—and he did not answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But at least one thing that Lady Musselburgh -had observed and mentioned was true: much, if not -all, of the old grandiose manner had gone away from -George Bethune. If on rare occasions some flash of -defiance flamed up—as if he were still face to face -with adversity and disappointment, and determined -not to abate one jot of his pride and independence—he -was ordinarily quite gentle and even humble, -especially towards Maisrie. On this same evening -he said—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Margaret" (as he sometimes called her now, -forgetting) "will ye read to me the XLVI. Psalm?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She went and got the book and began—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"God is our refuge and our strength,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>In straits a present aid;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>Therefore, although the earth remove,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>We will not be afraid:</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>Though hills amidst the sea be cast;</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Though waters roaring make,</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>And troubled be; yea, though the hills</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>By swelling seas do shake.</span></div> -</div> -</div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>"A river is, whose streams do glad</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>The city of our God;</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>The holy place, wherein the Lord</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Most high hath his abode.</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>God in the midst of her doth dwell;</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>Nothing shall her remove:</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>The Lord to her our helper will,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>And that right early, prove."</span></div> -<div class="line"> </div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>But when she had got so far, he said—</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Margaret—I hope ye will not take it ill—if I -interrupt ye—it is no unkindness I mean, my lass—but, -ye see, ye've got the English speech, as is -natural—and I was trying to think how my father -used to read out the Psalm at family worship—and -ye've not got the Scotch way—nor the strong -emphasis—how could ye?—how could ye? Ye'll -not take it ill," he went on, with the most piteous -concern visible in his face—"ye'll not think it's -any unkindness——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no, no, grandfather!" she said. "Of course -not. Shall I ask Mrs. MacGill to come up, to read -to you in the Scotch way?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no one but you, Maisrie—no one but -you—perhaps if you take the CXXVI. Psalm—'When -Sion's bondage God turned back, as men that -dreamed were we'—I mind, they used to sing that -to the tune of </span><em class="italics">Kilmarnock</em><span>—and the young women's -voices sounded beautiful. But you're not vexed, -Maisrie!—for I did not mean any unkindness to ye, -my dear——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no, grandfather," she said; and she turned -to this other Psalm, and read it to him; and even -after that it was some time before she could assure -him that she had not been in the least hurt.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Two more of those long and anxious days went -by; the fever waxing and waning by turns; but all -the time the strength of that once powerful frame -was slowly ebbing away. For one thing, his mind -was well content. He had no more anxiety about -Maisrie; he appeared to regard her future as well -assured. He lay quietly murmuring to himself; -and they could make out, from chance sentences -here and there, that he was going over his -boyhood's days again—bird's-nesting in the spring -woods, making swaying seats out of the shelving -branches of the beeches, guddling for trout in the -small hill burns. An old refrain seemed to haunt -him—</span></p> -<blockquote> -<div> -<div class="line-block outermost"> -<div class="line"><span>'Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>And O to be lying beyond thee:</span></div> -</div> -<div class="line"><span>O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep,</span></div> -<div class="inner line-block"> -<div class="line"><span>That's laid in the bed beyond thee.'</span></div> -</div> -</div> -</div> -</blockquote> -<p class="pfirst"><span>'</span><em class="italics">Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde</em><span>': that phrase also -returned again and again. And then he would go -back to his school-days, and tell Maisrie about a -little patch of garden that had been given all to -himself; how he had watched the yellow spears of -the crocuses pierce the dry earth, and the green -buds begin to show on the currant-bushes; how he -had planted scarlet-runners, and stuck the wands -in, and trained the young shoots; how he had -waited for the big red globes of the peonies to -unroll; how he had white monkshood, and four -distinct colours of columbine. Then his pets; his -diversions; his terrible adventures—half drowned -in a mill-dam—lost in a snowstorm on Laidlaw -moor—the horrors of a certain churchyard which -he had sometimes to pass, alone, on the dark -winter evenings. Maisrie did not seek to interrupt -him. There was no agitation in these wandering -reminiscences. Nay, they seemed to soothe him; -and sometimes he sank into an altogether dozing -state.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vincent," said Lady Musselburgh, when these -two happened to find themselves together, in the -room below, "have you no authority over that girl? -She is killing herself!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is no use remonstrating," said he. "She -knows what the doctor has not dared to tell her. -She sees that her grandfather is so weak he may -slip away at any moment, without a word or a sign."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But on the evening of this second day, the old -man, with such remnant of his former resolution -and defiance as still clung to him, seemed to try to -shake off this fatal lethargy—if only to say -farewell. And in this last hour or so of his life, the -spectacle that George Bethune presented was no -unworthy one. Death, or the approach of death, -which ennobles even the poorest and the meanest, -was now dealing with this man; and all the husks -and histrionic integuments that had obscured or -hidden his true nature seemed to fall away from -him. He stood out himself—no pressure of poverty -distorting his mind—no hopeless regrets embittering -his soul. It was Scotland he thought of. In -those last minutes and moments, the deepest passion -of his heart—an intense and proud love of his -native land—burned pure and strong and clear; -and if he showed any anxiety at all, it was merely -that Maisrie, who was a kind of stranger, should -form a liking for this country to which she, too, in -a measure, belonged—that she should see it under -advantageous conditions—that she should think of -all that had been said of those hills and vales, and -endow them with that added charm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But I do not fear," he said (his eyes, with some -brilliancy still left in them, fixed on her, his voice -low and panting). "You have an inheritance, -Maisrie—it is in your blood—a sympathy—an -insight—Scotland claims you—as one of her own. -I knew that when—when—you used to play the -Scotch airs for me—the trembling string, that made -the soul tremble too—'The sun shines bright in -France'—'The Lowlands o' Holland, that twined -my love and me'—it was Scotch blood that made -them thrill. Ye'll not be disappointed, -Margaret—ye'll understand—when ye get to Yarrow—and -Ettrick Water—and the murmur of the Tweed. I -meant—to have taken ye myself—but it was not to -be—ye'll have younger and happier guidance—as is -but natural—I—I wish ye both well. And—and I -would like ye—to go in the spring-time, Maisrie—and—and -if ye could find out William Motherwell's -grave—I have forgotten where it is—my memory is -not what it used to be—but if ye could find out -Motherwell's grave—ye might put a handful of -primroses on it—for the sake of—of </span><em class="italics">Jeanie -Morrison</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He relapsed into silence; his breathing grew -more laboured—and also feebler; it was evident to -those standing by that the end was not far off now. -Maisrie sate holding his hand in hers; the fountain -of her tears all dried up; her tragic grief seemed -to have turned her to stone. Even those spring -days of which he had spoken—when she would have -her young husband by her side—they would want -something. Her grandfather had been kind to her; -and they had been through many years together.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He lay thus for nearly half-an-hour, the tide of -life slowly receding. He made but one final effort -to speak—nay, for a second, it seemed as if he -would raise his head to give effect to his last proud -protestation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Maisrie—Maisrie—they never saw me cowed—never -once! I met—ill fortune—or good—face to -face ... I held—by the watchword—of our -house—Stand—Fast—Craig-Royston! ..."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was his last breath. And so, with a lie on his -lips, but with none in his heart, old George Bethune -passed away: passed away from a world that had -perhaps understood him but none too well.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">THE END.</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: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="large">NOVELS BY WILLIAM BLACK.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><em class="italics medium">Crown 8vo. 6s. each.</em></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>THE NEW PRINCE FORTUNATUS. -<br />IN FAR LOCHABER. -<br />THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A HOUSE-BOAT. -<br />A DAUGHTER OF HETH. -<br />KILMENY. -<br />THREE FEATHERS. -<br />LADY SILVERDALE'S SWEETHEART. -<br />IN SILK ATTIRE. -<br />SUNRISE. -<br />THE PENANCE OF JOHN LOGAN.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">SAMPSON LOW AND CO., LIMITED, LONDON.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>A PRINCESS OF THULE. -<br />THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PHAETON. -<br />THE MAID OF KILLEENA. -<br />MADCAP VIOLET. -<br />GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY. -<br />MACLEOD OF DARE. -<br />WHITE WINGS. -<br />THE BEAUTIFUL WRETCH. -<br />SHANDON BELLS. -<br />YOLANDE. -<br />JUDITH SHAKESPEARE. -<br />THE WISE WOMEN OF INVERNESS. -<br />WHITE HEATHER. -<br />SABINA ZEMBRA.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON.</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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