.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 42730
   :PG.Title: Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume II)
   :PG.Released: 2013-05-17
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: William Black
   :DC.Title: Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume II)
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1891
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON! (VOLUME II)
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      STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON!

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      A Novel

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      BY

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      WILLIAM BLACK,

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      AUTHOR OF
      "A DAUGHTER OF HETH," "MACLEOD OF DARE," ETC.

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      *IN THREE VOLUMES.*
      VOL. II.

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      LONDON:
      SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON, LIMITED
      St. Dunstan's House
      FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
      1891.

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      [*All rights reserved.*] 

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      LONDON:
      PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
      STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.

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   CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

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   CHAPTER

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   I.  `Doubts and Dreams`_
   II.  `By Northern Seas`_
   III.  `"Holy Palmer's Kiss"`_
   IV.  `Interposition`_
   V.  `The Gnawing Fox`_
   VI.  `Put to the Proof`_
   VII.  `Renewing is of Love`_
   VIII.  `On the Brink`_
   IX.  `"And hast thou played me this!"`_

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.. _`DOUBTS AND DREAMS`:

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   STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON!

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   CHAPTER I.

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   DOUBTS AND DREAMS.

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And at first Vincent was for rebelliously thrusting
aside and ignoring this information that had reached
him so unexpectedly.  Was he, on the strength of
a statement forwarded by an unknown correspondent
in New York, to suspect—nay, to condemn unheard—this
proud and solitary old man with whom he
had all this while been on terms of such close and
friendly intimacy?  Had he not had ample
opportunities of judging whether George Bethune was
the sort of person likely to have done this thing
that was now charged against him?  He went over
these past weeks and months.  Was it any wonder
that the old man's indomitable courage, his
passionate love of his native land, and the constant
and assiduous care and affection he bestowed on his
granddaughter, should have aroused alike the
younger man's admiration and his gratitude?
What if he talked with too lofty an air of birth
and lineage, or allowed his enthusiasm about
Scotland and Scottish song to lead him into the
realms of rodomontade: may not an old man have
his harmless foibles?  Any one who had witnessed
Maisrie's devotion to her grandfather, her gentle
forbearance and consideration, her skilful humouring
of him, and her never-failing faith in him, must
have got to know what kind of man was old George
Bethune.

And yet, when Vincent turned to the letter, it
seemed terribly simple, and straightforward, and
sincere.  There was no vindictiveness in it at all;
rather there was a pained surprise on the part of
the writer that a loyal Scot—one, too, who had
been admitted into that fraternity of song-writing
exiles over the water—should have been guilty of
such a flagrant breach of trust.  Then Lord
Musselburgh's patronage, as the young man knew
very well, had taken the form of a cheque; so that
the charge brought by the writer of this letter
practically was that George Bethune had obtained,
and might even now be obtaining, money by fraud
and false pretences.  It was a bewildering thing—an
impossible thing—to think of.  And now, as he
strove to construct all sorts of explanatory
hypotheses, there seemed to stand in the background the
visionary form of Mrs. Ellison; and her eyes were
cold and inquiring.  How had she come to suspect?
It was not likely that she could be familiar with
the Scotch-American newspaper offices of the
United States.

No, he could make nothing of it; his perplexity
only increased.  All kinds of doubts, surmises,
possible excuses went chasing each other through
his brain.  Perhaps it was only literary vanity that
had prompted the old man to steal this project
when it was placed before him?  Or perhaps he
thought he had a better right to it, from his wide
knowledge of the subject?  Vincent knew little of
the laws and bye-laws of the literary world;
perhaps this was but a bit of rivalry carried too far;
and in any case, supposing the old man had erred
in his eagerness to claim this topic as his own,
surely that did not prove him to be a charlatan all
the way through, still less a professional impostor?
But then his making use of this scheme to obtain
money—and that not only from Lord Musselburgh?
Oh, well (the young man tried to convince himself)
there might not be so much harm in that.  No
doubt he looked forward to issuing the volume, and
giving his patrons value in return.  Old George
Bethune, as he knew, was quite careless about
pecuniary matters: for example, if the bill for
those little dinners at the various restaurants was
paid by some one, that was enough; the old gentleman
made no further inquiries.  He was content to
let his young friend settle these trivial details; and
Master Vin was willing enough.  In fact, the latter
had devised a system by which the awkwardness of
calling for the bill in Maisrie's presence was
avoided; this system worked admirably; and
Mr. Bethune asked no questions.  Doubtless, if he had
remembered, or taken the trouble, he would have
paid his shot like anyone else.

But amid all these conflicting speculations, there
was one point on which the mind of this young
man remained clear and unswerving; and that was
that whatever might be the character or career of
old George Bethune, his principles or his practice,
Maisrie was as far apart and dissociated from them
as if worlds intervened.  If there had been any
malfeasance in this matter, she, at least, was no
sharer in it.  And the more he pondered, the more
anxious he became to know whether Maisrie had
any idea of the position in which her grandfather
was placed.  How much would he be entitled to
tell her, supposing she was in ignorance?  And
when could he hope for an opportunity?  And
then again, failing an opportunity, how was he to
go and spend the evening with those two friends of
his, pretending to be entirely engrossed by their
little amusements and occupations outdoors and in,
while all the time there was lying in his pocket
this letter, unanswered and perhaps unanswerable?

Fortune favoured him.  Towards evening, a little
before six o'clock, he heard a door shut on the
other side of the street; and, lifting his head, he
perceived that it was Mr. Bethune who had just
come out of the house, alone.  Here was a chance
not to be missed.  Waiting for a couple of minutes,
to make sure that the coast was clear, he passed
downstairs, crossed the little thoroughfare, and
knocked.  The landlady told him that Miss Bethune
was upstairs, and upstairs he went.  The next
moment a voice that he knew well invited him to
enter, and therewithal the two young people found
themselves face to face.

"You are early," she said, with a little smile of
welcome, as she stopped in her sewing.

"Yes," said he, and he added quite frankly, "I
saw your father go out, and I wished to speak with
you alone.  The fact is, Maisrie," he continued, taking
a chair opposite her, "I have heard from America
to-day about that proposal I made—to get some one
to collect materials for your grandfather's book;
and the answer is rather a strange one—I don't
quite understand—perhaps you can tell me
something about it."  He hesitated, and then went on:
"Maisrie, I suppose it never occurred to you that—that
some one else in America might be proposing
to bring out a similar book?"

She looked up quickly, and with a certain
apprehension in her eyes.

"Oh, yes, I knew.  My grandfather told me
there had been talk of such a thing.  What have
you heard?"

He stared at her.

"You knew?" said he.  "Then surely you might have told me!"

There was something in his tone—some touch
of reproach—that brought the blood to her face;
and yet she answered calmly and without resentment——

"Did I not tell you?—nor my grandfather?
But perhaps neither of us thought it of much
importance.  It was only some vague talk, as I
understood; for everyone must have known that
no one was so familiar with the subject as my
grandfather, and that it would be foolish to try to
interfere with him.  At the same time I have
always been anxious that he should get on with the
book, for various reasons; and if you have heard
anything that will induce him to begin at once, so
much the better."

It was clear that she was wholly in ignorance of
the true state of the case.

"No," said he, watching her the while.  "What
I have heard will not have that effect, but rather
the reverse.  To tell you the plain truth, the
American or Scotch-American writer has finished
his book, and it will be out almost directly."

She sprang to her feet with an involuntary
gesture, and stood still for a moment, her lips grown
suddenly pale, and her eyes bewildered: and then
she turned away from him to hide her emotion,
and walked to the window.  Instantly he followed her.

"Maisrie, what is the matter!" he exclaimed in
astonishment, for he found that tears had sprung to
her eyes.

"Oh, it is a shame—it is a shame," she said, in
broken accents, and her hands were clenched, "to
steal an old man's good name from him, and that
for so small a thing!  What harm had he ever
done them?  The book was such a small thing—they
might have left it to him—what can they
gain from it——"

"But Maisrie——!"

"Oh, you don't understand, Vincent, you don't
understand at all," she said, in a despairing sort of
way, "how my grandfather will be compromised!
He undertook to bring out the book; he got friends
to help him with money; and now—now—what
will they think?—what can I say to them?—what
can I do?  I—I must go to them—but—but what
can I say?"

Her tears were running afresh now; and at
sight of them the young man threw to the winds
all his doubts and conjectures concerning George
Bethune's honesty.  That was not the question now.

"No, you shall not go to them!" said he, with
indignant eyes.  "You?—you go to any one—in
that way?  No, you shall not.  I will go.  It is a
question of money: I will pay them their money
back.  Tell me who they are, and the amounts;
and they shall have every farthing of their money
back, and at once: what can they ask for more?"

For a second she regarded him with a swift
glance of more than gratitude; but it was only to
shake her head.

"No, how could I allow you to do that?  What
explanation could you make?  There must be some
other way—often I have wished that ray grandfather
would let me try to earn something—I am willing
enough—and I am never sure of my grandfather,
because he can believe things so easily."  She had
grown calmer now; and over her face there had
come the curious look of resignation that he
had noticed when first he saw her, and that seemed
so strange in a young girl.  "I might have
expected this," she went on, absently and sadly.
"My grandfather can persuade himself of anything:
if he thinks a thing is done, that is enough.  I am
sure I have urged him to get on with this book—not
that I thought anybody could be so mean and
cruel as to step in and forestall him—but that he
might get free from those obligations; but I
suppose when he had once arranged all the
materials in his own mind he felt that the rest was
easy enough and that there was no hurry.  He
takes things so lightly—and now—the
humiliation—well, I shall have to bear that——"

"I say you shall not," he said, hotly.  "I claim
the privilege of a friend, and you cannot refuse.
Who are the people to whom your grandfather is
indebted over this volume?" he demanded.

"For one, there is Lord Musselburgh," she said,
but indifferently, as if no hope lay that way.  "And
there is Mr. Carmichael, who owns an Edinburgh
paper—the *Chronicle*."

"Very well," said he, promptly.  "What is to
hinder my explaining to them that circumstances
have occurred to prevent Mr. Bethune bringing out
the volume he had projected; and that he begs
to return them the money they had been good
enough to advance?"

She shook her head again and sighed.

"No.  It is very kind of you: You are always
kind.  But I could not accept it.  I must try
some way myself—though I am rather helpless:
it is so difficult to get my grandfather to see things.
I told you before: he lives in a world of imagination,
and he can persuade himself that everything
is well, no matter how we are situated.  But it was
shameful of them," she said, with her indignation
returning, and her lips becoming at once proud and
tremulous, "to cheat an old man out of so poor and
small a thing!  Why, they all knew he was going
to write this book—all the writers themselves—they
were known to himself personally—and glad
enough they were to send him their verses.  Well,
perhaps they are not to blame.  Perhaps they may
have been told that he had given up the idea—that
is quite likely.  At all events, I don't envy the
miserable creature who has gone and taken
advantage of my grandfather's absence—"

She could say no more just then, for there was a
sound below of the door being opened and shut;
and the next minute they could hear old George
Bethune coming with his active step up the flight
of stairs, while he sang aloud, in fine bravura
fashion, "'Tis the march—'tis the march—'tis the
march of the Cameron men!"

The little dinner in the restaurant that evening
was altogether unlike those that had preceded it.
The simple and innocent gaiety—the sense of
snugness and good-comradeship—appeared to have
fled, leaving behind it a certain awkwardness and
restraint.  Vincent was entirely perplexed.  The
story he had heard from America was in no way
to be reconciled with Maisrie's interpretation of her
grandfather's position; but it was possible that the
old man had concealed from her certain material
facts; or perhaps had been able to blind himself to
them.  But what troubled the young man most of
all was to notice that the old look of pensive
resignation had returned to Maisrie's face.  For a time
a brighter life had shone there; the natural
animation and colour of youth had appeared in her cheeks;
and her eyes had laughter in them, and smiles, and
kindness and gratitude; but all that had gone
now—quite suddenly, as it seemed—and there had come
back that strange sadness, that look of unresisting
and hopeless acquiescence.  Alone of the little
party of three George Bethune retained his usual
equanimity; nay, on this particular evening he
appeared to be in especial high spirits; and in his
careless and garrulous good-humour he took little
heed of the silence and constraint of the two younger
folk.  They made all the better audience; and he
could enforce and adorn his main argument with all
the illustrations he could muster; he was allowed to
have everything his own way.

And perhaps Vincent, thinking of Maisrie, and
her tears, and the hopelessness and solitariness of
her position, may have been inclined to resent what
he could not but regard as a callous and culpable
indifference.  At all events, he took the first
opportunity that presented itself of saying—

"I hope I am not the bearer of ill-news,
Mr. Bethune; but I have just heard from New York
that someone over there has taken up your subject,
and that a volume on the Scotch poets in America is
just about ready, and will be published immediately."

Maisrie glanced timidly at her grandfather; but
there was nothing to fear on his account; he was
not one to quail.

"Oh, indeed, indeed," said he, with a lofty
magnanimity.  "Well, I hope it will be properly
and satisfactorily done: I hope it will be done
in a way worthy of the subject.  Maisrie, pass the
French mustard, if you please.  A grand subject:
for surely these natural and simple expressions of
the human heart are as deeply interesting as the
more finished, the more literary, productions of the
professional poet.  A single verse, rough and rugged
as you like—and the living man stands revealed.
Ay, ay, so the book is coming out.  Well, I hope
the public will be lenient; I hope the public will
understand that these men are not professional poets,
who have studied and written in leisure all their
lives; it is but a homely lilt they offer; but it is
genuine; it is from the heart—and it speaks to the
heart——"

"But, grandfather," said Maisrie, "you were to
have written the book!"

"What matters it who compiles the pages?—that
is nothing at all; that is in a measure
mechanical.  I am only anxious that it should be well
done, with tact, and discretion, and modesty," he
continued—and with such obvious sincerity that
Vincent was more than ever perplexed.  "For the
sake of old Scotland I would willingly give my
help for nothing—a little guidance here and
there—a few biographical facts—even an amended line.
But after all the men must speak for themselves;
and well they will speak, if the public will but
remember that these verses have for the most part
been thought of during the busy rush of a
commercial life, and written down in a chance evening
hour.  It will be a message across the sea, to show
that Scotland's sons have not forgotten her.
MacGregor Crerar—Donald Ramsay—Hugh Ainslie—Evan
MacColl—Andrew Wanless—I wonder if they
have got Wanless's address to the robin that was
sent to him from Scotland—you remember, Maisrie?

   |  'There's mair than you, my bonnie bird,
   |    Hae crossed the raging main,
   |  Wha mourn the blythe, the happy days,
   |    They'll never see again.
   |  Sweet bird, come sing a sang to me,
   |    Unmindfu' o' our ills;
   |  And let us think we're ance again
   |    'Mang our ain heather hills!'

The book will be welcomed by many a proud heart,
and with moist eyes, when it gets away up among
the glens, to be read by the fireside and repeated
at the plough; and I think, Maisrie, when you and
I take a walk along Princes-street in Edinburgh
we may see more than one or two copies in the
bookseller's windows.  Then I hope *Blackwood* will
have a friendly word for it; and I am sure
Mr. Carmichael will allow me to give it a hearty
greeting in the *Weekly Chronicle*."

"But, grandfather," said Maisrie, almost piteously,
"surely you forget that you undertook to bring out
this book yourself!"

"Yes, yes," said he, with perfect good humour.
"But 'the best laid schemes o' mice and men, gang
aft agley.'  And I do not grudge to some other
what might have been mine—I mean the
association of one's name with such a band of true and
loyal Scotchmen.  No; I do not grudge it; on the
contrary I am prepared to give the volume the
most generous welcome in my power; it is not for
a brother Scot to find fault in such a case, or to be
niggard of his praise.  I hope we are capable of
showing to the world that 'we're a' John Thampson's
bairns.'"

Maisrie was growing desperate.  Her grandfather
would not understand; and how was she to speak
plain—with Vincent listening to every word?  And
yet she knew that now he was aware of all the
circumstances; concealment was impossible; and so
she forced herself to utterance.

"Grandfather," said she—and her face was
flushed a rose-red, though she seemed to take no
heed of her embarrassment, so earnest and imploring
was her speech, "You cannot forget the obligations
you put yourself under—to Lord Musselburgh
and Mr. Carmichael, and perhaps others.  You
undertook to write the book.  If that is impossible
now, it is a great misfortune; but at least there is
one thing you must do; you must explain to them
what has happened, and give them back the money."

The old man could no longer shelter himself
behind his gay and discursive optimism; he frowned
impatiently.

"I have already told you, Maisrie," said he, in
severely measured accents, "—and you are grown
up now, you might understand for yourself—that
there are times and seasons when the introduction
of business matters is uncalled for, and, in fact,
unbecoming; and one of these is, surely, when we
come out to spend a pleasant evening with our
young friend here.  I do not think it necessary
that we should discuss our business affairs before
him—I presume he would consider such a thing
somewhat inappropriate at a dinner-table."

Maisrie's lips quivered; and her grandfather saw
it.  Instantly he changed his tone.

"Come, come," said he, with a cheerful good
nature.  "Enough, enough.  I can quite
comprehend how the *res angusta domi* may tend to give
money, and questions of money, an over-prominence
in the minds of women.  But money, and the
obligations that money may place us under, are
surely a very secondary affair, to one who looks at
human nature with a larger view.  I thank God,"
he went on, with much complacency, "that I have
never been the slave of avarice, that even in times
of great necessity I have kept subsidiary things in
their proper sphere.  I do not boast; our
disposition is as much a matter of inheritance as the
shape of our fingers or feet; and that disposition
may be handed down without the accompanying
circumstances that developed it.  You follow me,
Mr. Harris?"

"Oh, yes," said the younger man, gloomily;
that quiver of Maisrie's lips was still in his mind.

For the first time since he had known them
Vincent was glad to get away from his companions
that night: the situation in which he found them
and himself alike involved was altogether so strange
that he wanted time to think over it.  And first of
all he put aside that matter of the Scotch-American
book as of minor importance: no doubt some kind
of explanation was possible, if all the facts were
revealed.  It was when he came to consider the
position and surroundings of Maisrie Bethune that
the young man grew far more seriously concerned;
indeed, his heart became surcharged with an
immeasurable pity and longing to help.  He began to
understand how it was that a premature sadness and
resignation was written on that beautiful face, and
why her eyes so rarely smiled; and he could guess at
the origin of that look of hopelessness, as though she
despaired of getting her grandfather to acknowledge
the realities and the responsibilities of the actual
life around him.  To Vincent the circumstances in
which this young girl was placed seemed altogether
tragic; and when he regarded the future that might
lie before her, it was with a blank dismay.

Moreover, he now no longer sought to conceal
from himself the nature of this engrossing interest
in all that concerned her, this fascination and
glamour that drew him towards her, this constant
solicitude about her that haunted him day and
night.  Love had originally sprung from pity,
perhaps; her loneliness had appealed to him, and
her youth, and the wistful beauty of her eyes.
But even now that he knew what caused his heart
to leap when he heard her footfall on the stairs, or
when he happened to look up at the table to find
her regard fixed on him, there was no wild desire
for a declaration of his fond hopes and dreams.
Rather he hung back—as if something mysteriously
sacred surrounded her.  He had asked her for a
flower: that was all.  Probably she had forgotten.
There seemed no place for the pretty toyings of
love-making in the life of this girl, who appeared to
have missed the gaiety of childhood, and perhaps
might slip on into middle-age hardly knowing what
youth had been.  And yet what a rose was ready
to blow there—he said to himself—if only sunshine,
and sweet rains, and soft airs were propitious!  It
was the wide, white days of June that were wanted
for her, before the weeks and the months went by,
and the darkness and the winter came.

No, he did not speak; perhaps he was vaguely
aware that any abrupt disclosure on his part might
startle her into maiden reserve; whereas in their
present relations there existed the frankest
confidence.  She made no secret of the subdued and
happy content she experienced in this constant
companionship; her eyes lit up when he approached;
oftentimes she called him 'Vincent' without
seeming to notice it.  She had given him a flower?—yes,
as she would have given him a handful at any
or every hour of the day, if she fancied it would
please him, and without ulterior thought.  They
were almost as boy and girl together in this daily
intercourse, this open and avowed comradeship, this
easy and unrestricted familiarity.  But sometimes
Vincent looked ahead—with dim forebodings.  He
had not forgotten the murmur of that wide sea of
separation that he had beheld as it were in a vision;
the sound of it, faint, and sad, and ominous, still
lingered in his ears.

It was in one of these darker moments that he
resolved, at whatever risk, to acquaint old George
Bethune with something of his irresolute hopes and
fears.  The opportunity arrived quite unexpectedly.
One morning he was as usual on his way to his
lodgings when, at the corner of Upper Grosvenor
Street, he met Mr. Bethune coming into Park Lane
alone.

"Maisrie is well?" Vincent asked, in sudden
alarm, for it was the rarest thing in the world to
find grandfather and granddaughter separated.

"Oh, yes, yes," the old man said.  "She has
some household matters to attend to—dressmaking,
I think.  Poor lass, she has to be economical;
indeed, I think she carries it to an extreme; but
it's no use arguing with Maisrie; I let her have her
own way."

"I wanted to speak to you—about her," Vincent
said, and he turned and walked with the old man,
across the street into Hyde Park.  "I have often
wished to speak to you—and—and of course there
was no chance when she herself was present—"

He hesitated, casting about for a beginning; then
he pulled himself together, and boldly flung himself
into it.

"I hope you won't take it for impertinence," said
he.  "I don't mean it that way—very different
from that.  But you yourself, sir, you may
remember, you spoke to me about Maisrie when we
were down at Henley together—about what her
future might be, if anything happened to you—and
you seemed concerned.  Well, it is easy to
understand how you should be troubled—it is terrible to
think of a young girl like that—so sensitive, too—being
alone in the world, and not over well-provided
for, as you have hinted to me.  It would be so
strange and unusual a position for a young girl to
be in—without relations—without friends—and
having no one to advise her or protect her in any
way.  Of course you will say it is none of my
business——"

"But you would like to have it made your
business," said old George Bethune, with a bland
and good-natured frankness that considerably
astounded his stammering companion.  "My dear
young friend, I know perfectly what you would say.
Do you think I have been blind to the friendly and
even affectionate regard you have shown towards
my granddaughter all this while, or to the pleasure
she has enjoyed in having you take part in our
small amusements?  No, I have not been blind.  I
have looked on and approved.  It has been an
added interest to our lives; between you and her I
have observed the natural sympathy of similar age;
and I have been glad to see her enjoying the society
of one nearer her own years.  But now—now, if I
guess aright, you wish for some more definite tie."

"Would it not be better?" the young man said,
breathlessly.  "If there were some clear understanding,
would not a great deal of the uncertainty
with regard to the future be removed?  You see,
Mr. Bethune, I haven't spoken a word to Maisrie—not
a word.  I have been afraid.  Perhaps I have
been mistaken in imagining that she might in
time—be inclined to listen to me——"

He stopped: then he proceeded more slowly—and
it might have been noticed that his cheek was
a little paler than usual.  "Yes, it may be as you
say.  Perhaps it is only that she likes the
companionship of one of her own age.  That is natural.
And then she is very kind and generous: I may
have been mistaken in thinking there was a
possibility of something more."

He was silent now and abstracted: as he walked
on he saw nothing of what was around him.

"Come, come, my friend!" George Bethune
exclaimed, with much benignity.  "Do not vex
yourself with useless speculations; you are looking
too far ahead; you and she are both too young to
burden yourselves with grave responsibilities.  A
boyish and girlish attachment is a very pretty and
engaging thing; but it must not be taken too
seriously——"

And here for a second a flash of resentment fired
through Vincent's heart: was it well of this old
man to speak so patronisingly of Maisrie as but a
child when it was he himself who had thrust upon
her more than the responsibilities and anxieties
of a grown woman?

"Take things as they are!  Do you consider that
you have much cause to complain, either the one
or the other of you?" old George Bethune resumed,
in a still lighter strain.  "You have youth and
strength, good health, and a constant interest in the
life going on around you: is not that sufficient?
Why, here am I, nearing my three score years and
ten; and every morning that I awake I know that
there lies before me another beautiful, interesting,
satisfactory day, that I am determined to enjoy to
the very utmost of my power.  To-morrow?—to-morrow
never yet belonged to anybody—never was
of any use to anybody: give me to-day, and I am
content to let to-morrow shift for itself!  Yes," he
continued, in firm and proud and almost joyous
accents, and he held his head erect, "you may have
caught me in some unguarded moment—some
moment of nervous weakness or depression—beginning
to inquire too curiously into the future; but
that was a transient folly; I thank God that it is
not my habitual mood!  Repining, complaining,
anticipating: what good do you get from that?
Surely I have had as much reason to repine and
complain as most; but I do not waste my breath in
remonstrating with 'fickle Fortune.'  'Fickle
Fortune!'" he exclaimed, in his scorn—"if the
ill-favoured jade were to come near me I would give
her a wallop across the buttocks with my staff, and
bid her get out of my road!  'Fickle Fortune!'
She may 'perplex the poor sons of a day;' but she
shall never perplex me—by God and Saint Ringan!"

He laughed aloud in his pride.

"Why," said he, suddenly changing into quite
another vein, "have you not yet come to know that
the one priceless thing to think of in the world—the
one extraordinary thing—is that at this precise
moment you can see?  For millions and millions of
years these skies have been shining, and the clouds
moving, and the seas running blue all round the
shores; and you were dead and blind to them;
unknowing and unknown.  Generation after
generation of men—thousands and thousands of
them—were looking at these things; they knew the hills
and the clouds and the fields; the world existed for
them; but you could see nothing, you were as if
lying dead.  Then comes your brief instant; it is
your turn; your eyes are opened; and for a little
while—a passing second—the universe is revealed
to you.  Don't you perceive that the marvellous
thing is that out of the vast millions of ages it
should be this one particular moment, this present
moment, that happens to be given to you?  And
instead of receiving it with amazement and wonder
and joy, why, you must begin to fret and worry and
lay schemes, as if you were unaware that the gates
of the empty halls of Pluto were waiting to engulf
you and shut you up once more in darkness and
blindness.  Look at those elm-trees—at the water
down there—at the moving clouds: isn't it
wonderful to think that in the immeasurable life of the
world this should happen to be the one moment
when these things are made visible to you?"

Vincent perceived in a kind of way what the old
man meant; but he did not understand why this
should make him less concerned about Maisrie's
position, or less eagerly covetous of winning her
tender regard.

"Well, well," said old George Bethune, "perhaps
it is but natural that youth should be impatient;
while old age may well be content with such small
and placid comforts as may be met with.  I should
have thought there was not much to complain of in
our present manner of life—if you will allow me to
include you in our tiny microcosm.  It is not
exciting; it is simple, and wholesome; and I hope not
altogether base and gross.  And as regards Maisrie,
surely you and she have enough of each other's
society even as matters stand.  Let well alone, my
young friend; let well alone; that is my advice to
you.  And I may say there are especial and
important reasons why I should not wish her to be bound
by any pledge.  You know that I do not care to
waste much thought on what may lie ahead of us;
but still, at the same time, there might at any
moment happen certain things which would make a
great difference in Maisrie's circumstances——"

Vincent had been listening in a kind of absent
and hopeless way; but these few words instantly
aroused his attention: perhaps this was the real
reason why the old man wished Maisrie to remain
free?

"A great and marvellous change indeed," he
continued, with some increase of dignity in his
manner and in his mode of speech.  "A change
which would affect me also, though that would be of
little avail now.  But as regards my granddaughter,
she might be called upon to fill a position very
different from that she occupies at present; and I
should not wish her to be hampered by anything
pertaining to her former manner of life.  Not that
she would ever prove forgetful of past kindness;
that is not in her nature; but in these new
circumstances she might find herself confronted by other
duties.  Enough said, I hope, on that point.  And
well I know," he added, with something of a grand
air, "that in whatever sphere Maisrie Bethune may
be placed, she will act worthily of her name and of
the obligations it entails."

He suddenly paused.  There was a poorly-clad
woman going by, carrying in one arm a baby, while
with the other hand she half dragged along a small
boy of five or six.  She did not look like a
professional London beggar, nor yet like a country tramp;
but of her extreme wretchedness there could be no
doubt; while there was a pinched look as of hunger
in her cheeks.

"Wait a bit!—where are you going?" old
George Bethune said to her, in blunt and ready fashion.

The woman turned round startled and afraid.

"I am making for home, sir," she said, timidly.

"Where's that?" he demanded.

"Out Watford way, sir—Abbot's Langley it is."

"Where have you come from?"

"From Leatherhead, sir."

"On foot all the way?"

"Yes, indeed, sir," she said, with a bit of a sigh.

"And with very little food, I warrant?" said he.

"Little indeed, sir."

"Have you any money?"

"Yes, sir—a matter of a few coppers left.  I
gave what I had to my old mother—she thought
she was dying, and sent for me to bring the two
little boys to see her—but she's better, sir, and now
I'm making for home again."

"Oh, you gave what you had to your mother?
Well," said he, deliberately, "I don't know whether
what I have will amount to as much, but whatever
it is you are welcome to it."

He dived into his trousers pockets and eventually
produced about half a handful of shillings and
pence; then he searched a small waistcoat-pocket
and brought forth two sovereigns.  It was all his
wealth.

"Here, take that, and in God's name get yourself
some food, woman!" said he, unconsciously lapsing
into a pronounced Scotch accent.  "You look
starved.  And this bit of a laddie, here—buy him
some sweet things as well as bread and butter when
you get up to the shops.  And then when you're
outside the town, you'll just give some honest fellow
a shilling, and you'll get a cast of an empty cart to
help you on your road.  Well, good-day to ye—no,
no, take what there is, I tell ye, woman!—bless me,
you'll need most of it before you get to your own
fireside.  On your ways, now!—and when you reach
the shops, don't forget the barley-sugar for this
young shaver."

So he turned away, leaving the poor woman so
overwhelmed that she had hardly a word of thanks;
and when he had gone for some little distance all he
said was—with something of a rueful laugh—

"There went my luncheon; for I promised
Maisrie I should not return home till near dinner-time."

"And you have left yourself without a farthing?"
the young man exclaimed.  "Well, that's all
right—I can lend you a few sovereigns."

"No, no," said old George Bethune, with a smile,
and he held up his hand in deprecation.  "I am
well pleased now; and if I should suffer any pangs
of starvation during the day, I shall be glad to
think that I can endure them better than that poor
creature with the long tramp before her.  To-night,"
said he, rubbing his palms together with much
satisfaction, "to-night, when we meet at Mentavisti's,
I shall be all the hungrier and all the happier.
Ah, must you go now?—good-bye, then!  We shall
see you at half-past six, I suppose; and meantime,
my friend, dismiss from your mind those cares and
anxious thoughts about the future.  'To the gods
belongs to-morrow!'"

Now this little incident that had just happened
in Hyde Park comforted Vincent exceedingly.
Here was something definite that he could proudly
set against the vague and unworthy suspicions of
Mrs. Ellison.  Surely the man was no plausible
impostor, no charlatan, no crafty schemer, who
could so readily empty his pockets, and look forward
to a day's starvation, in order to help a poor and
unknown vagrant-woman?  No doubt it was but
part and parcel of his habitual and courageous
disregard of consequences, his yielding to the generous
impulse of the moment; but, if the truth must be
told, Master Vin was at times almost inclined to
envy old George Bethune his splendid audacity and
self-confidence.  Why should the younger man be
the one to take forethought for the morrow; while
the venerable gray beard was gay as a lark, delighted
with the present hour, and defiant of anything that
might happen?  And what if the younger man were
to follow the precepts of the elder, and lapse into
a careless content?  Their way of living, as George
Bethune had pointed out, was simple, happy, and
surely harmless.  There were those three forming
a little coterie all by themselves; enjoying each
other's society; interested in each other's pursuits.
The hours of the daytime were devoted to individual
work; then came the glad reunion of the evening
and the sallying forth to this or the other restaurant;
thereafter the little dinner in the corner, with its
glimpses of foreign folk, and its gay talk filled with
patriotism and poetry and reminiscences of other
lands; finally the hushed enchantment of that little
parlour, with Maisrie and her violin, with dominoes,
and discussions literary and political, while always
and ever there reigned a perfect frankness and
good-fellowship.  Yes, it seemed a happy kind of
existence, for these three.  And was not old George
Bethune in the right in thinking that the young
people should not hamper themselves by any too
grave responsibilities?  A boyish and girlish
attachment (as he deemed it to be) was a pretty and
amusing and engaging thing; quite a little idyll,
in fact—but not to be taken too seriously.  And
where the future was all so uncertain, was it not
better to leave it alone?

Specious representations, indeed!  But this young
man, who had his own views and ways of thinking,
remained stubbornly unconvinced.  It was because
the future was so vague that he wanted it made
more definite; and as he thought of Maisrie, and of
what might befall her when she was alone in the
world, and as he thought of his own far-reaching
resolves and purposes, he did not in the least
consider the relationship now existing between him
and her as being merely a pretty little pastoral
episode, that would lead to nothing.  No doubt their
present way of living had many charms and fascinations,
if only it would last.  But it would not last;
it was impossible it should last.  Looking back over
these past months, Vincent was surely grateful
enough for all the pleasant and intimate companionship
he had enjoyed; but his temperament was not
like that of George Bethune; the passing moment
was not everything to him.  He had an old head on
young shoulders; and it needed no profound
reflection to tell him that life could not always
consist of the Restaurant Mentavisti and *La Claire
Fontaine*.




.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BY NORTHERN SEAS`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER II.


.. class:: center medium

   BY NORTHERN SEAS.

.. vspace:: 2

Here, in front of the great, square, old-fashioned
Scotch mansion, which was pleasantly lit up by the
morning sun, stood the family waggonette which
had just been filled by those of the house-party
who were bound for church; and here, too, in the
spacious porch, was Mrs. Ellison, smiling her adieux
with rather a sad air.

"Good-bye, dear," said her kindly hostess.  "I
hope you will have got rid of your headache by the
time we get back."  And therewith the carriage
was driven away along the pebbled pathway,
through an avenue of magnificent wide-spreading
elms.

Then the tall and graceful young widow, who
carried a book in her hand, glanced around her.
There was no living thing near except a white
peacock that was solemnly stalking across the
lawn.  Mrs. Ellison strolled towards a hammock
slung between two maples, and stood there for a
moment, and considered.  Should she attempt it?
There was no onlooker, supposing some slight
accident befell.  Finally, however, her courage gave
way; she returned to the front of the house; and
took possession of a long, low lounging-chair, where
she could sit in the sun, and yet have the pages of
her book in shadow.

There was a footfall behind her: Lord Musselburgh
made his appearance, smoking a cigarette.

"Why," said she, with a prettily affected
surprise, "haven't you gone to church?  I made sure
you had walked on."

"How could I leave you all by yourself," said
the young man, with tender sympathy, "and you
suffering from a headache?"

Then she professed to be vexed and impatient.

"Oh, do go away to church!" she said.  "You
can be in plenty of time, if you walk fast enough.
If you stop here you know what will go on at lunch.
Those Drexel girls can look more mischief than any
other twenty girls could say or do."

"Oh, no," said he, plaintively, "don't send me
away!  Let us go for a walk rather.  You know, a
woman's headache is like her hat—she can put it
on or off when she likes.  Come!"

"I consider you are very impertinent," said she,
with something of offended dignity.  "Do you
think I shammed a headache in order to stay behind?"

"I don't think anything," said he, discreetly.

"You will be saying next that it was to have
this meeting with you?"

"Why, who could dare to imagine such a thing!"

"Oh, very well, very well," said she, with a
sudden change to good-nature, as she rose from the
chair.  "I forgive you.  And I will be with you in
a second."

She was hardly gone a couple of minutes; but in
that brief space of time she had managed to make
herself sufficiently picturesque; for to the simple
and neat grey costume which clad her tall and slim
and elegant figure she had added a bold-sweeping
hat of black velvet and black feathers, while round
her neck she had wound a black boa, its two long
tails depending in front.  Thus there was no colour
about her, save what shone in her perfect
complexion, and in the light and expression of her
shrewd, and dangerous, and yet grave and demure
blue eyes.

"And really and frankly," said she, as they left
the house together, "I am not sorry to have a
chance of a quiet talk with you; for I want to tell
you about my nephew; I am sure you are almost
as much interested in him as I am; and you would
be as sorry as I could be if anything were to happen
to him.  And I am afraid something is going to
happen to him.  His letters to me have entirely
changed of late.  You know how proud Vin is by
nature—and scornful, too, when you don't act up to
his lofty standard; and when I ventured to hint
that he might keep his eyes open in dealing with
that old mountebank and his pretty granddaughter,
oh! the tempestuous indignation of my young
gentleman!  He seemed to think that a creature
such as I—filled with such base suspicions—was
not fit to live.  Well, I did not quarrel with my
handsome boy; in fact, I rather admired his rage
and disdain of me; it was part of the singleness
of his nature; for he believes everybody to be as
straightforward and sincere as himself; and he has
a very fine notion of loyalty towards his friends.
And vindictive, too, the young villain was; I can
tell you I was made to feel the enormity of my
transgression; I was left to wallow in that quagmire
of unworthy doubt in which I had voluntarily
plunged myself.  So matters went on; and I could
only hope for one of two things—either that he
might find out something about those people that
would sever his connection with them, or that his
passing fancy for the girl would gradually fade
away.  I made sure he would tire of that oracular
old humbug; or else he would discover there was
nothing at all behind the mysterious eyes and the
tragic solemnity of that artful young madam.  Oh,
mind you," she continued, as they walked along
under the over-branching maples, amid a rustle of
withered October leaves, "mind you, I don't suspect
her quite as much as I suspect the venerable Druid;
and I don't recall anything that I said about her.  I
admit that she beglamoured me with her singing of
a French Canadian song; but what is that?—what
can you tell of any one's moral or mental nature
from a trick of singing—the thrill of a note—some
peculiar quality of voice?  Why, the greatest
wretch of a man I ever knew had the most
beautiful, innocent, honest brown eyes—they could
make you believe anything—all the women said
he was so good, and so different from other
men—well, I will tell you that story some other time—I
found out what the honesty of the clear brown eyes
was worth."

Here she was interrupted by his having to open
an iron gate for her.  When they passed through,
they came in sight of a solitary little bay of
cream-white sand, touched here and there with russet
weed, and ending in a series of projecting rocky
knolls covered with golden bracken; while before
them lay the wide plain of the sea, ruffled into the
intensest blue by a brisk breeze from the north.
Still further away rose the great mountains of Mull,
and the long stretch of the Morven hills, all of a
faint, ethereal crimson-brown in the sunlight, with
every glen and water-course traced in lines of
purest ultramarine.  They had all this shining
world to themselves; and there was an absolute
silence save for the continuous whisper of the
ripples that broke along the rocks; whilst the
indescribable murmur—the strange inarticulate
voices—of the greater deep beyond seemed to fill
all the listening air.

"And I might have known I was mistaken in
Vin's case," she went on, absently.  "He was never
the one to be caught by a pretty face, and be
charmed with it for a time, and pass on and forget.
He always kept aloof from that kind of thing—perhaps
with a touch of impatient scorn.  No; I
might have known it was something more serious:
so serious, indeed, is it, that he has at last
condescended to appeal to me—fancy that!—fancy Vin
coming down from his high horse, and appealing to
me to be reasonable, to be considerate, and to stand
his friend.  And the pages he writes to persuade
me!  Really, if you were to believe him, you would
think this old man one of the most striking and
interesting figures the world has ever seen—so
fearless in his pride, so patient in his poverty, so
stout-hearted in his old age.  Then his splendid
enthusiasm about fine things in literature; his
magnanimity over the wrongs he has suffered; his
pathetic affection for his granddaughter and his
tender care of her—why, you would take him to be
one of the grandest human creatures that ever
breathed the breath of life!  Then about the girl:
don't I remember *La Claire Fontaine*?  Oh, yes, I
remember *La Claire Fontaine*—and little else!
You see, that is just where the trouble comes in as
regards my nephew.  Hard-headed as he is, and
brusque of speech—sometimes, not always—he is
just stuffed full of Quixotism; and I daresay it is
precisely because this girl is shy and reserved, and
has rather appealing eyes, that he imagines all
kinds of wonderful things about her, and has made
a saint of her, to be worshipped.  A merry lass,
with a saucy look and a clever tongue, would have
no chance with Vin; he would stare at her—perhaps
only half-disguising his contempt; and
then, if you asked him what he thought of her
he would probably say, with a curl of the lip,
'Impertinent tomboy!'  But when he comes to
speak of this one, why, you would think that all
womanhood had undergone some process of deification
in her solitary self.  Come here, and by this
divine lamp you shall read and understand
whatever has been great and noble and pure and
beautiful in all the song and story of the world!
And yet perhaps it is not altogether absurd," the
pretty Mrs. Ellison continued, with a bit of a sigh.
"It is pathetic, rather.  I wish there were a few
more such men as that; the world could get on
very well with a few more of them.  But they don't
seem to exist nowadays."

"Ah, if you only knew!  Perhaps your experience
has been unfortunate," her companion said,
wistfully: whereupon the young widow, without
turning her head towards him, perceptibly sniggered.

"Oh, *you*!" she exclaimed, in derision.  "You!
You needn't pretend to come into that exalted
category—no, indeed——"

"I suppose people have been saying things about
me to you," said he, with a certain affectation of
being hurt.  "But you needn't have believed them
all the same."

"People!" she said.  "People!  Why, everybody
knows what you are!  A professional breaker
of poor young innocent girls' hearts.  Haven't we
all heard of you?  Haven't we all heard how you
went on in America?  No such stories came home
about Vin, I can assure you.  Oh, we all know
what you are!"

"You may have heard one story," said he, somewhat
stiffly; "but if you knew what it really was,
you would see that it was nothing to joke about.
Some time I will tell you.  Some other time when
you are in a more friendly, a more believing and
sympathetic, mood."

"Oh, yes," she said, laughing.  "A very
heart-rending story, no doubt!  And you were deeply
injured, of course, being so extremely innocent!
You forget that I have seen you in a good many
houses; you forget that I have been watching your
goings-on with Louie Drexel, in this very place.
Do you think I can't recognise the old hand—the
expert—the artist?  Lord Musselburgh, you can't
deceive me."

"Probably not," said he, sharply.  "If all
tales be true you have acquired some experience
yourself."

"Oh, who said that about me!" she demanded,
with indignation (but her eyes were not indignant,
they were rather darkly amused, if only he had
made bold to look at them.)  "Who dared to say
such a thing?  And of course you listened without
a word of protest: probably you assented!  What it
is to have friends!  But perhaps some day I, also,
may have a little story to tell you; and then you
may understand me a little better."

Here there was another farm-gate for him to
open, so that their talk was again interrupted.
Then they passed under a series of lofty grey crags
hung with birch, and hazel, and rowan, all in their
gorgeous autumnal tints; until they came in sight
of another secluded little bay, with silver ripples
breaking along the sand, and with small outlying
islands covered with orange seaweed where they
were not white with gulls.  And here was a further
stretch of that wind-swept, dark blue, striated sea,
with the lonely hills of Morven and Kingairloch,
sun-dappled and cloud-dappled, rising into the fair
turquoise sky.  There was a scent of dew-wet grass
mingling with the stronger odour of the seaweed
the breeze was blowing freshly in.  And always
there came to them the long, unceasing,
multitudinous murmur of those moving waters, that must
have sounded to them so great and vast a thing
beside the small trivialities of their human speech.

"Have you read Vin's article in the *Imperial
Review*?" said Mrs. Ellison, flicking at a thistle
with her sun-shade.

"Not yet.  But I saw it announced.  About
American State Legislatures, isn't it, or something
of that kind?"

"It seemed to me very ably and clearly written,"
she said.  "But that is not the point.  I gather that
Vin has been contemplating all kinds of
contingencies; and that he is now trying to qualify for
the post of leader-writer on one of the daily
newspapers.  What does that mean?—it means that he
is determined to marry this girl, and that he thinks
it probable there may be a break between himself
and his father in consequence.  There may be?—there
will be, I give you my word!  My amiable
brother-in-law's theories of Socialism and Fraternity
and Universal Equality are very pretty toys to play
with—and they have even gained him a sort of
reputation through his letters to the *Times*; but
he doesn't bring them into the sphere of actual
life.  Of course, Vin has his own little money; and
I, for one, why, I shouldn't see him starve in any
case; but I take it that he is already making
provision for the future and its responsibilities.  Now
isn't that dreadful?  I declare to you, Lord Musselburgh,
that when I come down in the morning and
find a letter from him lying on the hall-table, my
heart sinks—just as if I heard the men on the stair
bringing down a coffin.  Because I know if he is
captured by those penniless adventurers, it will be
all over with my poor lad; he will be bound to
them; he will have to support them; he will have
to sacrifice friends and fortune, and a future surely
such as never yet lay before any young man.  Just
think of it!  Who ever had such possibilities before
him?  Who ever had so many friends, all expecting
great things of him?  Who ever was so petted and
caressed and admired by those whose slightest
regard is considered by the world at large an
honour; and—I will say this for my boy—-who ever
deserved it more, or remained all through it so
unspoiled, and simple, and manly?  Oh, you don't
know what he has been to me—what I have hoped
for him—as if he were my only brother, and one
to be proud of!  His father is well known, no doubt;
he has got a sort of academic reputation; but he
is not liked; people don't talk about him as
if—as if they cared for him.  But Vincent could win
hearts as well as fame: ah, do you think I don't
know?—trust a woman to know!  There is a strange
kind of charm and fascination about him: I would
put the most accomplished lady-killer in England
in a drawing-room, and I know where the girls' eyes
would go the moment my Vin made his appearance:
perhaps it is because he is so honestly indifferent
to them all.  And it isn't women only; it isn't
merely his good looks; every one, young and old,
man and woman, is taken with him; there is about
him a sort of magic and glamour of youth—and—and
bright promise—and straightforward intention—oh,
I can't tell you what!—but—but—it's
something that makes me love him!"

"That is clear enough," said he; and indeed there
was a ring of sincerity in her tone, sometimes even
a tremor in her voice—perhaps of pride.

"Well," she resumed, as they strolled along under
the beetled crags that were all aflame with
golden-yellow birch and blood-red rowan, "I am not going
to stand aside and see all that fair promise lost.  I
own I am a selfish woman; and hitherto I have
kept aloof, as I did not want to get myself into
trouble.  I am going to hold aloof no longer.  The
more I hear the more I am convinced that Vin has
fallen into the hands of an unscrupulous
sharper—perhaps a pair of them; and I mean to have his
eyes opened.  Here is this new revelation about
that American book, which simply means that you
were swindled out of £50——"

"One moment," her companion said hastily, and
there was a curious look of mortification on his face.
"I had no right to tell you that story.  I broke
confidence: I am ashamed of myself.  And I assure
you I was not swindled out of any £50.  When the
old man came to me, with his Scotch accent, and
his Scotch patriotism, and his Scotch plaid thrown
over his shoulder—well, 'my heart warmed to the
tartan'; and I was glad of the excuse for helping
him.  I did not want any book; and I certainly did
not want the money back.  But when Vin came to
me, and made explanations, and finally handed me
a cheque for £50, there was something in his
manner that told me I dared not refuse.  It was
something like 'Refuse this money, and you doubt the
honour of the woman I am going to marry.'  But
seeing that I did take it, I have now nothing to say.
My mouth is shut—ought to have been shut, rather,
only you and I have had some very confidential
chats since we came up here."

"All the same, it was a downright swindle," said
she, doggedly; "and the fact that Vin paid you
back the money makes it none the less a swindle.
Now I will tell you what I am about to do.  I must
be cruel to be kind.  I am going to enlist the
services of George Morris——"

"Sir George?" he asked.

"No, no; George Morris, the solicitor—his wife
and I are very great friends—and I know he would
do a great deal for me.  Very well; he must get to
know simply everything about this old man—his
whole history—and if it turns out to be what I
imagine, then some of us will have to go to Vin and
tell him the truth.  It won't be a pleasant duty;
but duty never is pleasant.  I know I shall be called
a traitor for my share in it.  Here is Vin appealing
to me to be his friend—as if I were not his
friend!—begging me to come and take this solitary and
friendless girl by the hand, and all the rest of it;
and instead of that I go behind his back and try to
find out what will destroy his youthful romance for
ever.  But it's got to be done," said the young
widow, with a sigh.  "It will be a wrench at first;
then six months' despair; and a life-time of
thankfulness thereafter.  And of course I must give
George Morris all the help I can.  He must make
enquiries, for one thing, at the office of the
*Edinburgh Chronicle*: I remember at Henley the old
gentleman spoke of the proprietor as a friend of his.
Then the man you know in New York, who gave
Mr. Bethune a letter of introduction to you: what
is his name and address?"

"Oh, no," said Lord Musselburgh, shrinking
back, as it were.  "No; I don't want to take part
in it.  Of course, you may be acting quite rightly;
no doubt you are acting entirely in Vin's interests;
but—but I would rather have nothing to do with it."

"And yet you call yourself Vin's friend!  Come,
tell me!" she said, coaxingly.

Again he refused.

"Mind you, I believe I could find out for myself,"
she went on.  "I know that he is the editor of a
newspaper in New York—a Scotch newspaper:
come, Lord Musselburgh, give me his name, or the
name of the newspaper!"

He shook his head.

"No—not fair," he said.

Then she stopped, and faced him, and regarded
him with arch eyes.

"And yet it was on this very pathway, only
yesterday morning, that you swore that there was
nothing in the world that you wouldn't do for me!"

"That was different," said he, with some hesitation.
"I meant as regards myself.  This concerns
some one else."

"Oh, very well," said she, and she walked on
proudly.  "I dare say I can find out."

He touched her arm to detain her.

"Have you a note-book?" he asked.

She took from her pocket a combined purse and
note-book; and without a word—or a smile—she
pulled out the pencil.

"'Hugh Anstruther, *Western Scotsman* Office,
New York,'" said he, rather shamefacedly.

"There, that is all right!" she said, blithely, and
she put the note-book in her pocket again.  "That
is as far as we can go in that matter at present; and
now we can talk of something else.  What is the
name of this little bay?"

"Little Ganovan, I believe."

"And the other one we passed?"

"Port Bân."

"What is the legend attached to the robber's cave
up there in the rocks?"

"The legend?  Oh, some one told me the
gardener keeps his tools in that cave."

"What kind of a legend is that!" she said,
impatiently; and then she went on with her questions.
"Why doesn't anybody ever come round this way?"

"I suppose because they know we want the place
to ourselves."

"And why should we want the place to ourselves?"

This was unexpected.  He paused.

"Ah," said he, "what is the use of my telling
you?  All your interest is centred on Vin.  I
suppose a woman can only be interested in one man
at any one time."

"Well, I should hope so!" the young widow
said, cheerfully.  "Shall we go round by the rocks
or through the trees?"

For they were now come to a little wood of birch
and larch and pine; and without more ado he led
the way, pushing through the outlying tall bracken
and getting in underneath the branches.

"I suppose," said he, in a rather rueful tone,
"that you don't know what is the greatest proof of
affection that a man can show to a woman?  No, of
course you don't!"

"What is it, then?" she demanded, as she
followed him stooping.

"Why, it's going first through a wood, and
getting all the spider's-webs on his nose."

But presently they had come to a clearer space,
where they could walk together, their footfalls
hushed by the carpet of withered fir-needles; while
here and there a rabbit would scurry off, and again
they would catch a glimpse of a hen-pheasant
sedately walking down a glade between the trees.
And now their talk had become much more intimate
and confidential; it had even assumed a touch of
more or less affected sadness.

"It's very hard," he was saying, "that you
should understand me so little.  You think I am
cold, and cynical, and callous.  Well, perhaps I have
reason to be.  I have had my little experience of
womankind—of one woman, rather.  I sometimes
wonder whether the rest are anything like her, or
are capable of acting as she did."

"Who was she?" his companion asked, timidly.

And therewith, as they idly and slowly strolled
through this little thicket, he told his tragic tale,
which needs not to be set down here: it was all
about the James river, Virginia, and a pair of
southern eyes, and betrayal, and farewell, and
black night.  His companion listened in the
deep silence of sympathy; and when he had
finished she said, in a low voice, and with downcast
eyes—

"I am sorry—very sorry.  But at least there was
one thing spared you: you did not marry out of
spite."

He glanced at her quickly.

"Oh, yes," she said, and she raised her head, and
spoke with a proud and bitter air, "I have my story
too!  I do not tell it to everyone.  Perhaps I have
not told it to anyone.  But the man I loved was
separated from me by lies—by lies; and I was fool
and idiot enough to believe them!  And the one
I told you about—the one with the beautiful, clear,
brown eyes—so good and noble he was, as everyone
declared!—it was he who came to me with those
falsehoods; and I believed them—I believed them—like
the fool I was!  Oh, yes," she said, and she
held her head high, for her breast was heaving with
real emotion this time, "it is easy to say that every
mistake meets with its own punishment; but I was
punished too much—too much; a life-long
punishment for believing what lying friends had said to
me!"  She furtively put the tips of her fingers to
her eyes, to wipe away the tears that lay along the
lashes.  "And then I was mad; I was out of my
senses; I would have married anybody to show
that—that I cared nothing for—for the other one;
and—and I suppose he was angry too—he would not
speak—he stood aside, and knew that I was going
to kill my life, and never a single word!  That was
his revenge—to say nothing—when he saw me
about to kill my life!  Cruel, do you call it?  Oh,
no!—what does it matter?  A woman's heart
broken—what is that?  But now you know why
I think so of men—and—and why I laugh at them——"

Well, her laughing was strange: she suddenly
burst into a violent fit of crying and sobbing, and
turned away from him, and hid her face in her
handkerchief.  What could he do?  This was all
unlike the gay young widow who seemed so proud
of her solitary estate and so well content.  Feeble
words of comfort were of small avail.  And then,
again, it hardly seemed the proper occasion for
offering her more substantial sympathy—though
that was in his mind all the while, and very nearly
on the tip of his tongue.  So perforce he had to
wait until her weeping was over; and indeed it was
she herself who ended the scene by exclaiming
impatiently—

"There—enough of that!  I did not intend to
bother you with my small troubles when I stayed
behind for you this morning.  Come, shall we go
out on to the rocks, and round by the little bay?
What do you call it—Ganovan?"

"Yes; I think they call it Little Ganovan," he
said, absently, as he and she together emerged from
the twilight of larch and pine, and proceeded,
leisurely and in silence, to cross the semicircular
sweep of yellow sand.

When they got to the edge of the rocks, they sat
down there: apparently they had nothing to do on
this idle morning but to contemplate that vast,
far-murmuring, dark blue plain—touched here and
there with a sharp glimmer of white—and the range
upon range of the Kingairloch hills, deepening in
purple gloom, or shining rose-grey and yellow-grey
in the sun.  In this solitude they were quite alone
save for the sea-birds that had wheeled into the air,
screaming and calling, at their approach; but the
terns and curlews were soon at peace again; a cloud
of gulls returned to one of the little islands just in
front of them; while a slow-flapping heron winged
its heavy flight away to the north.  All once more
was silence; and the world was to themselves.

And yet what was he to say to this poor suffering
soul whose tragic sorrows and experiences had been
thus unexpectedly disclosed?  He really wished to
be sympathetic; and, if he dared, he would have
reminded her that

   |      'Whispering tongues can poison truth;
   |    And constancy lives in realms above;
   |  And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
   |    And to be wroth with one we love
   |  Doth work like madness in the brain.'

only he knew how difficult it is to quote poetry
without making one's self ridiculous; and also he
knew that the pretty young widow's eyes had a
dangerous trick of sudden laughter.  However, it
was she who first spoke.

"I wonder what those who have gone to church
will say when they discover that we have spent all
the morning here?"

"They may say what they like," he made answer,
promptly.  "There are things one cannot speak
about in drawing-rooms, among a crowd.  And how
could I ever have imagined that you, with your
high spirits and merry temperament, and perpetual
good-humour, had come through such trials?  I
wonder that people never think of the mischief
that is done by intermeddling——"

"Intermeddling?" said she proudly.  "It wasn't
of intermeddling I had to complain: it was a
downright conspiracy—it was false stories—I was
deceived by those who professed to be my best
friends.  There is intermeddling and intermeddling.
You might say I was intermeddling in the case of
my nephew.  But what harm can come of that?
It is not lies, it is the truth, I want to have told
him.  And even if it causes him some pain, it
will be for his good.  Don't you think I am right?"

He hesitated.

"I hope so," he said.  "But you know things
wear such a different complexion according to the
way you look at them——"

"But facts, Lord Musselburgh, facts," she
persisted.  "Do you think a man like George Morris
would be affected by any sentimental considerations
one way or the other?  Won't he find out just the
truth?  And that is all I honestly want Vin to
know—the actual truth: then let him go on with
his eyes open if he chooses.  Facts, Lord
Musselburgh: who can object to facts?"  Then she
said—as she gave him her hand that he might assist
her to rise—

"We must be thinking of getting back home
now, for if we are late for lunch, those Drexel girls
will be grinning at each other like a couple of
fiends."

Rather reluctantly he rose also, and accompanied
her.  They made their way across a series of rough,
bracken-covered knolls projecting into the sea until
they reached the little bay that is known as Port
Bân; and here, either the beauty and solitude of
the place tempted them, or they were determined
to defy sarcasm, for instead of hastening home, they
quietly strolled up and down the smooth
cream-white beach, now and again picking up a piece of
rose-red seaweed, or turning over a limpet-shell, or
watching a sandpiper making his quick little runs
alongside the clear, crisp-curling ripples.  They did
not speak; they were as silent as the transparent
blue shadows that their figures cast on the
soft-yielding surface on which they walked.  And
sometimes Lord Musselburgh seemed inclined to write
something, with the point of his stick, on that
flawless sand; and then again he desisted; and still
they continued silent.

She took up a piece of pink seaweed, and began
pulling it to shreds.  He was standing by, looking on.

"Don't you think," said he at last, "that there
should be a good deal of sympathy—a very unusual
sympathy—between two people who have come
through the same suffering?"

"Oh, I suppose so," she said, with affected
carelessness—her eyes still bent on the seaweed.

"Do you know," said he, again, "that I haven't
the least idea what your name is!"

"My name?  Oh, my name is Madge," she answered.

"Madge?" said he.  "I wonder if you make the
capital M this way?" and therewith he traced on
the sand an ornamental *M* in the manner of the
last century.

"No, I don't," she said, "but it is very pretty.
How do you write the rest?"

Thus encouraged, he made bold to add the
remaining letters, and seemed rather to admire his
handiwork when it was done.

"By the way," she said, "I don't know your
Christian name either!"

"Hubert."

"Can you write that in the same fashion?" she
suggested, with a simple ingenuousness.

So, grown still bolder, he laboriously inscribed
his name immediately underneath her own.  But
that was not all.  When he had ended he drew a
circle right round both names.

"That is a ring to enclose them," said he: and
he turned from the scored names to regard her
downcast face.  "But—but I know a much smaller
ring that could bring them still closer together.
Will you let me try—Madge?"

He took her hand.

"Yes," she said, in a low voice.

And then—Oh, very well, then: then—but after
a reasonable delay—then they left those creamy
sands, and went up by the edge of the blue-green
turnip-field to the pathway, and so to the
iron gate; and as he opened the gate for her, she
said—

"Oh, I don't know what happened down there,
and what I've pledged myself to; but at all events
there will now be one more on my side, to help me
about Vin, and get him out of all this sad trouble.
You will help me, won't you—Hubert?"

Of course he was eager to promise anything.

"And you say he is sure to get in for Mendover?
Why, just think of him now, with everything before
him; and how nice it would be for all of us if he
had a smart and clever wife, who would hold her
own in society, and do him justice, and make us all
as proud and fond of her as we are of him.  And
just fancy the four of us setting out on a winter-trip
to Cairo or Jerusalem: wouldn't it be simply too
delicious?  The four of us—only the four of us—all
by ourselves.  Louie Drexel is rather young, to be
sure; yet she knows her way about; she's sharp;
she's clever; she will have some money; and she
has cheek enough for anything.  And by the
way—Hubert—" said she (and always with a pretty little
hesitation when she came to his Christian name)
"I must really ask you—with regard to Louie
Drexel—well—you know—you have been—just a
little——"

He murmured something about the devotion of
a lifetime—the devotion which he had just
promised to her—being a very different thing from
trivial drawing-room dallyings; whereupon she
observed—

"Oh, yes, men say so by way of excuse——"

"How many men have said so to you?" he
demanded, flaring up.

"I did not say they had said so to me," she
answered sweetly.  "Don't go and be absurdly
jealous without any cause whatever.  If any one
has a right to be jealous, it is I, considering the
way you have been going on with Louie Drexel.
But of course if there's nothing in it, that's all well
and done with; and I am of a forgiving disposition,
when I'm taken the right way.  Now about Vin:
can you see anybody who would do better for him
than Louie Drexel?"

Be sure it was not of Vin Harris, much as he was
interested in him, that Lord Musselburgh wished
to talk at this moment; but, on the other hand, in
the first flush of his pride and gratitude, any whim
of hers was law to him; and perhaps it was a sufficient
and novel gratification to be able to call her Madge.

"I'm afraid," said he, "that Vin is not the kind
of person to have his life arranged for him by other
people.  And besides you must remember, Madge,
dear, that you are assuming a great deal.  You are
assuming that you can show Vin that this old man is
an impostor——"

"Oh, can there be any doubt of it!" she exclaimed.
"Isn't the story you have told me yourself enough?"

Lord Musselburgh looked rather uncomfortable;
he was a good-natured kind of person, and liked to
think the best of everybody.

"I had no right to tell you that story," said he.

"But now I have the right to know about that
and everything else, haven't I—Hubert?" said she,
with a pretty coyness.

"And besides," he continued, "Vin has a perfect
explanation of the whole affair.  There is no doubt
the old man was just full of this subject, and
believed he could write about it better than anyone
else, even supposing the idea had occurred to some
other person; he was anxious above all things that
his poetical countrymen over there in the States and
Canada should be done justice to; and when he
heard that the volume was actually published he
immediately declared that he would do everything
in his power to help it——"

"But what about the £50—Hubert?"

"Oh, well," her companion said, rather uneasily,
"I have told you that that was a gift from me to
him.  I did not stipulate for the publication of any book."

She considered for a moment: then she said, with
some emphasis——

"And you think it no shame—you think it no
monstrous thing—that our Vin should marry a
girl who has been in the habit of going about with
her grandfather while he begged money, and
accepted money, from strangers?  Is that the fate
you wish for your friend?"

"No, I don't wish anything of the kind," said he,
"if—if matters were so.  But Vin and you look at
these things in a very different light; and I can
hardly believe that he has been so completely
imposed on.  I confess I liked the old man: I liked
his splendid enthusiasm, his magnificent
self-reliance, yes, and his Scotch plaid; and I thought
the girl was remarkably beautiful—and more than
that—refined and distinguished-looking—something
unusual about her somehow——"

"Oh, yes, you are far too generous, Hubert," his
companion said.  "You accept Vin's representations
without a word.  But I see more clearly.
And that little transaction about the book and the
£50 gives me a key to the whole situation.  You
may depend on it, George Morris will find out what
kind of person your grandiloquent old Scotchman is
like.  And then, when Vin's eyes are opened——"

"Yes, when Vin's eyes are opened?" her companion repeated.

"Then he will see into what a terrible pit he was
nearly falling."

"Are you so sure of that?" Musselburgh said.
"I know Vin a little.  It isn't merely a pretty face
that has taken his fancy, as you yourself admit.
If he has faith in that girl, it may not be easy to
shake it."

"I should not attempt to shake it," she made
answer at once, "if the girl was everything she
ought to be, and of proper upbringing and
surroundings.  But even if it turned out that she was
everything she should be, wouldn't it be too awful
to have Vin dragged down into an alliance with
that old—that old—oh, I don't know what to call
him!——"

"Madge, dear," said he, "don't call him anything,
until you learn more about him.  And in the meantime,"
he continued, rather plaintively, "don't you
think we might talk a little about ourselves,
considering what has just happened?"

"There is such a long time before us to talk
about ourselves," said she.  "And you
know—Hubert—you've come into our family, as it were;
and you must take a share in our troubles."

They were nearing the house: five minutes more
would bring them in sight of the open lawn.

"Wait a minute, Madge, dear," said he, and he
halted by the side of a little bit of plantation.
"Don't be in such a hurry.  I wish to speak to you
about——"

"About what?" she asked, with a smile.

"Oh, a whole heap of things!  For example, do
you want the Somervilles to know?"

"I don't particularly want them to know," she
answered him, "but I fear they will soon find out."

"I should like you to tell Mrs. Somerville, anyway."

"Very well."

"Indeed, I don't care if all the people in the
house knew!" said he, boldly.

"Hubert, what are you saying!" she exclaimed,
with a fine simulation of horror.  "My life would
be made a burden to me!  Fancy those Drexel
girls: they would shriek with joy at the chance
of torturing me!  I should have to fly from the
place.  I should take the first train for the South
to-morrow morning!"

"Really!" said he, with considerable coolness.
"For I have been thinking that those names we
printed on the sands——"

"That you printed, you mean!"

"——were above high-water mark.  Consequently
they will remain there for some little time.
Now it is highly probable that some of our friends
may be walking along to Port Bân this afternoon;
and if they were to catch sight of those
hieroglyphics——"

"Hubert," said she, with decision.  "You must
go along immediately after luncheon and score
them out.  I would not for the world have those
Drexel girls suspect what has happened!"

"Won't you come with me, Madge, after luncheon?"

"Oh, we can't be haunting those sands all day
like a couple of sea-gulls!"

"But I think you might come!" he pleaded.

"Very well," said she, "I suppose I must begin
with obedience."

And yet they seemed in no hurry to get on to
the house.  A robin perched himself on the wire
fence not four yards away, and jerked his head, and
watched them with his small, black, lustrous eye.
A weasel came trotting down the road, stopped,
looked, and glided noiselessly into the plantation.
Two wood-pigeons went swiftly across an opening
in the trees; a large hawk soared far overhead.
On this still Sunday morning there seemed to be
no one abroad; and then these two had much to
say about a ring, and a locket, and similar weighty
matters.  Moreover, there was the assignation about
the afternoon to be arranged.

But at length they managed to tear themselves
away from this secluded place; they went round
by the front of the big grey building; and in so
doing had to pass the dining-room window.

"Oh my gracious goodness!" Mrs. Ellison
exclaimed—and in no stimulated horror this time.
"They're all in at lunch, every one of them, and
I don't know how long they mayn't have been in!
What shall I do!"

And then a sudden thought seemed to strike her.

"Hubert, my headache has come back!  I'm
going up to my room.  Will you give my excuses
to Mrs. Somerville?  I'd a hundred times rather
starve than—than be found out."

"Oh, that is all nonsense!" said he—but in an
undertone, for they were now in the spacious
stone-paved hall.  "Go to your room, if you like; and
I'll tell Mrs. Somerville, and she'll send you up
something.  You mustn't starve, for you're going
round with me to Port Bân in the afternoon."

And, of course, the gentle hostess was grieved to
hear that her friend had not yet got rid of her
headache; and she herself went forthwith to Mrs. Ellison's
room, to see what would most readily tempt
the appetite of the poor invalid.  The poor invalid
was at her dressing-table, taking off her bonnet.
She wheeled round.

"I am so sorry, dear, about your headache—"
her hostess was beginning, when the young widow
went instantly to the door and shut it.  Then she
came back; and there was a most curious look—of
laughter, perhaps—in her extremely pretty eyes.

"Never mind about the headache!" she said to
her astonished friend, who saw no cause for this
amused embarrassment, nor yet for the exceedingly
affectionate way in which both her hands had been
seized.  "The headache is gone.  I've—I've
something else to tell you—oh, you'd never guess it in
the world!  My dear, my dear," she cried in a
whisper, and her tell-tale eyes were full of confusion
as well as laughter.  "You'd never guess—but—but
I've gone and made a fool of myself for the
second time!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`"HOLY PALMER'S KISS"`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center medium

   "HOLY PALMER'S KISS."

.. vspace:: 2

This was a bright and cheerful afternoon in
November; and old George Bethune and his
granddaughter were walking down Regent-street.  A
brilliant afternoon, indeed; and the scene around
them was quite gay and animated; for the wintry
sunlight was shining on the big shop-fronts, and on
the busy pavements, and on the open carriages
that rolled by with their occupants gorgeous in
velvet and silk and fur.  Nor was George Bethune
moved to any spirit of envy by all this display of
luxury and wealth; no more than he was oppressed
by any sense of solitariness amid this slow-moving,
murmuring crowd.  He walked with head erect;
he paid but little heed to the passers-by; he was
singing aloud, and that in a careless and florid
fashion—

   |  "The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,
   |  Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,
   |  The ship rides by the Berwick Law,
   |  And I maun leave my bonnie Mary."
   |

But suddenly he stopped: his attention had
been caught by a window, or rather a series of
windows, containing all sorts of Scotch articles and
stuffs.

"Maisrie," said he, as his eye ran over these
varied wares and fabrics, "couldn't you—couldn't
you buy some little bit of a thing?"

"Why, grandfather?" she asked.

"Oh, well," he answered, with an air of lofty
indifference, "it is but a trifle—but a trifle; only
I may have told you that my friend Carmichael is
a good Scot—good friend and good Scot are
synonymous terms, to my thinking—and—and as
you are going to call on him for the first time, you
might show him you are not ashamed of your
country.  Isn't there something there, Maisrie?"
he continued, still regarding the articles in the
window.  "Some little bit of tartan ribbon—something
you could put round your neck—whatever
you like—merely to show that you fly your
country's colours, and are not ashamed of them—"

"But why should I pretend to be Scotch,
grandfather, when I am not Scotch?" she said.

He was not angry: he was amused.

"You—not Scotch?  You, of all people in the
world, not Scotch?  What are you, then?  A
Bethune of Balloray—ay, and if justice were done,
the owner and mistress of Balloray, Ballingean, and
Cadzow—and yet you are not Scotch?  Where got
you your name?  What is your lineage—your blood—your
right and title to the lands of Balloray and
Ballingean?  And I may see you there yet,
Maisrie; I may see you there yet.  Stranger things
have happened.  But come away now—we need not
quarrel about a bit of ribbon—and I know
Mr. Carmichael will receive you as his countrywoman
even if you have not a shred of tartan about you."

Indeed he had taken no offence: once more he
was marching along, with fearless eye and
undaunted front, while he had resumed his gallant
singing—

   |  "But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
   |  Wad mak' me langer wish to tarry,
   |  Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar—
   |  It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!"
   |

They went down to one of the big hotels in
Northumberland Avenue; asked at the office
for Mr. Carmichael; and after an immeasurable
length of waiting were conducted to his room.
Here Maisrie was introduced to a tall, fresh-coloured,
angular-boned man, who had shrewd grey
eyes that were also good-humoured.  Much too
good-humoured they were in Maisrie's estimation,
when they chanced to regard her grandfather: they
seemed to convey a sort of easy patronage, almost
a kind of good-natured pity, that she was quick to
resent.  But how could she interfere?  These were
business matters that were being talked of; and
she sate somewhat apart, forced to listen, but not
taking any share in the conversation.

Presently, however, she heard something that
startled her out of this apathetic concurrence, and
set all her pulses flying.  The tall, raw-boned,
newspaper proprietor, eyeing this proud-featured
old man with a not unkindly scrutiny, was referring
to the volume on the Scottish Poets in America
which George Bethune had failed to bring out in
time; and his speech was considerate.

"It is not the first case of forestalling I have
known," said he; "and it must just be looked on
as a bit of bad luck.  Better fortune next time.
By the way, there is another little circumstance
connected with that book—perhaps I should not
mention it—but I will be discreet.  No names;
and yet you may like to hear that you have got
another friend somewhere—somewhere in the background—"

It was at this point that Maisrie began to listen,
rather breathlessly.

"Oh, yes, your friend—your unknown friend—wanted
to be generous enough," Mr. Carmichael
continued.  "He wrote to me saying he understood
that I had advanced a certain sum towards the
publication of the work; and he went on to explain
that as certain things had happened to prevent
your bringing it out, he wished to be allowed to
refund the money.  Oh, yes, a very generous offer;
for all was to be done in the profoundest secrecy;
you were not to know anything about it, lest you
should be offended.  And yet it seemed to me you
should be glad to learn that there was someone
interesting himself in your affairs."

The two men were not looking at the girl: they
could not see the pride and gratitude that were in
her eyes.  "And Vincent never told me a word,"
she was saying to herself, with her heart beating
warm and fast.  But that was not the mood in
which old George Bethune took this matter.  A
dark frown was on his shaggy eyebrows.

"I do not see what right anyone has to intermeddle,"
said, he, in tones that fell cruelly on
Maisrie's ear, "still less to pay money for me on
the assumption that I had forgotten, or was
unwilling to discharge, a just debt——"

"Come, come, come, Mr. Bethune," said the
newspaper proprietor, with a sort of condescending
good-nature, "you must not take it that way.  To
begin with, he did not pay any money at all.  I did
not allow him.  I said 'Thank you; but this is a
private arrangement between Mr. Bethune and
myself; and if he considers there is any indebtedness,
then he can wipe that off by contributions
to the *Chronicle*.'  So you see you have only to
thank him for the intention—"

"Oh, very well," said the old man, changing his
tone at once.  "No harm in that.  No harm whatever.
Misplaced intention—but—but creditable.
And now," he continued, in a still lighter strain,
"since you mention the *Chronicle*, Mr. Carmichael,
I must tell you of a scheme I have had for some
time in mind.  It is a series of papers on the old
ballads of Scotland—or rather the chief of
them—taking one for each weekly article, giving the
different versions, with historical and philological
notes.  What do you think of that, now?  Look
at the material—the finest in the world!—the
elemental passions, the tragic situations that are far
removed from any literary form or fashion, that go
straight to the heart and the imagination.  Each
of them a splendid text!" he proceeded, with an
ever-increasing enthusiasm.  "Think of Edom o'
Gordon, and the Wife of Usher's Well, and the
Baron o' Brackla; Annie of Lochryan, Hynde Etin,
the piteous cry of 'Helen of Kirkconnell,' and the
Rose of Yarrow seeking her slain lover by bank
and brae.  And what could be more interesting
than the collation of the various versions of those
old ballads, showing how they have been altered
here and there as they were said or sung, and how
even important passages may have been dropped out
in course of time and transmission.  Look, for
example, at 'Barbara Allan.'  The version in Percy's
Reliques is as bad and stupid as it can be; but it is
worse than that: it is incomprehensible.  Who can
believe that the maiden came to the bedside of her
dying lover only to flout and jeer, and that for no
reason whatever?  And when she sees his corpse

   |  'With scornful eye she looked downe,
   |  Her cheek with laughter swellin''—

"Well, I say that is not true," he went on
vehemently; "it never was true: it contradicts human
nature; it is false, and bad, and impossible.  But
turn to our Scottish version!  When Sir John
Graeme o' the West Countrie, lying sore sick, sends
for his sweetheart, she makes no concealment of
the cause of the feud that has been between
them—of the wrong that is rankling at her heart:

   |    'O dinna ye mind, young man,' said she,
   |    'When the red wine ye were filling,
   |  That ye made the healths gae round and round,
   |    And slighted Barbara Allan?'

And proud and indignant she turns away.  There is
no sham laughter here; no impossible cruelty; but
a quarrel between two fond lovers that becomes
suddenly tragic, when death steps in to prevent the
possibility of any reconciliation.

   |  He turned his face unto the wa',
   |  And death was with him dealing:
   |  'Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a',
   |  Be kind to Barbara Allan!'

Can anything be more simple, and natural, and
inexpressibly sad as well?  It is the story of a
tragic quarrel between two true lovers: it is not
the impossible and preposterous story of a giggling
hoyden grinning at a corpse!"

And here it was probable that old George Bethune,
having warmed to his subject, and being as usual
wildly enamoured of his latest scheme, would have
gone on to give further instances of the value of
collation and comparison, but that Mr. Carmichael
was forced to interrupt.  The proprietor of the
*Edinburgh Chronicle* was a busy man during his
brief visits to town.

"Very well, Mr. Bethune," said he.  "I think
your idea a very good one—an excellent one, in
fact, for the weekly edition of a Scotch paper; and
I will give you *carte blanche* as to the number of
articles.  Who knows," he added, with a condescending
smile, "but that they may grow to a book—to
take the place of the one that was snatched
out of your hands?"

And again, as his visitors were leaving, he said
in the same good-humoured way—

"I presume it is not necessary for us to discuss the
question of terms, especially before a young lady.
If you have been satisfied with us so far—"

"I am quite content to leave that with you:
quite," interposed the old man, with some little dignity.

"I was only going to say," Mr. Carmichael
resumed, "that a series of articles such as you
suggest may require a good deal of research and
trouble: so that, when the reckoning comes, I will
see you are put on the most favoured nation scale.
And not a word more about the American book:
we were disappointed—that is all."

This latter admonition was wholly unnecessary.
When George Bethune got out into the street again,
with Maisrie as his sole companion and confidante,
it was not of that lost opportunity he was talking,
it was all of this new project that had seized his
imagination.  They had to make one or two calls,
in the now gathering dusk; but ever, as they came
out again into the crowded thoroughfares, he
returned to the old ballads and the opportunities
they presented for a series of discursive papers.
And Maisrie was about as eager in anticipation as
himself.

"Oh, yes, grandfather," she said, "you could
not have thought of a happier subject.  And you
will begin at once, grandfather, won't you?  Do you
think I shall be able to help you in the very least
way?—it would please me so much if I could search
out things for you, or copy, or help you in the
smallest way.  And I know it will be a labour of
love for you; it will be a constant delight; and all
the more that the days are getting short now, and
we shall have to be more indoors.  And then you
heard what Mr. Carmichael said, grandfather; and
if he is going to pay you well for these articles, you
will soon be able to give him back the money he
advanced to you about that unfortunate book—"

"Oh, don't you bother about such things!" he
said, with an impatient frown.  "When I am
planning out an important work, I don't want to be
reminded that it will result in merely so many
guineas.  That is not the spirit in which I enter
upon such an undertaking.  When I write, it is
not with an eye to the kitchen.  Unless some nobler
impulse propels, then be sure the result will be
despicable.  However, I suppose women are like
that; when you are thinking of the literature of
your native land—of perhaps adding some little
tributary wreath—they are looking towards grocers'
bills.  The kitchen—the kitchen is before them—not
the dales and vales of Scotland, where lovers
loved, and were broken-hearted.  The kitchen—"

But Maisrie was not disconcerted by this rebuke.

"And you will begin at once, grandfather," she
said, cheerfully.  "Oh, I know it will be so
delightful an occupation for you.  And I don't
wonder that Mr. Carmichael was glad to have such
a chance.  Then it won't involve any expense of
travelling, like the other book you thought of, about
the Scotland of Scotch songs.  The winter evenings
won't be so dull, grandfather, when you have this
to occupy you; you will forget it is winter altogether,
when you are busy with those beautiful scenes and
stories.  And will you tell Vincent this evening,
grandfather? he will be so interested: it will be
something to talk of at dinner."

But Vincent was to hear of this great undertaking
before then.  When Maisrie and her grandfather
reached the door of their lodgings, he said to her—

"You can go in now, Maisrie, and have the gas
lit.  I must walk along to the library, and see what
books they have; but I'm afraid I shall have to
get Motherwell, and Pinkerton, and Allan Cunningham,
and the rest of them from Scotland.  Aytoun
they are sure to have, I suppose."

So they parted for the moment; and Maisrie
went upstairs and lit the gas in the little parlour.
Then, without taking off her bonnet, she sate down
and fell into a reverie—not a very sad one, as it
seemed.  She was sitting thus absorbed in silent
fancies, when a familiar sound outside startled her
into attention; she sprang to her feet; the next
instant the door was opened; the next again she
was advancing to the tall and handsome young
stranger who stood somewhat diffidently there, and
both her hands were outstretched, and a light of
joy and gratitude was shining in her eyes.

"Oh, Vincent, I am so glad you have come over!"
she said, in a way that was far from usual with her,
and she held both his hands for more than a second
or two, and her grateful eyes were fixed on his
without any thought of embarrassment.  "I was thinking
of you.  You have been so kind—so generous!
I wanted to thank you, and I am so glad to have
the chance—"

"But what is it, Maisrie?—I'm sure there is
nothing you have to thank me for!" said he, as
he shut the door behind him, and came forward, and
took a seat not very far away from her.  He was a
little bewildered.  In her sudden access of gratitude,
when she took both his hands in hers, she had come
quite close to him; and the scent of a sandal-wood
necklace that she wore seemed to touch him as with
a touch of herself.  He knew those fragrant beads;
more than once he had perceived the slight and
subtle odour, as she passed him, or as he helped her
on with her cloak; and he had come to associate it
with her, as if it were part of her, some breathing
thing, that could touch, and thrill.  And this time
it had come so near—

But that bewilderment of the senses lasted only
for a moment.  Maisrie Bethune was not near to
him at all: she was worlds and worlds away.  It
was not a mere whiff of perfume that could bring
her near to him.  Always to him she appeared to
be strangely unapproachable and remote.  Perhaps
it was the loneliness of her position, perhaps it was
the uncertainty of her future, and those vague
possibilities of which her grandfather had spoken,
or perhaps it was the reverence of undivided and
unselfish love on his part; but at all events she
seemed to live in a sort of sacred and mysterious
isolation—to be surrounded by a spell which he
dared not seek to break by any rude contact.  And
yet surely her eyes were regarding his with sufficient
frankness and friendliness, and even more than
friendliness, now as she spoke.

"This afternoon we called on Mr. Carmichael,"
said Maisrie, "Mr. Carmichael of the *Edinburgh
Chronicle*.  He told us someone had offered to repay
the money he had advanced to my grandfather on
account of that American book: and though he did
not mention any name, do you think I did not know
who it was, Vincent?  Be sure I knew—in a
moment!  And you never said a word about it!  I
might never have known but for this accident—I
might never have had the chance of thanking
you—as—as I should like to do now—only—only it
isn't quite easy to say everything one feels—"

"Oh, but that is nothing at all, Maisrie!" said
he, coming quickly to her rescue.  "You have
nothing to thank me for—nothing!  It is true I
made the offer; but it was not accepted; and why
should I say anything about it to you?"

"Ah, but the intention is enough," said she (for
she knew nothing about his having paid Lord
Musselburgh the £50).  "And you cannot prevent
my being very, very grateful to you for such
thoughtfulness and kindness.  To save my
grandfather's self-respect—to prevent him being
misunderstood by—by strangers—because—because he
is so forgetful: do you think, Vincent, I cannot see
your motive, and be very, very grateful?  And
never saying a word, too!  You should have told
me, Vincent!  But I suppose that was still further
kindness—you thought I might be embarrassed—and
not able to thank you—which is just the case—"

"Oh, Maisrie, don't make a fuss about nothing!"
he protested.

"I know whether it is nothing or not," said she,
proudly.  "And—and perhaps if you had lived as
we have lived—wandering from place to
place—you would set more store by an act of friendship.
Friends are little to you—you have too many of
them—"

"Oh, Maisrie, don't talk like that!" he said.
"You make me ashamed.  What have I done?—nothing!
I wish there was some real thing I could
do to prove my friendship for your grandfather and
yourself—then you might see—"

"Haven't you proved it every day, every hour
almost, since ever we have known you?" she said,
in rather a low voice.

"Ah, well, perhaps there may come a chance—" said
he; and then he stopped short; for here was
old George Bethune, with half-a-dozen volumes
under his arm, and himself all eagerness and
garrulity about his new undertaking.

At the little dinner that evening in the restaurant,
there was quite an unusual animation, and that not
solely because this was the ninth of November, and
they were proposing to go out later on and look at
the illuminations in the principal thoroughfares.
Vincent thought he had never seen Maisrie Bethune
appear so light-hearted and happy; and she was
particularly kind to him; when she regarded him,
there still seemed to be a mild gratitude shining in
the clear and eloquent deeps of her eyes.  Gratitude
for what!—he asked himself, with a touch of scorn.
It was but an ordinary act of acquaintanceship:
why should this beautiful, sensitive, proud-spirited
creature have to debase herself to thank him for
such a trifle?  He felt ashamed of himself.  It was
earning gratitude by false pretences.  The very
kindness shining there in her eyes was a sort of
reproach: what had he done to deserve it?  Ah, if
she only knew what he was ready to do—when
occasion offered!

And never before had he seen Maisrie so bravely
confident about any of her grandfather's literary
projects.

"You see, Vincent," she said, as if he needed any
convincing, when she was satisfied! "in the end it
will make a far more interesting book than the
Scotch-American one; and in the meantime there
will be the series of articles appearing from week to
week, to attract attention to the subject.  And then,
although grandfather says I take a low and
mercenary view of literature, all the same I am
glad he is to be well-paid for the articles; and there
are to be as many as he likes; and when they are
completed, then comes the publication of the book,
which should be as interesting to Mr. Carmichael,
or Lord Musselburgh, or anyone, as the
Scotch-American volume.  And grandfather is going to
begin at once; and I am asking him whether I
cannot be of any use to him, in the humblest way.  A
glossary, grandfather; you must have a glossary of
the Scotch words: couldn't I compile that for you?"

"I have been wondering," the old man said,
absently, and without answering her question,
"since I came into this room, whether it would be
possible to classify them into ballads of action and
ballads of the supernatural.  I imagine the former
belong more to the south country; and that most of
the latter had their origin in the north.  And yet
even in the Battle of Otterburn, the Douglas says

   |  'But I hae dreamed a dreary dream,
   |    Ayont the Isle o' Skye,—
   |  I saw a deid man win a fight,
   |    And I think that man was I.'

Well, that may have been an interpolation; at all
events, it is a Highland touch; the strong, brisk,
matter-of-fact Border ballad has seldom anything of
that kind in it.  The bold Buccleuch and Kinmont
Willie were too much in the saddle to have time
for wraiths.  You remember, Maisrie, when they
brought word to 'the bauld Keeper' that Kinmont
Willie was a captive in Carlisle Castle?—

   |  He has ta'en the table wi' his hand,
   |  He garred the red wine spring on hie—
   |  'Now a curse upon my head,' he cried,
   |  'But avenged on Lord Scroop I'll be!

   |  O is my basnet a widow's curch,
   |  Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree,
   |  Or my arm a lady's lily hand,
   |  That an English lord should lichtly me?'

That is more like the ballad of the south: sharp
and vivid, full of action and spirit, and the audacious
delight of life: when you want mystery and
imagination and supernatural terrors you must turn to
the brooding and darkened regions of the north.
The Demon Lover is clearly of northern origin;
its hell is the Scandinavian hell; not the fiery
furnace of the eastern mind, but a desolation of
cold and wet.

   |  'O what'n a mountain's yon,' she said,
   |  'Sae dreary wi' frost and snow?'
   |  'O yon is the mountain o' hell,' he cried,
   |  'Where you and I maun go!'"
   |

"The Demon Lover?" said Maisrie, inquiringly;
and Vincent could not but notice how skilfully and
sedulously she fanned the old man's interest in this
new scheme by herself pretending to be deeply
interested.

"Don't you know it, Maisrie?" said he.  "It is
the story of two lovers who were parted; and he
returns after seven years to claim the fulfilment of
her vows; and finds that in his absence she has
taken someone else for her husband.  It is a
dangerous position—if he wishes her to go away
with him; for a woman never forgets her first
lover; what is more, she attributes all the natural
and inevitable disillusionment of marriage to her
husband, whilst the romance attaching to her first
love remains undimmed.  Therefore, I say let Auld
Robin Gray beware!—the wife is not always so
loyal to the disillusioniser as was the Jeannie of the
modern song.  Well, in this case, she who has been
a false sweetheart, proves a false wife—

   |  'If I was to leave my husband dear,
   |    And my twa babes also,
   |  O where is it you would tak' me to,
   |    If I with thee should go?'

And the lover becomes the avenger; together they
sail away on a strange ship, until they descry the
mountains of hell; and the lover turned demon
warns her of her doom.

   |  And aye when she turned her round about,
   |    Aye taller he seemed for to be,
   |  Until that the tops o' that gallant ship
   |    Nae taller were than he.

   |  He struck the topmast wi' his hand,
   |    The foremast wi' his knee;
   |  And he brak that gallant ship in twain,
   |    And sank her in the sea."
   |

"Will there be illustrations, sir?" asked Vincent
(in humble imitation of Maisrie).  "And an *édition
de luxe*?  For that, I imagine, is where my
co-operation might come in.  Maisrie seems so anxious
to help; and I should like to take my part too."

"It is a far cry to the completion of such an
undertaking as that," said the old man, rather wistfully.

But Maisrie would not have him lapse into any
despondent mood.

"You must not look so far ahead, grandfather,"
she said, cheerfully.  "You must think of your own
pride and satisfaction in beginning it; and I know
you will be delighted; for who can do it as well as
you?  And if I am so very mercenary, I can't
help it; only I shall be all the better pleased to
remember that you are being properly paid for your
work.  Supposing the kitchen is my department?—Oh,
very well!—somebody must look to that.
It will be a labour of love for you, grandfather, all
the way through; and then, when the book is
nearing completion, just think of the pride you will
have in choosing someone, some distinguished
person, for the dedication.  It will be far more
your own work than merely giving specimens of
the Scottish-American poets; indeed it will be all
your own; for the ballads are only to be texts, as
you say.  And I think we should go home now,
and you will look over some of the books.  I don't
care about the illuminations—not I.  What is the
Lord Mayor's Day to Vincent or me—when you
might be telling us about Katherine Janfarie and
May Collean?"

"No, no, Maisrie," said he, as he rose from the
table.  "Give me a little time for preparation.  We
promised to show you the streets lit up.  And mind
you wrap yourself well, Maisrie, for the evenings
are getting cold now."

But little did Vincent Harris, as he helped her
on with her cloak, and made ready to go out into
the dusky and glaring thoroughfares, foresee what
was going to befall him that night.

When they issued forth into Regent-street, there
was as yet no very dense crowd, though here and
there the front of a tall building flamed in yellow
fire; but nevertheless Maisrie said—

"We must not get separated, grandfather.  Let
me go between you two; and I will take your arm
on the one side and Vincent's on the other; and if
we have occasionally to go sideways, we can always
keep together."

"Oh, I shan't let you be dragged away, Maisrie,"
the younger man said.  "And if you don't mind,
I think this will be a better way of holding on to
you—" and therewith he made bold to pass his
hand underneath the hanging sleeve of her cloak,
and there he took hold of her arm from the inside—rather
timidly, perhaps, but then his grasp could
be tightened, if needs were.

"Yes," said she, placidly, and she made a little
movement as though she would draw both her
companions closer to her.  "This is very
comfortable.  Which way, grandfather?"

And so the little group of friends, knit together
by many intimate interests and much association,
adventured out into the great world of London that
was all astir now with a vague and half-subdued
excitement.  There was no need for them to talk;
they had but to look at the blazing stars, and
feathers, and initial letters, and to make their way
through the murmuring throng.  There was no
jostling; the crowd was entirely good-natured; and
if these three could not always go abreast, they
then went diagonally for a second or so, and were
not separated.  Of course, Vincent had to hold
Maisrie a little more firmly now; his arm was
parallel with hers, and his hand had hold of her
wrist; and there was an intoxicating sense of
warmth as well as of close companionship in this
mutual clinging.  Thus they slowly and idly
passed away down Regent-street, well content with
their own silence and the brilliant sights around
them.  Then a little incident occurred.  A vehicle
was coming along one of the smaller thoroughfares
they had to cross; there was a brief bit of a
scrimmage; and Maisrie, the better to keep hold
of her companion, slipped her hand from the muff
that was slung round her neck, and seized his hand,
that was ready enough, be sure, to respond.  They
got over without further trouble; they mixed once
more in this vast, slow-moving assemblage—only
he retained the hand she had given him, and that
with no uncertain grasp.

It was a wonderful, mysterious, secret thing to
be happening in the midst of all this great,
careless, dusky crowd.  Her hand, that was ungloved,
was soft and warm after coming out of its cosy
resting-place; and it was not likely to get cold,
when it was held so tight, under the concealment
of the hanging sleeve.  And then—well, probably
the girl did not know what she was doing; she was
affected by all this excitement around her; it was
"Look, grandfather, look!" from time to time;
most likely she thought no more of her hand being
held than if she were crossing a meadow in the
spring-time with some careless girl-companion—but
however that may be, what must she do but open
her fingers, so that his should interclasp with hers!
Nay, she opened them again, and shut them again,
the better to adjust that gentle clasp; and every
touch thrilled through him, so that he walked as
one in a dream.  He dared hardly breathe, he
durst not speak, lest some stray word of his might
startle her into consciousness, and shatter this
miracle.  She did not seem to be in the least
aware: it was "Which way, grandfather?" or
"Take care, grandfather!" and her eyes were
turned to the brilliant and parti-coloured devices
in front of the Pall Mall clubs, and not at all
to the handsome lad who walked so close to her
that now and again he could detect some faint
trace of the odour of sandal-wood that seemed to
hover around her neck and her hair.  What did he
see or hear of the crowd now, or of the garish lights
along the houses?  He walked in an enchanted
land: there were only two people in it: and they
were bound together, in subtle intercommunion, by
this magic grasp.  There was wonder as well as joy
in his mind; the sensation was so new and strange.
Did he remember that "palm to palm" was "holy
palmer's kiss"?  No, he remembered nothing;
he only knew that he held Maisrie's hand interlocked
with his, in this secret fashion; and that all
the wild phantasmagoria around them was something
unreal and visionary with which neither he
nor she had any concern.

And even now his cup of bliss and bewilderment
was not yet full, on this marvellous night.  When
at last they drew away from the crowded streets and
found themselves in quieter thoroughfares on their
way home, the old man drew a breath of relief.

"This is better, Maisrie," he said.  "It seems as
if we had been out on a roaring sea, and had at
length drifted into stillness and peace."

"And we were not separated once, grandfather,"
said she, cheerfully.  "Not once all the time."

And then it was Vincent who spoke.

"I don't see why we should ever separate,"
said he.  "Friends are few enough in this world."

"Yes, indeed, good friends are few," Maisrie
said; and therewithal—ere he could tell what was
happening—she had taken his hand that she held
in hers and raised it, and for one brief moment
pressed it against her heart.  The little impulsive
movement—of gratitude perhaps; perhaps of
affection; perhaps of both combined—could not have
been perceived by any passer-by; and yet the
young man seemed to be struck by a sudden shock
of fear; he could not speak; his own heart was
beating so that speech was impossible.  For it
appeared to him in that swift second as if the
scales had fallen from his eyes.  To him she was
no longer an elusive phantom—a mirage—a
vision—pensive, and mysterious, and remote; now he saw
her a beautiful young creature of flesh and blood,
whose hands and heart were warm, who could cling
for help and companionship and sympathy, who
was not afraid to speak and act, when love or
gratitude prompted her.  No longer the strangely
isolated maiden: the unapproachable had all at
once come near; so near that the scent of
sandalwood touched him from time to time; so near that
her soft fingers were interclasped with his, pulsating
there, nestling there, not relaxing their hold, nor
inclined to do that.  This was no piece of statuary, to
be worshipped from afar: this was Maisrie Bethune,
whose arm lay close and caressing against his, under
the friendly shelter of that hanging sleeve, whose
step went with his step as they walked together,
whose breathing he could almost overhear, in the
silence of this gracious night.  And what had she
not confessed, in that artless way?

And then amid his bewilderment and breathless
exultation a horrid fancy shot across his brain.
Perhaps that was no confession at all; but a quite
simple, unpremeditated, even unconscious, act of
mere friendliness and sympathy?  Did she know
that she had done it?  Would she repeat it?  Would
she give him further assurance?  Might she not
herself wish to be certain that he had understood—that
he had received a message that was to change
all his life?

Well, he had hold of her hand.  Gently and
with trembling and eager touch he tried to raise
it—he would have her replace his own hand where
that had been for one delirious moment: perhaps
to ask if her heart had still, and for ever and always,
the same message to send.  Alas! she did not yield
to the mute invitation.  Perhaps she did not
comprehend it.  For here they were at the corner
of the little street in which they lived; and she
unclasped her fingers, so that his also might be
released from their too happy imprisonment; and
she was talking to her grandfather when the door
of the house was reached.  Nor did her eyes say
anything as he bade her good-bye for the night.
Perhaps it was all a mistake, then?—some little
involuntary act of kindness, and nothing more?





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.. _`INTERPOSITION`:

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   CHAPTER IV.


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   INTERPOSITION.

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Yes, she had come near—so near that she seemed
to absorb his very life.  He could think of nothing
but her.  As he walked away down through the
dark streets, he imagined her to be still by his side;
he tried to fancy he could detect some faint perfume
of sandal-wood in the surrounding air; his right
hand tingled yet with the touch of her warm,
interclasping fingers.  And if at one moment his heart
beat high with the assurance that she had confessed
her love and given herself to him, the next he
tortured himself with vague alarms, and wondered
how the long night was to be got through, before
he could go up to her in the morning, and challenge
her to speak.  All the future was filled with her;
and there again he saw himself by her side, her
strong and confident protector.  And yet if he had
mistaken that mute declaration of hers?  What if,
after all, it were merely a timid expression,
involuntary and unpremeditated, of her friendship,
her kindness, her gratitude?

Well, he knew he could get no confirmation of
either his audacious hopes or his depressing fears
until the next day; and as the alternation between
the two moods was altogether a maddening thing,
he resolved to seek relief and distraction.  As soon
as he got to his own room down in Grosvenor Place
he took out a foolscap sheet of paper which had
certain pencillings on it.  These formed, in fact, an
outline sketch of a lecture which he had undertaken
to deliver before the Mendover Free Library
Association; and it was high time he was getting on with
it, for the meeting was to be held in the following
week.  But strange things happened with this
sheet of paper.  Apparently the pencilled heading
was "*The Unscrupulousness of Wealth*;" but the
longer he looked at the title, the more clearly did it
spell out "*Maisrie Bethune*."  The sub-headings,
too, began to reveal hidden mysteries.  Here was
one which on the face of it read "*Circumstances in
which the capitalist may become a tyrant in spite of
himself*."  But behold! that scrawl slowly
disappeared, and in its place a picture grew into
existence.  He seemed to recognise the big grey
building—was it not the mansion-house of Balloray?—and
well he knew the figure of the tall young girl
with the long-flowing hair who, in riding-habit,
came out on to the terrace, above the wide stone
steps.  Is that her grandfather, proud-featured,
lion-hearted, with the same undaunted demeanour
as of old, come to wave her good-bye?  The
splendour of the morning is all around her; there is
a white road outside the grounds, and an avenue of
beech trees dappled with sun and shade: when she
vanishes into that wonderland of foliage, she seems
to take the light of the day away with her.  And
again, what further miracle is this?  Another vision
interposes, and at length becomes dominant; and
this one is very different; this one is of a street in
Toronto.  And here also is a young girl; but now
she is all in black; and she is alone—she knows
not one of those passers-by.  Pale and pensive she
walks on; her eyes are downcast; perhaps she is
thinking of wide intervening seas, and of her loneliness,
and of one who used to be her friend.  Tears?—but
of what avail are these, here in this strange
city?—they are only a confession of
helplessness—perhaps of despair...

Vincent Harris got up and walked about the
room: at this rate the members of the Mendover
Free Library Association were not likely to receive
much instruction.  And indeed he did not return
to that sheet of foolscap; his brain could conjure
up quite sufficient visions of the future without
having recourse to any palimpsest discoveries; while
as for his hand—well, perhaps the hand that Maisrie
had held over her heart for one wild, startling
moment, was a little too unsteady to use a pencil.
If only the hours would go by!  He tried to read—and
could not.  He got hold of a map of Scotland,
and traced out the line of travel he should like to
follow if Maisrie and her grandfather and himself
should ever start on their long-projected tour.  He
turned to a map of the United States, and sought
out Omaha: Maisrie's birthplace was not
distinguished by any difference of type, and yet he
regarded those five letters with a curious interest
and fascination.  He recalled his having stood on
the heights of Council Bluffs, and looked across the
yellow Missouri; and now he marvelled that he
could have contemplated the wide, straggling city
with comparative indifference.  Perhaps, by diligent
seeking on the morrow—for the capital of Nebraska
is an important place—he might even in London
discover a photograph or two to put on his
mantel-shelf; and then he could stand opposite them and
say, "Why, Maisrie must have passed that railway
station many a time!" or "Maisrie must often have
looked up to the spire of the High School, there on
the hill."  To think that he had been twice in
Omaha—without caring—without knowing!  And
so his eyes rested on this little word in the middle
of the big map; but his imagination was far away.

Well, the longest night must have an end; and
yet the new dawn brought no surcease to his
anxieties; for how was he to have an opportunity
of speaking with Maisrie alone?  He was up in
the little Mayfair street betimes; and made some
pretence of beginning work; but that was soon
abandoned.  He could not keep his eyes on any
book or paper when there were those two windows
over the way.  When would she appear there to
water the chrysanthemums in the little balcony?
If she accidentally caught sight of him, might not
some tell-tale flush reveal all he wanted to know?
Or she might be coming out on some errand—so
that he could quickly follow her?  Or perhaps her
grandfather might be going to the library, leaving
her at home by herself?  The door of the house
opposite grew to be as fascinating as the windows;
unknown possibilities might be sprung upon him at
any moment.

It was quite a cheerful morning—for London in
November.  If pale mists hung about the thoroughfares,
at least some trace of blue was discernible
overhead; and on the panes of the higher windows
the sunlight shone here and there a dull gleaming
gold.  The butcher's boy whistled loudly as he
marched by; the cabman flicked at his horse out
of mere good humour; the ostlers in the adjacent
mews made merry with bandied jests.  It seemed
too fine a morning for the collation of Scotch ballads;
and so indeed it proved to be; for about eleven
o'clock the door across the way was opened, and
out came Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter into
the wintry sunlight.  Maisrie did not look up.
The two were talking together as they went along
the little thoroughfare and turned into Park Street.
The next moment Vincent had snatched up his hat
and gloves, and was off in pursuit.

But he did not seek to overtake them.  On the
contrary, he kept as wide a space between them
and him as he had done before he had ever dared
to address them; and yet the distance was not so
great but that he could observe Maisrie's every
gesture and the graceful motion of every step.  She
wore those hanging sleeves, too, that had hidden
his arm on the preceding night—those hanging
sleeves that had allowed her to say something in
secret to him, even amid the noise and movement
of a great crowd.  And now that he saw her actual
self instead of the vague phantom of his reveries,
he plucked up courage.  Yes, she must have known
what she was doing.  Those were flesh and blood
fingers that had taken hold of his; when she raised
his hand to her heart, it could not have been
altogether through inadvertence.  Once or twice a
wild fancy got into his head that here and now he
would hasten forward, and seize her arm, as if by
right, and say 'Maisrie, there is no need of words
between us: I am here at your side, and mean to
remain here.  Whatever that message meant, I claim
you as mine.'  And then again he drew back.  What
if there were some mistake?  Hyde Park did not
seem a fitting place for explanations.  And then,
her grandfather might be more than astonished.

Yet hour after hour of this terrible day went by,
and brought him no nearer to the discovery he
longed for.  When Maisrie and her grandfather
returned from their stroll through the Park, the
young man went back to the sheet of foolscap on
which he meant to shadow forth the outlines of his
lecture.  The effort was absurd.  He might keep
his eyes mechanically fixed on the paper; but his
brain refused to act.  Industry—capital—the
proposed resumption by the workers of the world of
the mines, factories, docks, ships, canals, railways
which their labour had constructed—the impracticability
of land nationalisation—and so forth: what
were these but mere lifeless phrases, when his heart
was listening for the smallest sound on the other
side of the street?  And ill-luck pursued him.
She did not come once to the window.  The
chrysanthemums in the little balcony were quite
neglected.  The afternoon passed, and neither she
nor her grandfather came out alone.  Then, when
he went over as usual about half-past six, there was
no chance of his speaking to her by herself; in fact,
both she and her grandfather were seated at the one
table, with a heap of books and papers before them.

"Enough, Maisrie, enough," Mr. Bethune said
blithely, and he rose at once.  "You have had your
wish—though I don't see why you should undertake
any such drudgery—"

She also rose to receive the visitor; and as she
gave him her hand for a moment, and regarded him
with very friendly eyes, there was not the least
trace of self-consciousness in her manner.

"Yes," said she, with a bright and frank smile,
"grandfather has conferred a new dignity on me.
I am become his amanuensis.  Not that I am the
slightest real use to him, I suppose; it is only done
to please me; still, I take it seriously, and pretend
to be doing my share.  Time to go, is it?—very
well, I shall be ready in a minute."

He was amazed and mortified beyond measure
by this perfect self-possession.  Had nothing
whatever happened the night before, then?  There was
no secret between them at all?  She had made no
confession—given him no message?  And then
wounded pride stepped in and spoke—with its usual
violence and cruel injustice.  Perhaps there were
people who dispensed their caresses so freely that
they thought nothing of them?  What had startled
him, a man, might be only a matter of course to
her, a girl?  Nay,—for what will not a lover say
in a passion of jealous anger and disappointment?—perhaps
he was not the first nor the only one who
had been similarly bewildered?

He had no word for Maisrie on her return to the
room.  When the three of them went out into the
street, he forsook his usual post by her side, and
walked with her grandfather, to whom he talked
exclusively.  And of course, as his questions were
all about the projected compilation of ballads, and
as old George Bethune was always keenly
enthusiastic about any new undertaking, there was no
stint to their conversation.  Maisrie walked on in
silence and unheeded.  When they reached the
restaurant, and as they were taking their seats at
the little table, she glanced at the young man; but
his eyes did not happen to meet hers.  And there
was no place for her in their talk.

"No," old George Bethune was saying—and with
considerable animation, for he appeared to have
been looking over some of the ballads during the
day, and his mind was still fired by the recollection
of them, "I think they are beyond the reach of
illustration, even if there should be an *édition de
luxe*.  I have considered your suggestion more than
once; but I fear the drawing would in almost
every instance be an anticlimax to the power and
simplicity and pathos of the printed page.  No
picture could be as vivid and clear and striking as
the verses themselves: why, just think of such
lines as these—

   |  ''Tis not the frost that freezes fell,
   |    Nor blowing snaw's inclemencie;
   |  'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
   |    But my love's heart grown cauld to me.
   |  When we came in by Glasgow town,
   |    We were a comely sight to see;
   |  My love was clad i' the black velvet,
   |    And I myself in cramoisie.'

What picture could better that?  What picture
could do anything but weaken it?  You remember
in 'Edom o' Gordon' how the young maiden is
lowered from the burning tower only to be slain by
Edom o' Gordon's spear—

   |  'They row'd her in a pair o' sheets,
   |    And tow'd her owre the wa';
   |  But on the point o' Gordon's spear
   |    She gat a deadly fa'.

   |  O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth,
   |    And cherry were her cheeks,
   |  And clear, clear was her yellow hair,
   |    Whereon the red blood dreeps.

   |  Then wi' his spear he turned her owre;
   |    O but her face was wan!
   |  He said, "Ye are the first that e'er
   |    I wish'd alive again."

   |  He turned her owre and owre again,
   |    O but her skin was white!
   |  "I might hae spared that bonnie face
   |    To hae been some man's delight.

   |  "Busk and boun, my merry men a',
   |    For ill dooms I do guess;—
   |  I cannot look on that bonnie face
   |    As it lies on the grass,"'—

What illustration could improve on that?—why, it
burns clear as flame!  Then, again, take the girl
who was drowned by her sister in 'the bonnie
mill-dams o' Balloray'——"

At this point the silent and neglected Maisrie
suddenly looked up—glancing from her grandfather
to the young man in a curiously appealing way.
She seemed to say 'Grandfather, you forget: it is
not Balloray, it is Binnorie;' and again 'Vincent,
he has forgotten: that is all.'  But neither of them
took any notice of her; nay, the younger man, in
his insensate indignation and disappointment, would
not look her way at all; while old George Bethune,
with his mind fixed on those imaginary pictures,
went on in a rapt fashion to repeat certain of the
verses—

   |  "Ye couldna see her yellow hair,
   |    Balloray, O Balloray,
   |  For gowd and pearls that were sae rare,
   |    By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.

   |  Ye couldna see her middle sma',
   |    Balloray, O Balloray,
   |  Her gowden girdle was sae braw,
   |    By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.

   |  Ye couldna see her lily feet,
   |    Balloray, O Balloray,
   |  Her gowden fringes were sae deep,
   |    By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.

   |  'Sair will they be, whae'er they be,
   |    Balloray, O Balloray,
   |  The hearts that live to weep for thee!'
   |    By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray!"
   |

"It is like a picture by one of the pre-Raphaelites,"
Vincent said; and then the old man proceeded
to talk of paper and type and binding, as if
the new work were just ready for press.

But silence was not to reign for ever between
those two.  On their way home Mr. Bethune was
talking of "The Demon Lover," of its alleged
Italian origin, and of a suggestion he had seen
somewhere that it was no forsaken sweetheart who
had come to tempt the wedded wife, but a fiend
adopting that disguise.  When they reached the
little parlour he began to search about for the
volume in which "The Demon Lover" was thus
treated; but could not find it; whereupon he went
off upstairs, to see if it was not among his books
and papers there.  As soon as he had gone, Maisrie
rose and came over to where the young man was
standing by the fireplace.

"What have I done, Vincent?" she said.

"Oh, nothing," he made answer, avoiding her eyes.

"I have a right to know," she said, proudly.

"It is nothing," said he.  "I—I made a mistake;
that is all."

She looked at him in mute reproach: then she
turned away, and went back to her seat.  There was
a paper-knife on the table beside her; she took that
into her hands, and began to finger it; her eyes
were downcast; he was free to go now, when he
chose.

But he did not go.  On the contrary, after a second
or two of vacillation, he followed her.

"Maisrie," said he, in a very different tone,
"perhaps it's all a mistake on my part.  If so, I am
sorry.  I don't want to vex you—

"I don't want to vex you, Vincent," said she, in a
somewhat low voice.  "Tell me what it is."

"Well," said he, "I came here this afternoon
thinking—hoping—there might be some more
definite understanding between you and me: yes,
I was hoping for much—and then—and then I
found you quite careless and thoughtless, just as if
nothing at all had happened last night——"

"Last night?" she repeated.

"Yes," said he, rather reproachfully.  "Don't you
remember what happened last night?  Don't you
know that you pressed my hand to your heart?
But perhaps that was nothing—perhaps that meant
nothing at all——"

"It meant a very great deal, Vincent," said she,
warmly, looking up at him with honest eyes.  "We
were talking of the value of true friends—and I
could not say much—yet I wished to tell you what
I thought of all your goodness and kindness.  Indeed,
indeed it meant a great deal, Vincent—and I hoped
you would understand——"

"I have understood too much," said he, and he
was silent for a second.  Then he went on.  "I
thought you had something more than that to say to
me, Maisrie.  For why need I tell you what you
must have guessed already?  You know I love you;
you must have seen it all this time; there was no
need for me to speak.  And when the future has
but the one hope for me, that some day or other you
should be my wife, then perhaps I was too eager to
believe it had all come true—that you were giving
me a promise in that quiet way—and no need of a
spoken word between us.  But I was mistaken, I see.
You only meant friendship.  You only wanted to
say 'Thank you!' to a friend——"

But by this time she had risen from her chair;
and there was in her eyes the strangest look of
pride, and joy, and perhaps, too, of sadness.

"Do you know what you are saying, Vincent?"
she said, quite gently.  "You—of all people in the
world—"

She hesitated: she regarded, with admiring, and
grateful, and affectionate eyes, this handsome lad on
whom fortune had shed all good things—and perhaps
she could not quite confess all she thought.

"You—of all people in the world—every one
making much of you—every one hoping such great
things of you—and you come seeking a wife here."  She
glanced round at the shabby little apartment.
Then she turned her eyes towards him again; and
there was a smile in them, of an unstable kind; and
tears were gathering in the lashes.  "Well," she
said, "it will be something for me to think of.  It
will be something for me to be proud of.  There
can be no harm in that.  I shall be able to say to
myself 'Vincent thought so well of you that he once
asked you to be his wife'——"

"But I don't know what you mean, Maisrie!" he
exclaimed, and in spite of her he seized her hand
and held it tight between his two.  "What do you
mean?  You are going to be my wife!  Oh, I don't
want you to make rash promises; I don't want to
frighten you; no, I want you to be of good heart,
and you will see things will turn out all right in the
end.  And if you don't know your own mind yet—if
you are afraid to say anything—won't you let me
guess?  Surely we have not been all this time
together, and seeing so much of each other, without
getting to know each other pretty intimately?  And
if I did make a mistake last night—well, that is a
trifling matter—and I was too presumptuous——"

She managed to release her hand.

"Sit down, Vincent, and let me talk to you," she
said.  "Perhaps I may not have another chance;
and I do not wish you ever to look back and say I
was ungrateful, or unreasonable, or cold-hearted.
Cold-hearted?—not that—not that—towards you!"  And
then she went on in rather a sad way, "I think
the time has about come that we should part.  It
has been a pleasant companionship: I am not likely
ever to forget it.  But your future is so important,
and ours so uncertain, that I am sure the sooner we
go separate ways the better.  And I am anxious to
make a change now.  I think if my grandfather and
I went away somewhere where we could live more
cheaply—where there would be fewer temptations
towards the spending of money—I could do
something to support him, and leave him the luxury of
his books.  I am a woman now—I want to work——"

"You work?  Not while I can!" he said, hotly.

She went on without heeding him.

"That is why I have been glad to see him so
eager about this book of ballads.  If he could only
get rid of all indebtedness, to friends and others,
through this book, then we should start clear; and
I should ask him not to fret any more about his
literary schemes.  He is an old man.  He has done
everything for me: why should I not do something
for him now?  And I have no pride.  The story
about those Scotch estates was always a kind of
fairy tale to me; I never had any real belief in the
possibility of their coming to us; I was never a fine
lady even in imagination.  So that it matters little
to me what I turn my hand to; if what little
education I have had is useless, I would take to
something else; I would work about a farm-house
as soon as anything—for I am a great deal stronger
than you may imagine——"

"Oh, what are you talking about, Maisrie!" he
said, with simulated anger.  "If you think I am
going to allow any such folly, you are mistaken.
There are plenty of dairymaids in the world without
you.  And I have the right to say something—I
claim the right: I am going to interfere, whether
you like it or not.  When you speak of your duty
towards your grandfather, that I understand.  He
has been everything to you: who would ask you
to forsake him?  But, as you say, he is an old
man.  If anything were to happen to him, think
of your own position.  You have hardly a friend in
the world—a few acquaintances in Canada,
perhaps—but what is that?  You will want some one to
protect you: give me that right!  If I let you go
from me now, how am I to find you again?—how
am I to know what may happen?  Maisrie, have
courage!—be frank!—tell me that the little message
of last night meant something more!"

The eloquence was not in the words, but in the
vibrating tones of his voice; and there were tears
in her eyes as she answered—

"Vincent, I cannot—I dare not!  You don't
know how grandfather and I are situated: you are
so generous, so open-minded, that—that you see
everything in so favourable a light; but then other
people might step in——

"Between you and me?  Who?" he demanded,
with set lips.

"Ah," she said, with a sigh, "who can tell?  And
besides—besides—do you not think I am as proud
of you as any one?—do you not think I am looking
forward to all that is expected of you?—and when I
hear of you as this or that, I will say to myself 'I
knew what Vincent was going to do; and now he
is glad that he did not hamper himself out of—out
of pity—for a friendless girl'——"

But here she broke down altogether, and covered
her face with her hands, and sobbed without
possibility of concealment.  He was by her side in a
moment; he laid his hand on the down-bent head—on
the soft hair.

"Maisrie," he said, with the utmost gentleness,
"don't make me angry.  If you have anything
to say why you cannot, or will not, be my wife, tell
me; but do not be unreasonable and foolish.  You
speak of my future: it is nothing to me without you.
You talk of the expectations of my friends: I tell
you that my life is my own.  And why should you be
any drag or hamper—you!  I wish you would think
of yourself a little: not of me.  Surely there is
something better in the world than ambition, and
figuring before the public in newspapers."  Then he
stopped for a second or two; and resumed in a lower
and different tone.  "Of course, if you refuse me
your love, that is different.  That I can understand.
I have done nothing to deserve it: I have come to
you as a beggar.  If you refuse me that, there is
nothing more to be said.  I do not blame you.  If I
have made a mistake, so much the worse for me——"

She rose.

"Vincent," she said, between her half-stifled sobs,
"you are not very kind.  But it is better so—much
better.  Now I must go and help grandfather to
find that book.  And as this is to be the last
word—well, then—dear friend—don't be so ungenerous to
me when in after years you look back——"

But he was not likely to let her go like that.
He interposed between her and the door; nay, he
drew her towards him, and took her head between
his hands, and pushed back the hair from her brow,
as though he would read down to the very depths
of those beautiful, tear-dimmed eyes.

"You have not refused me your love, Maisrie—because
you dare not!" he said.  "And what do
I care whether you say it or not—when I know?"  And
therewith he kissed her on the mouth—and
again—and again.  "Now you are mine.  You dare
not deny your love—and I claim you as my
wife——"

She struggled backward to be free from him, and
said almost wildly—

"No, no—Vincent, you do not understand—I
have not been frank with you—I cannot ever be
your wife!—some day I will tell you——"

There was no chance for any further entreaty or
explanation, for at this moment there was the sound
of a footstep outside, the door was opened, and old
George Bethune appeared, carrying in his hands
some half-dozen books.  When he saw those two
standing opposite to each other, the young man
pale and agitated, the girl also pale and with her
eyes streaming over with tears, he glanced from the
one to the other in silence.  Then he walked
deliberately forward to the table, and laid down the
books.  Maisrie escaped from the room.  Vincent
returned to the fireplace, too bewildered by her last
words to care much what construction might be
placed upon this scene by her grandfather.  But he
had to recall himself: for the old man, just as if
he had observed nothing, just as if nothing had
happened, but yet with a certain measured
precision in his tones, resumed his discussion of "The
Demon Lover," and proceeded to give his reasons
for thinking that the story had migrated from the
far north to the south.

But presently Mr. Bethune had turned from
those books, and was staring into the fire, as he
said with a certain slow and significant emphasis—

"It will be an interesting subject; and yet I
must guard against being wholly absorbed by it.
And that for my granddaughter's sake.  I imagine
we have been living a much too monotonous life
for some time back; and that is not well for
anyone, especially for a young girl.  A limitation of
interests; that is not wholesome.  The mind
becomes morbid; and exaggerates trifles.  And in the
case of Maisrie, she has been used to change and
travel; I should think the unvarying routine of
our life of late, both as regards our employments
and amusements, extremely prejudicial to her health
and spirits——"

"Why, she seems very well!" Vincent said,
anxiously—for he knew not what all this might mean.

"A change will do her good—will do all of us
good, perhaps," said the old man.  "Everyone
knows that it is not wise for people to see too much
of each other; it puts too heavy a strain on friendship.
Companionship should be a volunteered thing—should
be a reward, indeed, for previous isolation
and work——"

Vincent's forehead flushed; and the natural man
within him was crying out 'Oh, very well, then; I
don't press any further acquaintance on you!'  But
for Maisrie's sake he curbed his pride.  He said, as
quickly as might be—

"In our case I thought that was precisely how
our companionship stood—a little relaxation after
the labours of the day.  However, if you think
there has been too much of that——"

"I was speaking of general principles," Mr. Bethune
said, with equanimity.  "At the same
time I confess that, as regards Maisrie, I think that
some alteration in our mode of existence might
be beneficial.  Her life of late has been much too
monotonous."

"Again and again she has told me that she
delights in the quietude of it!" the young man
protested—for it suddenly occurred to him that
Maisrie was to be dragged away from England
altogether.  "Surely she has had enough of travel?"

"Travel?  That is not what I have in mind," old
George Bethune said.  "We have neither the time
nor the means.  I should merely propose to pack
up a few books and things, and take Maisrie down
to some sea-side place—Brighton, perhaps, as being
the most convenient."

The young man's face flashed instant relief;
Brighton—that was something different from what
he had been dreading.  Brighton—Brighton was
not Toronto nor Montreal; there was going to be
no wide Atlantic between him and her; a trivial
matter of an hour's railway journey or something of
the kind!

"Oh, Brighton?" said he, quite gladly.  "Yes,
that will be very pleasant for her.  Brighton is
brisk and lively enough at this time of the year;
and if there is any sunlight going, you are sure to
get it there.  I am afraid you will find the hotels
full——"

"We shall not trouble the hotels," Mr. Bethune
said, with grave dignity.  "Some very humble
lodgings will suffice.  And perhaps we might get
rooms in a house on the hill at the back of the
town; that would give me seclusion and quiet for
my work.  Yes, I think the change will be wholesome;
and the sooner we set about it the better."

Well, to Vincent it did not seem that this
proposal involved any great alteration in their mode
of life, except that he himself was obviously and
unmistakeably excluded; nevertheless, he was so
glad to find that the separation from Maisrie was of
a mild and temporary nature that he affected to
give a quite cordial approval.  He even offered
to engage the services of his aunt, Mrs. Ellison,
in securing them apartments; but Mr. Bethune
answered that Maisrie and he were old travellers,
and would be able to shift for themselves.  And
when did they propose to go?  Well, to-morrow, if
his granddaughter were content.

While they were yet talking, Maisrie made her
appearance.  She had bathed her eyes in water, and
there was not much trace of her recent agitation,
though she was still somewhat pale.  And Vincent—to
show her that he refused to be alarmed by her
parting words—to show her that he was quite
confident as to the future—preserved his placid, not to
say gay, demeanour.

"Do you know what your grandfather is going to
do with you, Maisrie?" said he.  "He is going to
take you down to Brighton for a time.  Yes, and at
once—to-morrow, if you care to go."

She glanced quickly from one to the other, as if
fearing some conspiracy between them.

"And you, Vincent?" she asked, turning to him.

He did not meet her look.

"I?  Oh, I must keep to work; I can't afford to
go away down and idle among those fashionable folk.
My Mendover lecture isn't half sketched out yet.
And then, again, you remember the article I told
you about?—before beginning it I ought really to
run down to Scotland, or at least to Yorkshire, and
see one of those Municipal Lodging-houses in actual
operation.  They seem to me marvellous
institutions," continued this consummate hypocrite (as if
the chief thought in his mind at this moment was
the housing of the industrious poor!), "and of the
greatest importance to the country at large; worked
at a profit, too, that is the amazing thing!  Fancy
at Huddersfield; threepence a day includes use of
cooking and table utensils, a smoking-room,
reading-room, and conversation-room, and then a bed at
night—all for threepence!  Belonging to the
rate-payers, themselves—under the management of the
Corporation—and paying a profit so that you can go
on improving and extending.  Why, every big town
in the kingdom ought to have a Municipal Lodginghouse,
or half a dozen of them; and it only needs to
be shown how they are worked for the example to
be copied everywhere——"

"And when do you go, Vincent?" she asked, with
downcast eyes.

"Oh, I am not sure yet," he made answer
cheerfully.  "Of course, I ought in duty to go; but it
will cost me half what I shall get for the article.
However, that is neither here nor there.  But if this
is to be our last night together for a little while,
Maisrie," he went on, to keep up his complacent
acquiescence in this temporary separation, "you
might give us a little music—won't you?—you
haven't had the violin out of its case for a long time."

She was very obedient.  She went and got the
violin—though she was in no playing or singing mood.

"What, then, grandfather?" she said when she was ready.

"Whatever you please."

Then she began, and very slowly and tenderly she
played the air of a Scotch song—"Annie's Tryst."  It
is a simple air, and yet pathetic in its way; and
indeed so sensitive and skilful was her touch that
the violin seemed to speak; any one familiar with
the song might have imagined he could hear the
words interpenetrating those vibrant notes—

   |  "Your hand is cauld as snaw, Annie,
   |    Your cheek is wan and white;
   |  What gars ye tremble sae, Annie,
   |    What maks your e'e sae bright?
   |  The snaw is on the ground, Willie,
   |    The frost is cauld and keen,
   |  But there's a burnin' fire, Willie,
   |    That sears my heart within.
   |
   |   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*
   |
   |  Oh, will ye tryst wi' me, Annie,
   |    Oh, will ye tryst me then?
   |  I'll meet ye by the burn, Annie,
   |    That wimples down the glen.
   |  I daurna tryst wi' you, Willie,
   |    I daurna tryst ye here,
   |  But we'll hold our tryst in heaven, Willie,
   |    In the springtime o' the year."
   |

"That is too sad, Maisrie," her grandfather said,
fretfully.  "Why don't you sing something?"

She turned to Vincent: there was a mute question
in her eyes.

"Will you sing the *Claire Fontaine*, Maisrie?"
said he.

She seemed a little surprised: it was a strange
song to ask for on a night of farewell; but she did
as she was bidden.  She went and got the book and
placed it open before her on the table: then she
drew her bow across the strings.

But hardly had she began to sing the little ballad
than it became evident that there was something
added to the pure, clear tones of her voice—some
quality of an indefinable nature—some alien influence
that might at any moment prove too strong for her
self-control.

   |  *Sur la plus haute tranche—*

this was the point at which she began—

   |  *Le rossignol chantait;*
   |  *Chante, rossignol, chante,*
   |  *Toi qui as le coeur gai—*

And so far all was well; but at the refrain

   |  *Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,*
   |  *Jamais je ne t'oublierai*

her voice shook a little, and her lips were tremulous.
Vincent cursed his folly a hundred times over: why
had he asked her to sing the *Claire Fontaine*?  But
still she held bravely on:

   |  *Chante, rossignol, chante,*
   |  *Toi qui as le coeur gai;*
   |  *Tu as le coeur à rire,*
   |  *Moi je l' ai-t-à pleurer—*

And here she could go no further for those choking
tears in her voice; she stood for a moment all
uncertain, trying to master herself; then she laid the
violin on the table, and with a broken "Good-night,
Vincent—and good-bye!" she turned and left the
room, her hands hiding her face, her frame shaken
by the violence of her sobbing.

There was an instant of silence.

"Yes, it is time she was taken away," old George
Bethune said, with a deep frown on his shaggy
eyebrows.  "Her nerves are all wrong.  Why should
she make such a to-do about leaving London for a
fortnight?"

But Vincent Harris knew better than that.  It
was not this unexpected departure that was in
Maisrie's mind: it was the words that he had
spoken to her, and she to him, earlier in the
evening.  It was of no fortnight's absence she was
thinking, but of a far wider and longer farewell.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE GNAWING FOX`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium

   THE GNAWING FOX.

.. vspace:: 2

But he was not disheartened by those ominous
words of hers, not even on the following morning,
when he found the little thoroughfare so strangely
silent and empty, and the two windows over the
way become vacant and devoid of charm.  He had
the high courage and impetuous will of youth;
seeing no difficulties or dangers ahead, he refused
to believe in any; Maisrie had not denied him her
love, therefore she must be his wife; and all the
future shone fair.  And so he set to work on his
Mendover lecture; and made good progress, even if
his thoughts went sometimes flying away down to
Brighton.  As for the lecture itself—well, perhaps
certain of its contentions and illustrations would
have surprised and even shocked that
Communist-capitalist, his father; but the young man was
accustomed to think for himself.

Yes, this little street was terribly empty, and
those windows indescribably blank.  And the room
was lonely, work or no work.  But as he was
standing looking out, cigarette in hand, after his
frugal luncheon, a happy inspiration sprung into his
head; for here was Hobson, the husband of the
landlady across the way, coming along the
pavement; and would it not be a comforting thing to
have him in to talk about the two lodgers who
had just left?  Vincent opened the window a bit,
and said into the street (there was no need to
call)—

"Hobson!"

The man looked up.

"Yes, sir?"

"I want you for a moment."

Then Vincent went himself downstairs and opened
the door; and here was the shabby-genteel
ex-butler, obsequiously waiting, with an excess of
imbecile amiability in his weak, prominent, nervous
eyes.

"Come in and have a smoke, Hobson," the young
man said.  "You must be lonely over there now.
Makes a difference, doesn't it?"

"Wonderful, sir, wonderful;" and the docile
Hobson obediently followed up the stairs, and
accepted a big cigar, and was prevailed on to draw
in a chair to the fire.  Vincent took a seat opposite
him, and lit another cigarette—in a quite friendly
fashion.

"You've seen a good deal of Mr. Bethune since
he came to live in your house?" the young man
began, in a sort of tentative and encouraging
way.  And Hobson responded with instant enthusiasm——

"Ah, yes, indeed, sir, and proud of the same.
A great man, sir—oh, a very great man—and how
he came to be where he is, sir, well, that beats me,
sir.  And that haffable, sir!—if he ave somethink
on the table, he'll say, 'Hobson, bring two tumblers'—yes,
sir—'Hobson, bring two tumblers'—and I
must take a seat, just as kind and condescending
as you are, sir.  'Fill your glass, Hobson,' he says,
just that haffable like—"

"Oh, I beg your pardon," said Vincent, looking
guiltily towards his vacant sideboard.  "The fact
is, I haven't anything of the kind in these rooms;
but I can send out.  Which would you like, gin or
whiskey?"

"Whichever you please," said Hobson, complacently,
"being so kind as to think of it, sir."

The necessary fluid was soon procured; and
Hobson was liberally helped.  And when at length
he began to expatiate on the character and the
wonderful attainments and abilities of Maisrie's
grandfather, there may have been a little
exaggeration (for gin tends towards exaggeration) in his
speech; but his aim and admiration were genuine
enough at the core.  He grovelled in the dust
before that impressive old man.  He spoke in
almost a breathless way of his haffability.  Why,
that a great personage in literature should
condescend to read his, Hobson's, poor little verses was
extraordinary; but that he should give advice, too,
and encouragement, that was overwhelming.  And
as for the young lady—but here Hobson's language
failed him.  With tears in his eyes he declared
that she was a hangel of sweetness—which did not
convey much to Vincent's eager-listening ears.
But when he went on to tell about all sorts of little
acts of kindness and consideration—when he spoke
of her patience with the old gentleman's temper,
of her cheerfulness over small disappointments
happening to herself, of her gentleness, and
sunniness, and invariable good humour—here he was on
more intelligible ground; and his delighted and
grateful audience was not slow to press on him
another cigar, which was not refused.  Indeed, what
with so much courtesy shown him, and what with
the stimulating influence of the gin and water,
Hobson grew valiant; and began to broach wild
and iconoclastic theories about filthy lucre, and to
describe in dark colours the character of any
one—presumably his own wife—who could be so base as
to take every farthing of her rent, fortnight after
fortnight, from a grand and noble old gentleman
and a beautiful young lady both of whom seemed to
have known better days.

"Do you know how long they are to be away?"
Vincent asked.

"Well, sir, the old gentleman, sir, he says
perhaps two weeks and perhaps three."

"I see you've put up a notice that the rooms are
to be let."

"Yes, sir; but that ain't much use, not for so
short a time, sir."

And here another sudden fancy struck the young man.

"But I know how you can get them let," said he.

"How, sir?"

"You can let them to me."

"Law, sir!"

There was a doubtful look about Hobson's big,
vacuous eyes: being of a poetic and sensitive nature
he did not like jokes, and was suspicious.  However,
the young gentleman, to judge by his manner,
seemed fair and honest and above-board.

"I will take them," said Vincent, "until
Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter come back.  Not
to occupy them myself, you understand; but I
don't want any stranger to be going into these
rooms, you see—that is all."

"How kind, sir—how thoughtful!" Hobson said,
in a pathetic way.  "That it is to have good, kind
friends!"

"And as the rooms are now mine, I suppose I
might go over and look at them—if you will finish
up your tumbler?"

"Certainly, sir, certainly," Hobson said, jumping
to his feet with alacrity, and hastily draining his
glass.  "They're all tidied up, sir, against the
chance of a lodger.  And won't the missus be
surprised!—for the women, sir, the women, you see,
sir, they likes to haggle and bargain, but with
men, sir, begging your pardon, sir, it's a word and
done!"

Indeed he seemed quite proud of the promptitude
with which he had conducted and concluded this
negotiation; and it was with an unusual air of
authority and importance that he led the way
upstairs and showed Vincent into the little parlour,
with which he was already abundantly familiar.
There were few alterations.  The old man's books,
Maisrie's music, and similar personal belongings,
had disappeared; and a hideous purple vase stood
for ornament in the middle of the table.  The
pallid lithographs were still on the walls; Maisrie's
chrysanthemums were out there in the little iron
balcony.

"Would you like to see the rooms upstairs, sir?"

The young man hesitated for a second.

"Oh, very well."

Hobson led the way up to the next landing;
and there the first door he came to he flung wide
open.

"The young lady's room, sir."

But Vincent did not accept the implied invitation.
He hung shamefacedly back.

"Oh, yes, that's all right," said he.  "I—I only
wished to—to have it kept for her."

And yet he lingered for another second at the
door of this chamber—that seemed so sacred—that
seemed to shut him out.  He could see the
dressing-table, the chest of drawers, the neatly
folded bed, the rather dingy window.

"Look here, Hobson," said he, "if I were to get
a few things to make the room a little more
cheerful, I suppose that could be done without
letting Miss Bethune know who sent them?  The
looking-glass there—you know, that is not the right
kind of thing at all; there should be a pretty
mirror on the dressing-table, with some lace round
the top of it——"

Here he ventured in half a step or so, and rather
timidly looked round.

"That one gas-jet can't be half enough, when
Miss Bethune is dressing to go out in the evening,"
he said, complainingly—perhaps to conceal his
incomprehensible diffidence and shyness.  "She
must have candles—one on each side of the mirror,
for example.  And that screen across the window,
why, it is so common!—it ought to be a piece of
pale silk—to let the light through."

He ventured a few inches further, and again
looked round.

"What do you call that thing?—the coverlet—the
counterpane—isn't it?  Well, it shouldn't be
white, and cold, and cheerless like that; it should
be a deep crimson satin—and there should be pretty
things at the head of the bed—loops and bows of
ribbon—my goodness, what is Mrs. Hobson about!—a
young lady's room shouldn't be like a cell in a
prison!"

"Law, sir, I'm very sorry," Hobson said, in a
bewildered way: a crimson satin coverlet sounded
a grand thing; but it also meant a heap of money.

"But come away out and I will talk to you,"
Vincent said, just as if they were in a mysteriously
sacred shrine, where the discussion of business affairs
was a sort of profanation.  Or perhaps he resented
the intrusion of the amiable but gin-odorous
Hobson?  At all events, he did not resume the
conversation until they were both downstairs again
in the parlour.

"You understand, then," he said, and there was
no more timidity about his speech now, "I am
willing to get a number of things for the room,
and to make you and Mrs. Hobson a present of
them, on the distinct condition that Miss Bethune
is kept in absolute ignorance how they came there.
One word to her—and out they come again, every
rag and stick.  Why, you can easily invent
excuses!  You can tell them you took the
opportunity of their absence to brighten up the place
a bit.  It is in your own interest to keep the rooms
smart: it doesn't imply any favour conferred on
your lodgers.  Don't you see?"

"Yes, sir.  Very kind of you, sir, indeed," said
Hobson, who seemed a little confused.  "And what
did you want me to do?"

"Do?  I want you to do nothing: and I want
you to say nothing.  Don't you understand?  I am
going to send in a few things to smarten up that
room; and they are yours so long as not any one of
you hints to Miss Bethune where they came from.
Isn't that simple enough?"

But far less simple was his own part in this
transaction, as he was speedily to discover.  For
when he went outside again, and made away
towards Regent-street, thinking he would go to
a famous shop there, and buy all sorts of pretty
things, it gradually dawned on him that he had
undertaken a task entirely beyond his knowledge.
For example, he could purchase any quantity of
crimson satin; but how or where was he going to
get it made up into a coverlet, or counterpane, or
quilt, or whatever the thing was called?  Then
supposing he had the mirror and the lace, who was
going to put the lace round the top of the mirror?—he
could not do that for himself.  A little set of
ornamental book-shelves he could buy, certainly;
but how was he going to ask for the bows of ribbon,
or the silk drapery, or whatever it was that ought
to adorn the brass rods at the head of the bed?
The more he considered the matter the more clearly
he saw that he must consult a woman, and the only
woman he could consult in confidence was his aunt,
Mrs. Ellison, who had now returned to Brighton.
And perhaps he strove to conceal from himself what
it was that so easily and naturally drew his
thoughts to Brighton; perhaps he was hardly
himself aware how this secret hunger of the soul
was minute by minute and hour by hour increasing
in its demands.  Maisrie had not been so long away;
but already he felt that one brief glimpse of her,
no matter at what distance, would be a priceless
thing.  And then again it would not be breaking
any compact.  He would not seek to go near her,
if there was this understanding that these two were
for the present separated the one from the other.
She would not even know he was in the town.
And surely it would be a new and wonderful
experience to look at Maisrie from afar off, as if
she were a stranger.

So instead of going to Regent-street, he went to
the nearest post-office and telegraphed to
Mrs. Ellison, asking if she could take him in for a day
or two.  Then he walked on home; and by the
time he had reached Grosvenor Place, the answer
was there awaiting him; he was to go down at
once.  He put a few things in his bag; jumped
into a hansom and drove to Victoria-station; caught
the four-thirty train; and eventually arrived at
Brunswick Terrace about six.  He guessed that his
aunt's afternoon visitors would be gone; and he
would have ample opportunity of a long talk with
her before dinner.

His anticipations proved correct.  When he was
shown into the big drawing-room—which looked
very snug and warm amid its magnificence—he
found the tall and bright-eyed young widow in sole
possession; and she came forward to welcome him
with great complaisance.

"Very sensible of you, Vin.  You know I can
always make room for you, no matter who is in the
house."

"If I had gone to a hotel, aunt, you would have
made an awful row; and I don't want to quarrel
with you just at present: the fact is, I have come
to you for advice and help," said he.  "But first—my
congratulations!  I was hardly surprised when
I got your letter; and I am sure no one can wish
you more happiness than I do——"

"Oh, be quiet," she said; and she took a seat
at a little distance from the fire, by the side of a
small table, and put a fan between her eyes and the
crimson-shaded lamp.  "Congratulations?  Well,
I suppose there are no fools like old fools.  But if
grown-up people will play at being children, and
amuse themselves by writing things in the sand—did
I tell you how it all happened?—they must take
the consequences.  And I, who used to be so
content!  Haven't I often told you?  Perhaps I
boasted too much——"

"Oh, yes, pretend you regret it!" said he.  "And
you talk of your being so old—you!—why, what girl
of all your acquaintance has half your life and spirit,
or half your good looks, either——"

"Vincent Harris," said she, and she turned round
and faced him, "what do you want?"

He laughed.

"It is a very simple matter, aunt."

And then he began to tell her of the little
predicament in which he was placed; and to beseech
her help.  Would she come and choose the things
for him?  There were plenty of bric-à-brac shops in
Brighton: she would know what was most appropriate:
her own house was evidence of her taste.
But his ingenuous flattery was of no avail.
Mrs. Ellison's face grew more and more serious, until at
length she exclaimed—

"Why, Vin, this is the very madness of infatuation!
And I had been hoping for far other things.
I had imagined from the tone of your last letter
that perhaps there might be a change—that your
eyes had been opened at last.  So this is going on
just the same as ever?"

"It is going on, as you call it, aunt; and is likely
to go on—so long as I live."

"Then I, for one, wish to have nothing to do with
it," she said, sharply.  "And this last proposal is
really too audacious.  What business have you with
that girl's room?—what right have you to go
into it?"

He was rather taken aback—for a moment.

"Business?—oh, none of course.  None whatever—that
is to say—oh, yes, I have, though!—I
have a perfect right to go into it.  The room is not
hers.  It is mine.  I have paid for it.  When she
comes back it will be hers; and where is the harm
of her finding it a little prettier?—that is all."

"I must say, Vin," she continued, in a very
reserved fashion, "that the infatuation of a young
man may excuse a good deal; but this is a little—a
little too much.  Do you consider it quite nice—quite
becoming?  A satin counterpane!  I wonder what
the girl would think herself—if she has any
refinement of feeling—if she has any delicacy—"

His face grew very pale.

"'If she has any refinement of feeling—if she has
any delicacy,'" he repeated.

Then he rose.

"It is useless to say anything further, aunt;
there is an end this time."

But she had risen too.  He tried to pass her—and
failed; nay, she went to the door, and stood
with her back against it, and faced him.

"No, you shall not go," she said.  "Why should
there be any dissension?  You are my own dear
boy; I would do anything for you—except in this
one direction——"

"Except in this one direction!" he repeated, scornfully.

"Why cannot we remain friends," she said, with
appealing eyes, "good and true friends—and agree
to leave this one subject alone?"

"This one subject—that is my life!" he said,
vehemently.  "What folly you talk!  You wish to
cut away the very thing I live for; the very thing
that is my life; and to continue your friendship
with what remains—a senseless stick or stone!
And why?  Because of your insensate prejudice,
your cruel and baseless suspicions.  Why do you
talk to me as if I were a boy?  I have seen twice
as much of the world as you have; I have had
better opportunities of learning how to judge
strangers.  But you—you live in a narrow groove—you
have your maid to talk to—your acquaintances
to call in the afternoon—your friends to dinner—and
what besides?  That is your world.  What do
you know of the human beings outside it?  Must
they all be dishonest—because they have not been
heard of by your handful of a set?  Must they all
be thieves and swindlers—because they are not in
the Court Directory?  But it is little matter.  If
this subject is debarred, then all is debarred, as
between you and me.  You can go your own way,
and I mine.  I did expect, now that you have your
own happiness secured, you might show some little
generosity, some little sympathy; but I see it is
different; and I will not allow one who is dearer to
me than all the world to be treated with such
enmity, while I am supposed to stand by and accept
it as a natural condition of affairs.  I do not; I
have had enough; and so here is an end, as between
you and me; and I hope you will have more happiness
than you seem to wish for other people."

Well, Mrs. Ellison was not used to giving way;
but she was very fond of this proud and handsome
boy; and she gave just one sob, and tears gathered
in her eyes.

"You are not very kind, Vin," she said.

And what marvellous thing was this that
instantaneously smote his heart?  Why, Maisrie had
made use of this very expression on the preceding
afternoon!  And all of a sudden he seemed to
recognise that his adversary here was a woman; she
was akin to his beloved—and therefore to be treated
gently; Maisrie's voice and eyes seemed to be
pleading for her: surely that was enough?  He
hesitated for a moment: then he said—

"Very well; let it be as you wish.  We shall see
how we get on, with the one thing that is of more
importance to me than anything else shut out from
mention.  But I must say this to you, aunt: I do
not see I am doing anything that the most fastidious
person can object to if I put a few pretty things into
the room of the girl who is to be my wife."

"How do you know that she is to be your wife,
Vin?" she said, rather sadly.

"I know," he made answer.

"My poor boy!" she said; and then she took
him by the hand and led him back to the little table
at which they had been sitting; and there they had
some further conversation about more or less
indifferent things, with the one all-important subject
carefully avoided.  And then it was time for them
to go away and dress for dinner.

Lord Musselburgh dined with them that evening,
and remained some time after the other guests had
gone.  To Vincent it seemed a puzzling thing that
two betrothed people should make so merry.  They
appeared so well content with their present estate;
they were so assured as to the future; no anxieties;
no conflicting hopes and fears; they were in the
happiest mood.  Next morning, too, Lord Musselburgh
again made his appearance; and the three of
them went out for a stroll along the promenade.
All the world was shining fair and clear;
Mrs. Ellison was looking her best, and seemed to know
it; her fiancé was in a gay humour.  Why, they
were almost like the 'lover and his lass' of whom
Thomas Morley sang nigh three hundred years
ago—those 'pretty country folks' who lived in a
perpetual spring-time, with birds singing
hey-ding-a-ding-a-ding to them through all the jocund hours.
The tall and elegant young widow blushed and
laughed like a maid; her eyes were sarcastic,
playful, amused, according to her varying mood;
the sunlight touched her pretty brown hair.  There
was, indeed, a sort of audacity of comeliness about
her, that set Vincent thinking of a very different
kind of beauty—the beauty that seems to be dowered
with a divine and angelic sadness.  He was walking
with these two; but he did not take part in their
frolic talk; nor did he pay much attention to the
crowd of people, the butterflies of fashion, who had
come out into the pleasant sunshine.  He seemed
to see before him a face that, with all its youth, and
its touch of colour, and its grace of outline, was
strangely pensive and wistful.  And again he asked
himself, as many a time he had asked himself, what
that expression meant: whether it had been brought
there by experience of the many vicissitudes of life,
or by loneliness, or whether it was not something
more tragic still—the shadow of an impending fate.
There was more than that he could not understand:
her curious resignation, her hopelessness as to the
future, her wish to get away.  And what was it she
had concealed from him?  And why had she declared
she could not ever be his wife?

"You are very silent, Vin," his fair neighbour
said, turning her merry eyes towards him at last.
"Here is Lord Musselburgh declaring that if he
were a Jew he would turn dentist, to have it out
with the Christians for what they did in the Middle
Ages.  A horrid revenge, wouldn't it be?—and so
mean—under pretence of affording relief.  Oh, look
at that girl over there—I do believe the ruff is
coming back—we shall all be Elizabethans by-and-by."

"But what business had women ever with ruffs?"
Lord Musselburgh interposed.  "Why, when the
dandies and bucks of Henry VIII.'s time began to
make themselves splendid by puffing themselves
out round the neck, of course it was in imitation of
the stag—as the stag becomes when he is supposed
to captivate the fancy of the hinds; but you don't
find the hinds with any similar adornments.  Such
things are proper to males: why should women try
to look magnificent round the back of the neck?
Why should a hen covet a cockscomb?  It's all
wrong—it's against natural laws."

"Natural laws in a milliner's shop!" she said.
"Oh, do look at those two Italian girls; what
English peasant-girl could choose colour like that?
I *should* like to speak to them—for a moment."

Lord Musselburgh did not seem inclined to interfere.

"I dare say they may have been long enough
in England," said he, "to have picked up a little
of the Italian that English ladies speak.  You may
try them."

But she refrained; for at this moment one of
the girls began to play a few bars of *Funiculi-funicula*
evidently as an introduction to the singing
of her companion; whereupon Lord Musselburgh
proposed that Mrs. Ellison should cross over to look
at the windows of one or two jewellers' shops—in
which both of them happened to be much interested
just at this time.

The morning went by, and Vincent had caught
no glimpse of Maisrie Bethune or her grandfather;
but indeed he had not expected that; the old man
would be busy with his books, and it was not likely
that Maisrie would come wandering by herself
through this fashionable throng.  When at last the
three friends got back to Brunswick Terrace, it was
close on luncheon-time; though here Mrs. Ellison
was much surprised to learn that Lord Musselburgh
had engaged Vincent to lunch with him at the
Bedford Hotel.

"What's the matter?" said she.  "Business or
billiards?"

"Neither," her fiancé made answer, "I only
wanted to give you a little holiday, for an hour or
two."

"Not longer, then," she said.  "For I am going
out driving at three, and I shall expect you both."

Soon the two young men were seated at a little
window-table in the spacious and cheerful
coffee-room; and again Vincent was struck by the
eminently practical manner in which his companion
spoke of his forthcoming marriage.  It was going
to be, he frankly intimated, a very useful
arrangement for both Mrs. Ellison and himself; and their
combined fortunes would enable them to do what
hitherto had been impossible for either of them.
Mrs. Ellison was fond of society; he had always
looked forward to the formation of a political salon
when once he got married; and now he thought he
could afford to have a much bigger house, which
would be necessary for that purpose, than his present
one in Piccadilly.  Then there were speculations as
to whether he, Musselburgh, ought to accept office—some
subsidiary office, of course, as befitting his
years—when his party came into power again: you
see, Vin Harris was being consulted now as if he
were a friend of the family.  But as for Vincent's
own affairs—not a word: Lord Musselburgh had
received a hint; and he was discretion itself.

And yet if ever in his life the younger of those
two friends had need of a confidant, it was that
afternoon; for something then happened that seemed
to strike at the very roots of his being.  When it
was about time for them to go along to keep their
appointment with Mrs. Ellison, Vincent was
standing in the hall of the hotel, waiting for Lord
Musselburgh, who had momentarily gone upstairs;
and he was idly looking out upon the passing crowd.
Idly and absently; there was no one there to
interest him; very different it would be (he was
saying to himself) towards six or seven o'clock,
when perhaps Maisrie and her grandfather would
come out for a stroll before going to dine at one of
the restaurants.  At present he had no sort of
concern with all those people who went driving and
walking past, in the dull wintry sunshine.  It was
a pretty show; and that was all.

But of a sudden his heart stood still; and his
startled vision beheld what seemed incredible, and
yet was there, and actual, and beyond any doubt.
Ere he was aware, a vehicle had driven by—a tall
dog-cart, with two figures in front and one behind;
but another glance revealed to him that the one
behind was old George Bethune: who could mistake
at any distance the powerful and striking head, the
shaggy eyebrows, the flowing white hair?  And the
two in front?—one was a young man, to Vincent
unknown: the other—a terrible misgiving told him
that was Maisrie, though they were now some way
off.  What did it all mean?  He had never heard
of their knowing anyone in Brighton.  They had
come down for seclusion, for work; yet here they
were in the midst of the fashionable crowd; and a
young man—a stranger—was making ostentatious
display of his acquaintance with them.  A thousand
wild surmises, the offspring of a very madness of
jealousy, sprang into his brain.  Why had the old
man so clearly intimated to him that he was not
wanted—that they wished to go to Brighton by
themselves?  And who was this person who was
making such open parade of his intimacy with
them?  Alas! there was no answer to these burning
and bewildering questions; and he stood there
breathless, alarmed, yet not daring to ask the cause
of his alarm.

Lord Musselburgh came along the hall.

"Sorry to have kept you waiting, Vin——"

"Oh, don't mind that," the young man said,
striving to conceal his agitation.  "The fact is—I—I
don't think I will go driving this afternoon:
will you make my excuses to my aunt——?"

"What's the matter?" said Musselburgh, regarding
him.  "You look as if you had seen a ghost or
a creditor: what is it, man?"

"Never mind—never mind—it is nothing," Vin
said, hastily.  "I will see you later on.  Will you
make my excuses—thanks!"

The hall porter swung the door open; and before
his astonished companion could remonstrate, he had
passed out and down the stone steps.  He crossed
over, to lose himself in the throng on the opposite
promenade.  The dog-cart would be coming by
again: he would see who this new friend was.
Could he not hide somewhere?——he felt like a
spy, like a traitor, with all those dire imaginings
surging through his brain.  And sudden wrath,
too: he would demand to know by what right any
stranger was allowed to make Maisrie Bethune so
conspicuous.  Why, it was too public!—it was a
boast; and hardly decent, either; ought not respect
for age and white hair to have placed the old man
in front, instead of inviting all the world to witness
the flattering of a young girl?  And as for Maisrie—well,
even in his wildest and blackest surmises he
could think no serious harm of Maisrie; but she was
too yielding; she was too generous with her favours;
she ought to make distinctions; she ought not to
permit this great, idle crowd to draw false
conclusions.  It was ill done of her—behind his back:
had she so soon forgotten that he had pledged his
life to her not so very many hours ago?

By-and-bye he knew rather than saw that they
were returning.  He was on the seaward side of the
road; there were a good many people passing to
and fro; moreover, he was partly concealed by an
open fly that stood close to the railings.  The tall
dog-cart came swiftly along: an unprejudiced
spectator would have said that the young man
who was driving was rather a good-looking young
fellow, of the pink and white type, with a small
yellow moustache carefully waxed at the ends, and
clear grey eyes.  He wore a buff-coloured coat, with
a velvet collar of similar hue; he had a flower in
his button-hole.  Then, again, his turn-out was
faultless—a neatly-appointed cart—a beautiful,
high-stepping roan.  All this was visible at a
glance.

But it was on Maisrie Bethune that Vincent's
gaze was bent; and as she drew near, his heart was
smitten at once with remorse and with gratitude.
Had he expected, then, that she would be smirking
and smiling and coquetting with this new acquaintance?
On the contrary, Maisrie sate there grave
and silent and reserved; her eyes were neither
observant nor conscious: once or twice they were
turned towards the sea.  To Vincent she seemed so
distinguished-looking, so refined, and noble, and
self-possessed, as contrasted with that
fresh-complexioned country clown who had the monstrous
audacity to claim her as his companion!  Then, as
the dog-cart went by, he caught sight of George
Bethune.  He was sitting rather side-ways, to
permit of his addressing an occasional remark to the
young gentleman who was driving: no doubt that
was why Maisrie was allowed to remain silent.
Perhaps she was thinking—of someone whom she
thought to be far away——?

Strangely enough, as soon as they had disappeared
from view, his doubts and imaginings grew black
again.  For a moment, that vision of Maisrie's
sweet face had charmed him out of himself; but
now these hideous questions rushed back upon him,
demanding an answer where there was no answer.
He did not attempt to reason himself out of this
paroxysm of jealousy; that would have been
useless; he could but submit to this gnawing torture
of anxiety and suspense, while walking up and down,
and waiting, and fearing to find them coming within
sight once more.

They did not return.  Shortly after four the dusk
began to fall; by half-past five black night had
enveloped sky and sea, and the town was all ablaze
with golden stars.  There were hardly any carriages
now; the people had betaken themselves to the
other side of the road, to look in at the glaring
shop-windows on their way home.  Vincent found
himself more alone than ever; and knew not what
to do or which way to turn.  In his present frame
of mind he dared not go near the house in Brunswick
Terrace; he could not submit to cross-examining
eyes.  It would drive him mad to talk, while those
rankling conjectures were busy at his heart.  He
wanted to see Maisrie again; and yet dreaded to
see her, lest he should find her once more in the
society of that man.

But about half-past six his aimless perambulation
of the streets became circumscribed.  He drew
nearer to the neighbourhood of the restaurants.
If old George Bethune had brought his London
habits down with him, as many people did, would
not he soon make his appearance, along with his
granddaughter?  Here in East-street, for example,
were *cafés*, both French and Italian, where they
could have a foreign dinner if they chose.  Would
he venture to address them?  Would he confess he
had seen them driving—in the hope they might
volunteer information for which he dared not ask?
He could not tell; his brain was in a bewilderment
of anxiety and unreasoning misery; and this grew
worse, indeed, as the slow minutes went by, and
there was no sign of the two figures for whom he
was so eagerly watching.

And then a sickening thought occurred to him.
What if those two had been invited to dine at a
hotel by the country clod—by the young man from
the plough—by the rustic dandy with the velvet
collar?  At the Old Ship, most likely—a private
room—a profusion of flowers—plenty of champagne—Hodge
Junior gay and festive—cigarettes between
the courses—Arry having learnt so much from the
cheap society journals; and will not Miss Bethune
be persuaded to join?  Ah, well, perhaps after
dinner, when the liqueurs come to be handed round?
There is a piano in the room: will Miss Bethune
oblige with an accompaniment?—here is a smart
little thing—"Kiss me on the sly, Johnnie!"—the
latest draw at the music halls....

Seven by the big clock over the stationer's shop;
and still no sign of them.  Clearly they were not
coming to any restaurant hereabouts.  So at length
he left East Street, and went down to the King's-road,
and wandered slowly along, glancing furtively
into this or that hotel—especially where some
coffee-room window happened to have been left
with the blind up.  It was a vain quest, and he
was aware of it; but something, he knew not what,
drew him on.  And meanwhile his mind was busy
with pictures—of a private room, and flowers, and
three figures seated at table.  *Ach weh! mein
Liebchen war die Braut!*

At a quarter to eight, Lord Musselburgh was
shown into Mrs. Ellison's drawing-room.

"Haven't you seen anything of Vin?" she said,
with astonished eyes.

"No—nor you?"

"Nothing at all—and now he won't have time to
dress for dinner."

"I shouldn't wonder if he did not turn up
for dinner," Musselburgh said.  "Something very
peculiar happened to him to-day—I could not
precisely gather what—but he was obviously upset."

"Yes," said Mrs. Ellison, and her face was graver
than its wont.  "Something has indeed happened
to him to-day—though he himself is not aware of
it as yet."

She went to a little cabinet, and took from it
two letters.

"I thought you ought to see both of these," said
she.  "One is from my brother-in-law; I got it
just a minute or two after you left.  The other is
my answer; I will have it posted as soon as you
have read it."

He took the first letter, which was from Vincent's
father, and read it carefully through, without a
word of comment.  Then he took the other, which
ran as follows:—

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

   "DEAR HARLAND,

.. vspace:: 1

"It is very terrible; but I half suspected
as much; and terrible as it is there is nothing to
be done but to tell Vin the whole truth, and at
once.  Telegraph for him to-morrow morning—on
business of importance; if he wants to come down
again, I shall be ready with such consolation as I
can think of.  I fancy from one or two things that
those people are here in Brighton just now: all the
more reason why you should summon him home at
once.  Poor boy, it will be a sad awakening.  But
he is young; he will get over it; and perhaps be
none the worse in the end for this cruel experience
of the deceit and wickedness of the world.  Let me
know how he takes it.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

"Yours affectionately,
    "MADGE."

.. vspace:: 2

No, Vincent did not come in to dinner that
evening.  He was still walking up and down the
King's-road, glancing now and again, but with a sort of
hopelessness, at any little group of people that
might appear at the hall-door of this or that hotel;
and all the while there was a fire eating at his
heart.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PUT TO THE PROOF`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium

   PUT TO THE PROOF.

.. vspace:: 2

To say that Vin Harris's jealousy was unreasoning,
ungovernable, and the cause of cruel and incessant
torture to himself, is merely to say that it was
jealousy; but by an unhappy coincidence this was
the very moment chosen by his father to make a
disclosure which, for a startled second or so, seemed
to recall and confirm the young man's wildest
suspicions.  When Vincent, in obedience to the
telegraphic summons, arrived at the house in
Grosvenor Place, he found his father in the library,
standing with his back to the fire.  On this occasion
the great capital-denouncing capitalist did not wear
the suit of hodden grey which, at dinner in his own
house, was designed to show his contempt for
conventionality; no; when this interview was over,
he meant to lunch at the Athenæum Club, and with
a view to that solemn rite he had donned a black
frock-coat which was tightly buttoned over his
substantial form.  A stiff upstanding collar and
a satin tie added to the rigidity of his appearance;
while his manner was, as usual, pompous and cold.
With a roll of paper in his hand, he would have
looked as if he were going to deliver an afternoon
lecture at some public institution.

"I have sent for you, Vin," he began, "because
I have something of importance to say to you, and
the sooner it is said the better.  You are aware that
I have never sought to interfere with your way of
life.  Indeed I have seen no cause to do so.  Your
line of study I approve; your ambitions I would
encourage; and as for the amusements and pleasures
natural to your years, I can trust you to remember
your own self-respect.  But in one direction I
confess I am disappointed.  My chief aim in your
education has been that you should see and know
the world; that you should understand men; and
by contact learn to cope with them, and hold your
own.  Yes, I confess I am disappointed; for if I am
not misinformed—and I have taken the greatest
trouble not to be misinformed—here are you, after
all your travel and experience of the world, become
the dupe of two common begging-letter impostors."

The young man looked up quickly; but he
held his peace.  Now this somewhat disconcerted
Harland Harris, for he had expected an instant and
indignant protest, which would have justified a little
judicious warmth on his side in production of proofs.
But Vincent sate calm and collected, listening with
apparent respect.

"Yes, deeply disappointed," his father continued,
with a little more animation, "for this old charlatan
who seems to have got hold of you is altogether too
bare-faced and preposterous.  Did you ever ask
yourself how he lived; what was his business or
profession; where he got the money to go from one
country to another?  Well, if you have not, I have;
I have made enquiries; I have had him traced; I
can tell you his story, and a very pretty story it is.
Would you like to hear it?"

"I don't know that it concerns me much," said
Vincent, with composure.

"Oh, it does not?" said the gentleman with the
pompous professional air, upon whom this indifference
seemed to have a somewhat irritating effect.  "Well,
there's nothing very grand about it—except the
magnificent and wholesale lying!  And perhaps also
the incredible simplicity of the people who allowed
themselves to be imposed on.  Why, in Canada he
called himself Lord Bethune!—was there no
second-hand copy of Burke anywhere about to show them
there was no such peerage in existence?  Lord
Bethune haunting newspaper-offices, and borrowing
money right and left, because of his Scotch name,
and his bogus literary schemes!  His sham
estates—his sham lineage—his sham coat of arms: did
nobody think of turning up a book?  'Stand Fast,
Craig-Royston!'  Craig-Royston!——"

He crossed the room and took down a volume
from one of the shelves.

"There," he said, putting the book on the table,
"there is Black's Guide to Scotland.  Can you find
out where Craig-Royston is?  Turn up the index."

Mechanically and carelessly Vincent did as he
was bid.

"No, I don't see it there," he said.

"I should think not!  Nor Balloray either: can
you find Balloray?  An easy thing to claim estates
that don't exist; and wear armorial bearings of your
own invention!  Cadzow—oh, yes, Cadzow you will
find—Cadzow undoubtedly exists; but most people
thought that Cadzow belonged to the Duke of
Hamilton.  Or does Lord Bethune claim to be
Marquis of Douglas and Earl of Angus as well?"

He paused; so Vincent was bound to answer.

"I don't know that it concerns me much," the
young man said, repeating his former phrase.
"Even if all you say is true, what then?  You
sent me out to see the world, and take people as
I found them.  Well, I found a good many liars;
and one more or less doesn't matter much, does it?"

But Harland Harris was no fool; he instantly
divined wherein lay the secret of Vincent's real or
assumed indifference.

"Ah, I understand," said he.  "I understand.
You don't care so much about him.  You are willing
to let him go.  You think you can dissociate him
from his granddaughter.  He may be a swindler—but
you fancy she manages to keep aloof—"

The young man grew somewhat pale.

"Take care," said he, and he held up his hand as
if he would enjoin silence.  "Words that are said
cannot be unsaid."

His father regarded him for a second, and then
he endeavoured to bring a little more friendliness
and consideration into his manner.

"I have heard of this infatuation," he said.
"And if you had been like other young men, Vin,
I should have said nothing.  I should have left you
to find out for yourself.  But, you see, you have
the misfortune to imagine other people to be as
straightforward and honourable as yourself; you
do not suspect; and you are inclined to trust your
own judgment.  But even if this girl were all you
think she is, what madness it would be for you to
contemplate marrying her!  Look at her position—and
at yours: look at her upbringing and present
surroundings—and at yours; think of what is
expected of you; what chances you have; what an
alliance with a great family might do for you in
public life.  What good ever comes of overleaping
social barriers—of Quixotism—of self-sacrifice for
sentiment's sake?  What does a marriage between
two people in different spheres mean?—what is the
inevitable result?—it is not the one that is
raised—it is the other that is dragged down."

"These are strange doctrines for a socialist and a
communist," Vincent observed.

"They are the doctrines of common sense," his
father retorted, sharply.  "However, it is unnecessary
to say anything further on that score.  You
will abandon all this nonsense when you understand
who and what this girl is; and you will thank God
you have had your eyes opened in time.  And
indeed, if all that I am told is true—if I guess
aright—if I piece the story properly together—I
should say she was by far the more dangerous of
the two accomplices—"

Vincent's lips curled: he did not put his disdain
into words.

"A painful revelation?" his father continued, in
more oracular fashion.  "Oh, yes, no doubt.  But
occasionally the truth is bitter and wholesome at
the same time.  What you believe about the girl
is one thing; what I know about her is another:
indeed I can gather that it was only through her
artifice that the old man's impostures were accepted,
or tolerated, at all.  What is he?—a farceur—a
poseur—who would at once have been sent to the
right about but for the ingenue by his side, with
her innocent eyes and her sad look.  When the
writer of the begging-letter calls, his story might
be inquired into: but no!—for here is this interesting
young lady—and the hardest heart declines to
cross-examine while she is standing there.  And of
course she must go to the newspaper-offices, to
beguile the editor with her silent distress, while
her grandfather is wheedling him out of a loan; or
she accompanies him to the wine merchant, or the
bookseller, or the tailor, so that nothing can be said
about unpaid accounts while she is by; and of
course there is a renewal of credit.  A very simple
and effective trick: even where the people know
the old man to be a rogue, they are sorry for the
girl; and they have a pleasing sense of virtue in
allowing themselves to be further mulcted: they
little suspect that she is by far the more
accomplished swindler of the two——"

Here Vincent laughed, in open scorn; but the
laugh was a forced one; and his eyes were lowering.

"I am glad you consider it a laughing matter,"
said Mr. Harris—who found it less easy to combat
this contemptuous unbelief than if he had been met
with indignation and wrath.  "Perhaps, after all,
the story is no revelation?  Perhaps your
complaisance goes further than merely tolerating the
old man's lies?  Perhaps the glamour the girl has
thrown over you would lead you to accept her just
as she is, her hypocrisy, her craft, and all?  Or
perhaps you have planned out for yourself a still
more brilliant future than any that had occurred to
your friends?  Perhaps you aim at being the old
man's successor?  It is an easy way of getting
through life, having a woman like that by your
side, to earn your living for you.  The lover of
Manon Lescaut——"

Vincent leapt to his feet, his eyes aflame.

"You go too far," he said, breathing hard.
"You go too far.  I have been trying to remember
you are my father: don't make it too difficult.
What do I care about this farrago of nonsense that
some one has put into your head—this trash—this
venomous guessing?  It is nothing to me.  It is
idle air.  I know otherwise.  But when it comes to
insult—well, it is all an insult; but something must
be forgiven to ignorance: the people who have
supplied you with this guess-work rubbish are
probably as ignorant as yourself about those two.
Only—no more insults, if you please!  I am your
son; but—but there are limits to what you ask me
to hear in patience.  You talk of my madness and
infatuation; it is your madness, your infatuation!
What can you say of your own knowledge of that
old man and his granddaughter?  Why, nothing.
You have never spoken to them; never seen them.
And yet, without an atom of inquiry, without an
atom of proof, you go and accept all this tissue of
guess-work—this rubbish—this trash—as if it were
gospel; and you expect me to give it a patient
hearing?  It is too contemptible!"

"Yes, but unfortunately," said Mr. Harris, with
great calmness—for now he felt he had the
advantage on his side, "you are mistaken in
supposing that I have made no inquiry, and have
received no proof.  The inquiry has been made for
me with great skill and patience, during the past
month; and the proofs seem to me sufficient.
Proofs?—you yourself shall furnish one."

This was a kind of challenge; and the young
man accepted it.  His eyes were fixed on his
adversary.

"What, then?"

"When you find," said his father, with deliberation,
"two people wandering from town to town,
without any visible means of subsistence, you
naturally wonder how they manage to live.  Very
well.  But now, if you discover they have a pretty
knack of falling in with this or that rich young
gentleman, and allowing him to pay for them on
all occasions, isn't the mystery partly solved?  I
am informed that these two people and yourself
have been in the habit for a considerable time back
of dining together in the evening—indeed, I have
the name of the restaurant.  Now I wish to ask you
this question point-blank: is it not the fact that in
every case you have paid?"

Vincent did not answer; he was not thinking of
himself at all; nor yet of the direct question that
had been put to him.  A terrible wave of bewilderment
had passed over him; his heart seemed to
have within it but one sudden
cry—'Maisrie—Maisrie—why were you driving—with that
stranger?'—and all the world grew black with a
horror of doubt and despair.  He thought of the
young man driving along the King's Road in
Brighton: was there another paying for those two
now?—had they another friend now to accompany
them every evening?  And Maisrie?  But all
this wild agony lasted only a moment.  He cast
this palsy of the brain behind him.  His better
self rose confident and triumphant—though there
was still a strange look left in his eyes.

"Paid?" he said, with a kind of scornful
impatience.  "Who paid?  Oh, I did—mostly.
What about that?  That is nothing—a few
shillings—I found it pleasanter not to have to
settle bills before a young lady; and of course she
did not know who paid; I made an arrangement——"

"An arrangement by which you gave those
people their dinner for nothing for months and
months!"

"And what then?"

For Vincent had entirely recovered his
self-command: he affected to regard this story that
had been told him as quite unworthy of serious
attention.  It was his father who was growing
exasperated.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" Mr. Harris
demanded.  "Is it nothing that you yourself
have shown this old man to be a pauper,
getting his dinner on charity every evening?
And what better was the girl?  She must have
known!  Do you imagine she was not aware of
his receiving money for bogus books that he never
meant to publish; and of his inveigling soft-headed
Scotchmen—I suppose there must be one here
and there—into giving him a loan because of his
sham patriotism?  And these are the people you
have chosen to consort with all this time; and this
is the girl you would bring into your family—you
would introduce to your friends as your wife!  But
you cannot be so mad!  You may pretend
indifference: you cannot be indifferent.  You may
consider it fine and heroic to disbelieve the clearest
evidence: the world, on the other hand, is apt to
say that it is only a fool and an idiot who keeps his
eyes shut and walks into a trap blindfolded.
And—and I do think, when you begin to reflect, that
your own common-sense will come to your aid."

He turned to the mantel-piece, and took from it
some papers.

"I have given you," he continued, "the sum and
substance of the enquiries I have made, in this
country and in America.  I can show you here
still further details; but before allowing you to
examine these communications, I must exact a
promise that they shall be treated as in strictest
confidence."

"Thank you," said Vincent, "I will not trouble
you.  I can guess at the kind of creature who
would accept such a task, and at his interpretation
of any facts that might come across him."

Then he rose.

"And is this the important business on which
you sent for me?" he asked, but quite civilly.

"You do not think it is important?" the other
demanded.  "But at least you have been warned.
You have been advised to keep your eyes open.
You have been shown what kind of people they
are who have got hold of you: it is for you
yourself to say whether you will be any longer their
dupe."

"Very well," said the young man; and he rose
and took up his hat and cane.  "Oh, by the way,
I presume you have come to an end of your
enquiries?  Because, if not, I would advise your
spy—your detective, or whatever he is—not to
come prowling to any restaurant or keyhole when
I am along with my friends, or he might find
things become very unpleasant for him.  Good-morning!"

So this was the end of the interview; and
Harland Harris shortly thereafter made off for
the Athenæum Club, well satisfied that his
narrative had produced a far deeper impression than
the young man would acknowledge.  And in truth
it had.  When Vincent left the house, and walked
away to the solitary little rooms in Mayfair, his
face was no longer scornful; it was serious and
troubled; for there was much for him to ponder
over.  Not about Maisrie.  He put Maisrie aside.
For one thing, he was a little vexed and angry
with her at the moment—quite unreasonably, as
he strove to convince himself; nevertheless, he
would rather not think about her just then; and,
indeed, there was no occasion, for the idea that she
could be the participator in any fraud or series of
frauds was simply not a thinkable thing.  He
knew better than that; and was content.  Maisrie
driving with a stranger—perhaps that was not so
well done of her; but Maisrie as a skilful and
accomplished professional swindler?—then you might
expect to see the stars fall from their places in the
midnight sky.

But as regards the old man, that was very
different; and he could not deny that there were
certain points in the story just told him which were
corroborated by his own knowledge.  He knew, for
example, that George Bethune had got money for
one book which, as circumstances would have it,
was not produced and published; he knew that
those dinners at the Restaurant were paid for by
himself; he knew that he had heard Mr. Bethune
speak of Cadzow as belonging to his family; and he
had to confess that he could not find Craig-Royston
in the index of his father's guide-book.  And yet he
could not give up this magnificent, this heroic old
man all at once.  He could not believe him to be
a mean and crafty trickster.  Surely his love for
Scotland was sincere.  Surely his passionate
admiration of the old Scotch ballads was genuine enough.
Surely it was not to impose on any one that old
George Bethune sang aloud the songs of his youth as
he walked through the crowded streets of London.
There was a grandeur in his very presence, a dignity
in his demeanour, that was far from the artful
complaisance of a schemer.  Then his undaunted
courage—his proud spirit—and above all, the
tender and affectionate guardianship he bestowed
on his granddaughter: Vincent could not forget all
these things.  No, nor could he forget how he had
enjoyed George Bethune's society on these many
and pleasant evenings; and how he had learned
more and more to respect him, his unflinching
fortitude, his generous enthusiasms, and even, at times,
his innocent vanity.  He had had a hard life, this
old man, and yet he bore no enmity.  He had had
many trials and misfortunes, many hopes
disappointed; yet his temper was not soured.  But the
conclusive proof, after all, was the character of
Maisrie herself—her noble sweetness, her refinement,
her sympathy, her quick gratitude for the smallest
of kindnesses: could such a beautiful human flower
have grown up under the fostering care of an
unscrupulous vagabond and knave?

When he got to his rooms, the first thing he did—but
with no very definite purpose——was to take up
his copy of Black's Guide to Scotland.  It was a
recent edition; he had got it so that he might trace
out that long wandering of which old George Bethune
and Maisrie had spoken so often.  And mechanically
he turned to the index—with which he had been
confronted in his father's library; and mechanically
he glanced at the successive columns.  But what was
this?—why here was Craig-Royston!  His eyes were
not deceiving him; for he at once referred to the
page indicated, and found Craig-Royston described
as a district in the neighbourhood of Loch
Lomond—though, to be sure, he could discover no trace of
it on the map.  So he had jumped to conclusions all
too prematurely?  He had allowed that unknown
enemy of his—that dark and malignant creature in
the background—too facile a triumph?  He began
to be ashamed of himself.  'Stand fast, Craig-Royston!'
had not been his motto, as it was that
of the proud old man whom he had injured by
listening to those childish tales.

He returned to the index, and sought for Balloray.
Well, there was no Balloray; but then Balloray
was a private house; and private houses, unless of
historical interest, are seldom mentioned in
guide-books.  And then again he bethought him: why,
the old ballad!—the 'bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray':
surely that was sufficient evidence of there being
such a place?  He could almost hear George
Bethune's voice as he recalled the opening lines—

   |  'There were twa sisters lived in a bower;
   |    Balloray, O Balloray;
   |  The youngest o' them, O she was a flower!
   |    By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.

   |  There came a squire frae out the west,
   |    Balloray, O Balloray;
   |  He lo'ed them baith, but the youngest best,
   |    By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.'

"Why, what a fool he had been, to be disconcerted
by an index—and that the index of some old and
obsolete edition!  He prosecuted his researches.
He turned to Cadzow.  Yes, here was Cadzow:
Cadzow Castle and Cadzow Forest; and undoubtedly
these were the property of the Duke of Hamilton.
But might there not be some other property of
the same name, as a sort of appanage of Balloray?
It was no unusual thing, in Scotland or anywhere
else, for two places to have the same name; and in
this instance it was the more important one, the
ducal one, that would naturally figure in the
guide-book.  He seemed to see old George Bethune
regarding him, with something of a haughty look
on his face, as though he would say 'Of what next
will you accuse me?'"

Well, all this was very fine and brave; it was a
manful struggling with certain phantoms; and he
was trying to cheat himself into an elation of
confidence.  But ever and anon there came to him a
consciousness of something behind; something
inexplicable; and his thoughts would wander away
back to Brighton.  Fugitive lines of that terrible
poem of Heine's would come into his brain—*Zu
Tafel sassen froh die Gäst' ... und wie ich nacht dem
Brautpaar schaut' ... O weh! mein Liebchen war
die Braut*.  He began to imagine for himself what
those three had been doing this morning.  The
weather being so fine, no doubt Mr. Bethune had
laid aside his books for the time being; and he and
Maisrie would be ready to go out by half-past ten or
eleven.  Would their new friend call for them, or
would there be some place of appointment down in
the King's-road?  He could see them walk out the
West Pier.  The old man with the firm-set figure
and the flowing white locks would probably be
thinking but little of what was going on around
him; as likely as not he would be singing gaily to
himself about the Pier o' Leith and Berwick Law,
and 'leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.'  Yes, and so
far those two others would be left to themselves;
they could talk as they chose—eyes meeting eyes.
And what had the bumpkin squire to say?  Oh,
horses and hounds—the county balls—the famous
bin of port to be opened at Christmas.  Christmas
was coming near now; might there not be an
invitation to the two world-wanderers—to come and
be hospitably entertained at the big country-house
and introduced to friends?  And Maisrie—would
she think twice?—would she refuse?  The old man
would consent to anything that promised him
present comfort; he accepted favours with a sort
of royal complacency; it would matter little to
him so long as the fire was bright, the wine good,
the company cheerful, and himself allowed a fine
latitude of oration.  But Maisrie——?

It was nearly four o'clock now.  That previous
afternoon at Brighton had been a time of misery;
and long into the night he had been kept awake by
dull and brooding speculation, varied by bitter
self-reproach.  All the same he felt himself
irresistibly drawn thither again; whatever was
happening down there by the sea-side, he wanted to know;
his imaginings were a more cruel torture than
anything his eyes could tell him.  And perhaps—he
added to himself, with an ominous darkening of the
brows—perhaps there might be a chance of his
meeting this rival of his face to face, the better to
measure him, and learn what both of them had to
expect.

He caught the four-thirty express at Victoria,
and got whirled away down.  But he did not go
to Mrs. Ellison's house, nor yet to the Bedford
Hotel, at which his friend Musselburgh was staying;
he went to the Bristol, so as to keep himself a little
out of observation.  He was lucky enough to get a
bedroom; and that was all he required; he did not
even wait to look at it; he left the hotel and went
wandering down the Marine Parade, which was now
a mass of darkness lit up by innumerable points of
yellow fire.

Whither away then?  If only he knew the street
in which they had taken lodgings he could soon
find out their daily habits, himself remaining
unseen; but he had nothing beyond a vague
recollection that they had spoken of some hill behind
the town.  However, Brighton, though now grown a
big place, has a few leading thoroughfares in which
everybody who is a visitor is pretty sure to be
encountered sooner or later; and in this particular
instance it was a good deal sooner than he could
have dreamed of.

He was walking along the seaward side of the
Parade, with but a casual glance now and again at
this or that passer-by, when suddenly, on the other
side, at the corner of German Place, three figures
came under the glare of a gas-lamp, and these he
instantly recognised.  Occasionally as they went on
they became indistinguishable in the dusk; then
again a gas-lamp would bring them into vivid
relief—the tall and slim young girl, the square-set old
man with the picturesque white hair, the young
gentleman with the yellow cover-coat.  They were
talking together, and walking quickly, for the night
was cold.

"Yes," said Vincent to himself, in the bitterness
of his heart, "I am displaced and superseded now.
Without much difficulty, either.  Quickly done.
And no doubt he is taking them along to some
restaurant.  He will hear about the rocks and dales
of Scotland—about the ballads and songs—perhaps
he has subscribed for the new book.  Then they will
ask him to go home with them again; and Maisrie
will take out her violin; and perhaps—perhaps she
will sing '*C'était une frégate, mon joli coeur de
rose*—perhaps she will sing that for him, or any other
of the Canadian songs, except the one.  But
surely, surely, Maisrie will not sing '*La Claire
Fontaine*'?"

And then again he said to himself, with his eyes
fixed on those three, but most of all on the young
girl who walked with so light and joyous a step—

"Ah, I have suffered to-day, you do not know
how much, in repelling insinuations brought against
you, and in silencing my own doubts; but what do
you care?  One restaurant is as good as another;
one friend as good as another; let the absent expect
to be forgotten, when it is a woman who is asked
to remember.  *La Claire Fontaine*?—why not *La
Claire Fontaine*, for him as well as anyone else?
All that past companionship has gone by; here is
a new friend to be welcomed with smiles and graces.
And as for the old man—what does it matter to
him so long as there is someone to settle up the
tavern score?"

Nay, his madness of jealousy overmastered him
altogether.  When they got down to East-street,
they did not at once go into the restaurant, for it
was yet somewhat early; they began to examine the
windows of one or two of the shops, and the trinkets
displayed there.  And again and again Vincent was
on the point of going up to his enemy, and saying
"Well, why don't you buy her something?  If you
haven't got money, I will lend it to you!"  Surely
this would suffice to provoke a quarrel?—to be
settled next morning, out on the downs, and not by
any pistol accident or trick of foil, but by a fair
stand-up trial of strength, those two facing each
other, with clenched fists and set mouth.  The
young man in the cover-coat was looking at some
Austrian garnets: little did he know what wild
beast was within springing distance of him.

At length they left the shops, and leisurely strolled
along to the Italian restaurant, and entered.
Vincent gave them time to get settled, and then
followed.  He did not wish to interfere with them;
he merely wished to see.  And when he went
upstairs to the room on the first floor, it was with
no abashment; he did not slink, he walked resolutely,
to a small unoccupied table at the further
end; but he was some way from them; perchance
he might be able to observe without being noticed.
The waiter came to him.  "Anything!" was his
order: gall and wormwood there were likely to be
in any dish that might be brought.  Wine?—oh
yes, a flask of Chianti—why not a flask of Chianti?—one
might fill a glass, and send a message to a
faithless friend—a message to recall her to herself
for a moment.  You who are sitting there, will you
not drink to the health of all false lovers—you who
are sitting there in such joyful company—*toi qui as
le coeur gai*!

He could see them well enough.  There was
champagne on the table: that was not of George
Bethune's ordering: the booby from the swedes and
mangold was clearly playing the part of host.  And
what was she saying to him in return?  What form
did her thanks take?  *Je ne puis rien donner—qu'
mon coeur en mariage*: that was easily said; and
might mean no more than it meant in the bygone
days.  Women could so readily pour out, to any
chance new comer, their *petit vin blanc* of gratitude.

But suddenly he became aware of some movement
at the table along there; and quickly he lowered
his look.  Then he knew—he did not see—that
someone was coming down the long room.  He
breathed hard, with a sort of fear—and it was not
the fear of any man; he wished he had not come
into this place; could he not even now escape?

"Vincent!"

The voice thrilled through him; he looked up;
and here was Maisrie Bethune regarding
him—regarding him with those eyes so beautiful, so
shining, so tender, and reproachful!

"Did you not see us?  Why should you avoid us?"

The tone in which she spoke pierced his very
heart; but still—but still—there was that stranger
at the table yonder.

"I thought you were otherwise engaged," said he.
"I did not wish to intrude."

"You are unkind."

Then she stood for a moment uncertain.  It was
a brave thing for this girl to walk down a long
room to address a young man, knowing that more
than one pair of eyes would be turned towards her;
and here she was standing without any visible aim or errand.

"Won't you come to our table, Vincent?" she
asked hesitatingly.

And then he noticed her embarrassment; and he
felt he would be a craven hound not to come to her
rescue, whatever the quarrel between them.

"Oh, yes, certainly, if I may," but with no sort of
gladness in his consent; and then he bade the
waiter fetch the things along.

She led the way.  When he reached the table he
shook hands with George Bethune, who appeared
more surprised than pleased.  Then Maisrie made a
faint little kind of introduction as between the
young men: Vincent—who had not caught the
other's name—bowed stiffly, and took the seat that
had been brought for him.  And then, seeing that
it was on Maisrie that all the responsibility of this
new arrangement had fallen, he forced himself to
talk—making apologies for disturbing them,
explaining how it was he came to be in Brighton, and
begging Maisrie not to take any trouble about him:
it was only too kind of her to allow him to join them.

And yet it was very awkward, despite Maisrie's
assiduous little attentions, and her timid efforts to
propitiate everybody.  The fresh-complexioned
young gentleman stared at the intruder; grew
sullen when he observed Maisrie's small kindnesses;
and eventually turned to resume his conversation
with Mr. Bethune, which had been interrupted.
Vincent, who had been ready, on the smallest
provocation, to break forth in flame and fury,
became contemptuous; he would take no heed of
this person; nay, he would make use of the
opportunity to show to anyone who might choose to
listen on what terms he was with Maisrie.

"Where are you living, Maisrie?" said he, and
yet still with a certain stiffness.

She gave him the number in German Place.

"Then we are neighbours, or something near
it," he said.  "I am at the Bristol—the Bristol
Hotel."

"Oh, really," she made answer.  "I thought you
had an aunt living in Brighton—the lady who came
to see us at Henley."

"Oh, can you remember things as long ago as
Henley?" said he.  "I did not think a woman's
memory could go so far back as that.  A week—a
day—I thought that was about as much as she
could remember."

For a moment she was silent, and wounded; but
she was too proud to betray anything to those other
two; and she resumed her conversation with Vincent,
though with a trifle more of dignity and reserve.
As for him, he knew not what to do or say.  He
could perceive, he could not but perceive, that
Maisrie was trying to be kind to him; and he felt
himself a sort of renegade; but all the same there
was that other sitting at the table—there was an
alien presence—and all things were somehow awry.
And yet why should he despise that stranger?  In
the bucolic dandy he could see himself, as he
himself was seen by certain of his friends.  This other
dupe, his successor, had a countrified complexion
and a steely blue eye, he wore a horse-shoe pin in
diamonds, and had a bit of stephanotis in his
button-hole; but these points of difference were not of
much account.  And the old man—the old man
with the grand air and the oracular speech: no
wonder he thought himself entitled to call himself
Lord Bethune; but why had he chosen to abate his
rank and style?  Oh, yes, a striking presence
enough—a magnificent presence—with which to
cozen shopkeepers!

For indeed this young man's mind was all
unhinged.  He had had a hard fight of it that day;
and perhaps if Maisrie had known she would have
made allowances.  What she did clearly see was
that her well-meant invitation had been a mistake.
She strove her best to remove this embarrassment;
she tried to make the conversation general; and in
some slight measure she succeeded; but always
there was an obvious restraint; there were dark
silences and difficult pauses; and, on the part of
the young men, a sullen and dangerous antagonism
that might at any moment leap forth with a sudden
tongue of flame—a retort—an insult.

This hapless entertainment came to an end at
last; and, as Vincent had expected, while Maisrie
was putting on her cloak, their new friend stepped
aside and paid the bill—the bill for three, that is.
And the next step?  An invitation that the generous
host of the evening should go along to the rooms
in German Place?  There would be tobacco, and
Scotch whiskey, and reminiscences of travel, and
dissertations on literary and philosophical
subjects—and perhaps Maisrie would play for him 'The
Flowers o' the Forest' or sing for him 'Isabeau s'y
promène.'  Perhaps the bucolic soul was penetrable
by fine melody?  There would be whiskey-and-soda,
at any rate, and a blazing fire.

And as a matter of fact, when the four of them
paused for a second at the door of the restaurant,
the new acquaintance did receive that invitation—from
George Bethune himself.  But he declined.

"Thanks, awfully," said he, "but I can't to-night.
Fact is, there's a big billiard match on this evening,
and I've backed my man for £20, and I may want
to hedge a bit if he isn't in his best form.  Some
other evening, if you'll allow me.  But to-morrow
morning—what are you going to do to-morrow
morning?  You can't stay indoors while the weather
is so fine; you must leave your work until the wet
comes.  So I dare say I shall find you somewhere
along the front about eleven to-morrow; and if I
don't, why, then, I'll come along to German Place,
and drag you out.  For who ever knew such a
glorious December?—quite warm in the sun—primroses
and violets all a-growing and a-blowing—in
the baskets.  Good-night to you!—good-night,
Miss Bethune!—mind you bring your grandfather
along to-morrow morning; or I'll have to come and
drag you both out; good-night—good-night!"—and
then with a brief nod to Vincent, which was
frigidly returned, he departed.

"You are going our way, Vincent?" Maisrie said, timidly.

"Oh, yes," he made answer, as they set out together.

For a few seconds they walked in silence.  But
when they had crossed the Old Steine, and got
into the Marine Parade, the moon came into view,
away over there in the east; it was at the full, but
rather dusky, for the north wind had blown the
smoke of the town down on the sea-front.

"Bid you notice how clear the moon was last
night?" she said, to break this embarrassing silence.

"Yes, I did," he said.  "I was walking about
a good deal last night.  The moonlight was
beautiful on the water."

"Oh, were you down in Brighton last night?"
she asked, rather anxiously.

"Yes."

That was all.  She did not dare to ask what had
brought him down; and he did not choose to
invent an excuse.  Again they walked on for a
little while in silence, until they reached the corner
of German Place.

"Well, good-night!" said George Bethune,
holding out his hand.  "Quite a surprise to meet
you—quite a surprise.  Hope we shall see you
again before you go back."

And now it was Maisrie's turn.

"Good-night, Vincent!" she said, with her eyes
seeking his in mute appeal.

"Good-night," said he; and he did not respond
to that look: so these two parted.

And soon, as he walked aimlessly onward, he was
away from the town altogether.  To him it was a
hateful place—with its contrarieties, its disappointments,
its distracting problems in human nature.
When he turned to look at it, it was like some vast
and dusky pit, with a dull, red glow shining over it
from its innumerable fires.  But here, as he went
on again, all was peace.  The silver moonlight
shimmered on the water.  There was not a whisper
or murmur along these lofty and solitary cliffs.  A
cold wind blew from the north, coming over the
bare uplands; but it brought no sound of any bird
or beast.  His shadow was his sole companion—vague
and indefinite on the grass, but sharper and
blacker on the grey and frosted road.  He was
alone, and he wished to be alone; and if certain
phrases from the *Claire Fontaine* would come
following and haunting him—*jai perdu ma maîtresse—sans
l' avoir mérité—pour un bouquet de roses—que
je lui refusai*—he strove to repel them; he would
have none of them; nor any remembrance of what
was past and gone.  The world was sweet to him
here, because he was alone with the sea, and the
shore, and the mystic splendour of those shining
heavens; and because he seemed to have shaken
himself free from the enmities and the treacheries
and ingratitudes that lay festering in yonder town.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`RENEWING IS OF LOVE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium

   RENEWING IS OF LOVE.

.. vspace:: 2

Next morning broke bright and clear, for the north
wind had blown freshly all the night, and swept
the smoke of the town right out to sea, where it
lay along the horizon as a soft saffron-reddish cloud.
Accordingly the sky overhead was of a summer-like
blue; and the sea was of a shining green, save
where it grew opaque and brown as it neared the
shore; while the welcome sunlight was everywhere
abroad, giving promise of a cheerful day, even now
in December.  And Vin Harris was standing at a
window of the hotel, looking absently out on the
wide and empty thoroughfares.

A waiter brought him a note.  He glanced at
the handwriting with startled eyes, then tore the
envelope open.  This was what he read—

.. vspace:: 2

"Dear Vincent, I wish to speak with you for
a moment if you are not engaged.  I am going
down to the breakwater, and will wait there for
a little while.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent

"MAISRIE."

.. vspace:: 2

He called to the waiter.

"When did this come?"

"I found it lying on the hall table, sir—just this
minute, sir."

He did not waste time on further questions.  In
a couple of seconds he was outside and had crossed
the road; and there, sure enough—far below him—out
on the breakwater—was a solitary figure that he
instantly recognised.  He went quickly down the
steps; he did not stay to ask what this might mean,
or to prepare himself in any way; as he approached
her, all his anxiety was to know if her eyes were
kind—or hostile.  Well, they were neither; but
there was a certain pride in her tone as she spoke.

"Vincent, you were angry with me last night.  Why?"

"Maisrie," said he, "why don't you put up that
furred collar round your neck?  It is so cold this
morning.  See, let me put it up for you."

She retreated an inch, declining: she waited for
him to answer her question.

"Angry with you?" he said, with obvious
constraint.  "No, but I was vexed.  I was vexed
with a lot of things—that I can hardly explain.
Not with you personally—at least—well, at any
rate I did not mean to offend you.  If I have
offended you I ask your pardon——"

Here he paused: these stammering sentences were
so insufficient.  And then all at once he said——

"Maisrie, who was that young man?"

She looked surprised.

"Do you mean Mr. Glover?"

"Glover?—oh, that is his name.  But who is
he?—what is he?—how did you come to know him
so intimately?——"

Perhaps she began to see a little.

"I don't know him at all, Vincent.  He is a
friend of my grandfather's—or rather he is the son
of a friend of my grandfather's—a wine-merchant in
London.  We met him on the day we came here——"

"And he lost no time in showing off his acquaintance
with you," said Vincent, bitterly, "—driving
you up and down the King's Road, before all
Brighton!"

At this she lowered her head a little.

"I did not wish to go, Vincent.  Grandfather
pressed me.  I did not like to refuse."

"Oh," said he, "I have no right to object.  It is
not for me to object.  If new friends are to be
treated as old friends—what does it matter?"

She regarded him reproachfully.

"You know very well, Vincent, that if I had
thought it would vex you, I would not have
gone—no—nothing in the world would have induced
me—nothing!  And how cruel it is of you to speak of
new friends—and to say that old friends are so
quickly forgotten!  Is that all you believe of what
I have told you many a time?  But—but if I have
pained you, I am sorry," she continued, still with
downcast lashes.  "Tell me what you wish me to
do.  I will not speak to him again, if you would
rather I should not.  If he comes to the house, I
will stay in my own room until he is gone—anything,
anything rather than that you should be
vexed.  For you have been so kind to me!"

"No, no," said he, hastily.  "No, I have been
altogether wrong.  Do just as you please yourself,
Maisrie: that will be the right thing.  I have been
an ass and a fool to doubt you.  But—but it made
me mad to think of any man coming between you
and me——"

"Vincent!"

She raised her head; and for one ineffable
moment her maiden eyes were unveiled and fixed
upon him—with such a tenderness and pride and
trust as altogether bewildered him and entranced
him beyond the powers of speech.  For here was
confession at last!—her soul had declared itself: no
matter what might happen now, he knew she was
his own!  And yet, when she spoke, it was as if she
had divined his thoughts, and would dissipate that
too wonderful dream.

"No," she said, rather wistfully, and her eyes
were averted again, "that is the last thing you need
think about, Vincent; no man will ever come
between you and me.  No man will ever take your
place in my regard—and—and esteem——"

"Is that all, Maisrie?" he said, gently; but in
truth that sudden revelation had left him all
trembling and overjoyed.  He was almost afraid to
speak to her, lest she should withdraw that unspoken
avowal.

"And—and affection: why should not I say it?—I
may not have another chance," she went on.
"You need not fear, Vincent.  No man will ever
come between you and me; but a woman will—and
welcome!  You will marry—you will be happy—and
no one will be better pleased to hear of it all
than I shall.  And why," she continued, with a
kind of cheerfulness, "why, even in that case,
should we speak of any one coming between us?
We shall have the same affection, the same kind
thoughts, even then, I hope——"

"Maisrie, why do you talk like that!" he
protested.  "You know quite well that you will be my
wife—or no one."

She shook her head.

"If you do not see for yourself that it is
impossible—if you do not understand, Vincent—then
some day I must tell you——"

"Ah, but you have told me something far more
important, and only a minute or two ago," said he.
"You have told me all I want to know, this very
morning!  You are not aware of the confession you
have made, since you came out on this breakwater?
I have seen in your eyes what I never saw before;
and everything else is to me as nothing.
Difficulties?—I don't believe in them.  I see our way
as clear as daylight; and there's neither man nor
woman coming between us.  Oh, yes, I have
discovered something this morning—that makes our
way clear enough!  Maisrie, do you know what
wonderful eyes you have?—they can say so many
things—perhaps even more than you intend.  So
much the better—so much the better—for I know
they speak true."

She did not seem to share his joyous confidence.

"I must be going now, Vincent," she said.
"Grandfather will wonder why I am so long in
getting his newspapers.  And I am glad to know
you are no longer vexed with me.  I could not
bear that.  And I will take care you shall have no
further cause—indeed I will, Vincent."

She was for bidding him good-bye, but he
detained her: a wild wish had come into his head.

"Maisrie," said he, with a little hesitation,
"couldn't you—couldn't you give me some little
thing to keep as a souvenir of this happy morning?
Ah, you don't know all you have told me, perhaps!
Only some little thing: could you give me a
sandal-wood bead, Maisrie—could you cut one off
your necklace?—and I will get a small gold case
made for it, and wear it always and always, and
when I open it, the perfume will remind me of you
and of our walks together, and the evenings in that
little parlour——"

But instantly she had pulled off her gloves, and
with busy fingers unclasped the necklace; then she
touched it with her lips, and placed the whole of
the warm and scented treasure in his hand.

"I only wanted one of the beads, Maisrie," said
he, with something of shamefacedness.

"Take it, Vincent—I have not many things to
give," she said, simply.

"Then—then would you wear something if I
gave it to you?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, if you would like that," she answered
at once.

"Oh, well, I must try to get something nice—something
appropriate," said he.  "I wonder if a
Brighton jeweller could make me a small white
dove in ivory or mother-of-pearl, that you could
wear just as if it had alighted on your breast—a pin,
you know, for your neck—and the pin could be
made of a row of rubies or sapphires—while the
dove itself would be white."

"But, Vincent," she said, doubtingly, "if I were
to wear that?"

"What would it mean?  Is that what you ask?
Shall I tell you, Maisrie?  It would mean a
betrothal!"

She shrank back.

"No—no," she said.  "No—I could not wear that!"

"Oh, are you frightened by a word?" said he,
cheerfully.  "Very well—very well—it shan't mean
anything of the kind!  It will only serve to remind
you of a morning on which you and I went for a
little stroll down a breakwater at Brighton, when
the Brighton people were so kind as to leave it all
to ourselves.  Nothing more than that, Maisrie!—if
you wish it.  Only you must wear the little white
dove—as an emblem of peace and goodwill—and a
messenger bringing you good news—and a lot of
things like that, that I'm too stupid to put into
words.  For this is a morning not to be forgotten
by either of us, all our lives long, I hope.  You
think you have not said anything?—then you
shouldn't have such tell-tale eyes, Maisrie!  And I
believe them.  I don't believe you when you talk
about vague impossibilities.  Well, I suppose I
must let you go; and I suppose we cannot say
good-bye—out here in the open——"

"But you are coming, too, Vincent—a little way?"

"As far as ever you will allow me," said he.
"Till the end of life, if you like—and as I hope."

But that was looking too far ahead in the present
circumstances.

"What are you going to do to-day, Maisrie?" he
asked, as they were leaving the breakwater and
making up for the Marine Parade.  "Oh, I forgot:
you are going out walking at eleven."

She blushed slightly.

"No, Vincent; I think I shall remain at home."

"On a morning like this?—impossible!  Why,
you must go out in the sunlight.  Sunlight is rare
in December."

Then she said, with some little embarrassment,
"I do not wish to vex you any more, Vincent.  If
I went out with grandfather, we should meet Mr. Glover——"

"Mr. Glover?" he said, interrupting her.
"Dearest Maisrie, I don't mind if you were to go
walking with twenty Mr. Glovers!—I don't mind
that now.  It is the sunlight that is of importance;
it is getting you into the sunlight that is
everything.  And if Mr. Glover asks you to go driving
with him in the afternoon, of course you must go!—it
will interest you to see the crowd and the
carriages, and it will keep you in the fresh air.
Oh, yes, if I'm along in the King's Road this
afternoon, I shall look out for you; and if you should
happen to see me, then just remember that you
have given me your sandal-wood necklace, and that
I am the proudest and happiest person in the whole
town of Brighton.  Why, of course you must go
out, both morning and afternoon," he continued, in
this gay and generous fashion, as they were
mounting the steps towards the upper thoroughfare.
"Sunlight is just all the world, for flowers, and
pretty young ladies, and similar things; and now
you're away from the London fogs, you must make
the best of it.  It is very wise of your grandfather
to lay aside his work while the fine weather lasts.
Now be a good, sensible girl, and go out at eleven
o'clock."

"Vincent," she said, "if I do go with grandfather
this morning, will you come down the town, and
join us?"

"Oh, well," said he, rather hesitating, "I—I do
not wish to inflict myself on anybody.  But don't
mistake, Maisrie: I shall be quite happy, even if I
see you walking up and down with the purveyor of
bad sherry.  It won't vex me in the least: something
you told me this morning has made me proof
against all that.  The important thing is that you
should keep in the sunlight!"

"I ask you to come, Vincent."

"Oh, very well, certainly," said he—not knowing
what dark design was in her mind.

He was soon to discover.  When he left her in
St. James's Street, whither she had gone to get
the morning newspapers for her grandfather, he
went back to the hotel, and to his own room, to
take out this priceless treasure of a necklace she
had bestowed on him, and to wonder how best he
could make of it a cunning talisman that he could
have near his heart night and day.  And also he
set to work to sketch out designs for the little
breast-pin he meant to have made, with its transverse
row of rubies or sapphires, with its white dove
in the centre.  An inscription?  That was hardly
needed: there was a sufficient understanding
between him and her.  And surely this was a
betrothal, despite her timid shrinking back?  The
avowal of that morning had been more to him than
words; during that brief moment it seemed as if
Heaven shone in her eyes; and as if he could see
there, as in a vision, all the years to come—all the
years that he and she were to be together—shining
with a soft celestial radiance.  And would not this
small white dove convey its message of peace?—when
it lay on her bosom, "so light, so light."

Then all of a sudden it occurred to him—why, he
had been talking and walking with an adventuress,
a begging-letter impostor, a common swindler, and
had quite forgotten to be on his guard!  All the
solemn warnings he had received had entirely
vanished from his mind when he was out there on
the breakwater with Maisrie Bethune.  He had
looked into her eyes—and never thought of any
swindling!  Had this sandal-wood necklace—that
was sweet with a fragrance more than its own—that
seemed to have still some lingering warmth in
it, borrowed from its recent and secret resting-place—been
given him as a lure?  The white dove—significant
of all innocence, and purity, and peace—was
that to rest on the heart of a traitress?  Well,
perhaps; but it did not appear to concern him
much, as he got his hat and cane, and pulled on
a fresh pair of gloves, and went out into the open air.

Nay, he was in a magnanimous mood towards all
mankind.  He would not even seek to interfere
with Sherry, as he mentally and meanly styled his
rival.  If it pleased the young gentleman in the
cover-coat to walk up and down the King's Road
with Maisrie Bethune—very well.  If he took her
for a drive after luncheon, that would amuse her,
and also was well.  The time for jealous dread, for
angry suspicions, for reproachful accusations, was
over and gone.  A glance from Maisrie's eyes had
banished all that.  Sherry might parade his
acquaintanceship as much as he chose, so long as
Maisrie was kept in the open air and the sunlight:
that was the all-important point.

By-and-bye he went away down to the King's
Road, and very speedily espied the three figures he
expected to find there, though as yet they were at
some distance.  They were coming towards him: in
a few minutes he would be face to face with them.
And he had made up his mind what he meant to
do.  Maisrie should see that he was actuated no
longer by jealous rage; that he had confidence in
her; that he feared no rival now.  And so it was
that when they came near, he merely gave them a
general and pleasant "Good-morning!" and raised
his hat to Maisrie, and was for passing on.  But
he had reckoned without his host—or hostess
rather.

"Vincent!" said Maisrie, in expostulation.

Then he stopped.

"Aren't you coming with us?  We are going
along to the Chain Pier, to get out of the crowd.
Won't you come?"

"Oh, yes, if I may!" said he, gladly enough—and
he knew that the other young man was staring,
not to say scowling, at this unwelcome intrusion.

Now Maisrie had been walking between her
grandfather and young Glover; but the moment
that Vincent joined the little party, she fell
behind.

"Four abreast are too many," said she.  "We
must go two and two; grandfather, will you lead
the way with Mr. Glover?"

It was done, and dexterously done, in a moment;
and if the selection of the new comer as her
companion was almost too open and marked, perhaps
that was her intention.  At all events, when the
two others had moved forward, Vincent said in an
undertone—

"This is very kind of you, Maisrie."

And she replied, rather proudly—

"I wished to show you that I could distinguish
between old and new friends."

Then he grew humble.

"Maisrie," said he, "don't you treasure up things
against me!  It was only a phrase.  And just
remember how I was situated.  I came away down
to Brighton merely to catch a glimpse of you; and
about the first thing I saw was this young fellow,
whom I had never heard of, driving you up and
down among the fashionable crowd.  You see,
Maisrie, you hadn't given me the sandal-wood
necklace then; and what is of far more consequence,
you hadn't allowed your eyes to tell me what they
told me this morning.  So what was I to think?
No harm of you, of course; but I was miserable;—and—and
I thought you could easily forget; and
all the afternoon I looked out for you; and all the
evening I wandered about the streets, wondering
whether you would be in one of the restaurants or
the hotels.  If I could only have spoken a word
with you!  But then, you know, I had been in a
kind of way shut off from you; and—and there was
this new acquaintance—"

"I am very sorry, Vincent," she said also in a
low voice.  "It seems such a pity that one should
vex one's friends unintentionally; because in
looking back, you like to think of their always being
pleased with you; and then again there may be no
chance of making up—and you are sorry when it is
too late——"

"Come, come, Maisrie," he said with greater
freedom—for some people had intervened, and the
other two were now a little way ahead, "I am not
going to let you talk in that way.  You always
speak as if you and I were to be separated——"

"Wouldn't it be better, Vincent?" she said, simply.

"Why?"

"Why?" she repeated, in an absent kind of way.
"Well, you know nothing about us, Vincent."

"I have been told a good deal of late, then!" he
said, in careless scorn.

And the next instant he wished he had bitten his
tongue out ere making that haphazard speech.
The girl looked up at him with a curious quick
scrutiny—as if she were afraid.

"What have you been told, Vincent?" she
demanded, in quite an altered tone.

"Oh, nothing!" he said, with disdain.  "A lot
of rubbish!  Every one has good-natured friends,
I suppose, who won't be satisfied with minding
their own business.  And although you may laugh
at the moment, at the mere ridiculousness of the
thing, still, if it should happen that just at the
same time you should see some one you are very
fond of—in—in a position that you can't explain
to yourself—well, then——  But what is the use
of talking, Maisrie!  I confess that I was jealous
out of all reason, jealous to the verge of madness;
but then I paid the penalty, in hours and hours of
misery; and now you come along and heap coals of
fire on my head, until I am so ashamed of myself
that I don't think I am fit to live.  And that's all
about it; and my only excuse is that you had not
told me then what your eyes told me this morning."

She remained silent and thoughtful for a little
while; but as she made no further reference to his
inadvertent admission that he had heard certain
things of herself and her grandfather, he inwardly
hoped that that unlucky speech had gone from her
memory.  Moreover, they were come to the Chain
Pier; and as those two in front waited for them, so
that they should go through the turnstile one after
the other, there was just then no opportunity for
further confidential talking.  But once on the Pier,
old George Bethune, who was eagerly discoursing on
some subject or another (with magnificent emphasis
of arm and stick) drew ahead again, taking his
companion with him.  And Vin Harris, regarding
the picturesque figure of the old man, and his fine
enthusiastic manner, which at all events seemed
so sincere, began to wonder whether there could be
any grains of truth in the story that had been told
him, or whether it was a complete and malevolent
fabrication.  His appearance and demeanour,
certainly, were not those of a professional impostor:
it was hard to understand how a man of his proud
and blunt self-assertion could manage to wheedle
wine merchants and tailors.  Had he really called
himself Lord Bethune; or was it not far more likely
that some ignorant colonial folk, impressed by his
talk of high lineage and by his personal dignity, had
bestowed on him that title?  The young man—guessing
and wondering—began to recall the
various counts of that sinister indictment; and at
last he said to his companion, in a musing kind of
way——

"Maisrie, you know that motto your grandfather
is so proud of: 'Stand Fast, Craig-Royston!'  Have
you any idea where Craig-Royston is?"

"I?  No, not at all," she said simply.

"You have never been there?"

"Vincent!" she said.  "You know I have never
been in Scotland."

"Because there is such an odd thing in connection
with it," he continued.  "In one edition of
Black's Guide to Scotland, Craig-Royston is not
mentioned anywhere; and in another it is
mentioned, but only in a footnote.  And I can't find it
in the map.  You don't know if there are any people
of your name living there now?"

"I am sure I cannot say," she made answer.
"Grandfather could tell you; he is always
interested in such things."

"And Balloray," he went on, "I could find no
mention of Balloray; but of course there must be
such a place?"

"I wish there was not," she said, sadly.  "It is
the one bitter thing in my grandfather's life.  I
wish there never had been any such place.  But I
have noticed a change in him of late.  He does not
complain now as he used to complain; he is more
resigned; indeed, he seldom talks of it.  And when
I say complain, that is hardly the word.  Don't you
think he bears his lot with great fortitude?  I am
sure it is more on my account than his own that he
ever thinks of the estate that was lost.  And I am
sure he is happier with his books than with all the
land and money that could be given to him.  He
seems to fancy that those old songs and ballads
belong to him; they are his property; he is happier
with them than with a big estate and riches."

"I could not find Balloray in the index to the
Guide," Vincent resumed, "but of course there
must be such a place—there is the ballad your
grandfather is so fond of—'The bonnie mill-dams o'
Balloray.'"

She looked up suddenly, with some distress in
her face.

"Vincent, don't you understand?  Don't you
understand that grandfather is easily taken with a
name—with the sound of it—and sometimes he
confuses one with another?  That ballad is not
about Balloray; it is about Binnorie; it is 'The
bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.'  Grandfather forgets
at times; and he is used to Balloray; and that has
got into his head in connection with the ballad.  I
thought perhaps you knew."

"Oh, no," said he, lightly, for he did not attach
any great importance to this chance confusion.
"The two words are not unlike; I quite see how
one might take the place of the other.  Of course
you will make sure that he puts in the right name
when he comes to publish the volume."

And so they walked up and down the almost
deserted pier, in the bright sunlight, looking out on
the lapping green waters, or up to the terraced
yellow houses above the tall cliffs.  Sometimes, of
course, the four of them came together; and more
than once the horsey-looking young gentleman
insidiously tried to detach Maisrie from her chosen
companion—and tried in vain.  At last, when it
became about time for them to be going their
several ways home, he made a bold stroke.

"Come, Mr. Bethune," said he, as they were
successively passing through the turnstile, "I want
you and Miss Bethune to take pity on a poor
solitary bachelor, and come along and have a bit of
lunch with me at the Old Ship.  It will be a little
change for you, won't it?—and we can have a
private room if you prefer that."

The old gentleman seemed inclined to close with
this offer; but he glanced towards Maisrie for her
acquiescence first.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Glover," said she, promptly;
"but I have everything arranged at our lodgings;
and we must not disappoint our landlady.  Some
other time, perhaps, thank you!  Good morning!"

Then the moment he was gone, she turned to
her companion.

"Vincent, have you any engagement?  No?
Then, will you be very courageous and come with
us and take your chance?  I can promise you a
biscuit at least."

"And I'm sure I don't want anything more," said
he, most gratefully; for surely she was trying her
best to show him that she distinguished between
old and new friends.

And then again, when they reached the rooms,
and when the three of them were seated at table,
she waited upon him with a gentle care and
assiduity that were almost embarrassing.  He
wished the wretched things at the bottom of the
sea: why should commonplace food and drink
interfere with his answering Maisrie's eyes, or
thinking of her overwhelming kindness?  As for
old George Bethune, the sharp air and the sunlight
had given him an admirable appetite; and he
allowed the young people to amuse themselves with
little courtesies, and attentions, and protests just as
they pleased.  Cheese and celery were solid and
substantial things: he had no concern about a
drooping eyelash, or some pretty, persuasive turn of
speech.

And yet he was not unfriendly towards the young man.

"Wouldn't you like to go to the theatre this
evening, Maisrie?" Vincent asked.  "It is the
*Squires Daughter*.  I know you've seen it already;
but I could go a dozen times—twenty times—the
music is so delightful.  And the travelling company
is said to be quite as good as the London one:
Miss Kate Burgoyne has changed into it, you know,
and I shouldn't wonder if she sung all the better
because of the £3000 damages that Sir Percival
Miles has had to pay her.  Shall I go along and
see if I can get a box?"

"What do you say, grandfather?" the girl asked.

"Oh, yes—very well, very well," said he, in his
lofty way.  "A little idleness more or less is not
of much account.  But we must begin to work
soon, Maisrie; fresh air and sunlight are all very
well; but we must begin to work—while the day is
with us, though luckily one has not to say to you as
yet—*jam te premet nox, falulæque Manes, et domus
exilis Plutonia*."

"Then if we go to the theatre," said Maisrie,
"Vincent must come in here for a little while on
his way home; and you and he will have a smoke
together; and it will be quite like old times."—And
Vincent looked at her, as much as to say,
'Maisrie, don't make me too ashamed: haven't you
forgiven me yet for that foolish phrase?'

The afternoon passed quickly enough: to
Vincent every moment was golden.  Then in the
evening they went to the theatre; and the young
people at least were abundantly charmed with the
gay costumes, the pretty music, and the fun and
merriment of the bright little operetta.  George Bethune
seemed less interested.  He sate well back in the
box, his face in shadow; and although his eyes,
from under those shaggy eyebrows, were fixed on
the stage, it was in an absent fashion, as if he were
thinking of other things.  And indeed he was
thinking of far other things; for when, after the piece
was over, those three set out to walk home through
the dark streets, Maisrie and Vincent could hear
the old man, who walked somewhat apart from
them, reciting to himself, and that in a proud and
sustained voice.  It was not the frivolity of comic
opera that he had in his mind; it was something
of finer and sterner stuff; as they crossed by the
Old Steine, where there was a space of silence, they
could make out clearly what this was—

   |  'Thy faith and troth thou sall na get,
   |    And our true love sall never twin,
   |  Until ye tell what comes of women,
   |    I wot, who die in strong travailing?'

   |  'Their beds are made in the heavens high,
   |    Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee,
   |  Weel set about wi' gillyflowers,
   |    I wot sweet company for to see.

   |  'O cocks are crowing a merry midnight,
   |    I wot the wild-fowl are boding day;
   |  The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,
   |    And I, ere now, will be missed away.'
   |

There was a curiously solemn effect about this
solitary voice, here in the dark.  The old man did
not seem to care whether he was overheard or not;
it was entirely to himself that he was repeating the
lines of the old ballad.  And thereafter he walked
on in silence, while the two lovers, busy with their own
little world, were murmuring nothings to each other.

But Maisrie, for one, was soon to be recalled to
the actualities, and even grim incongruities, of
every day life.  When they reached their lodgings
the servant girl, who opened the door to them,
paused for a second and looked up and down the street.

"Yes, sir, there he is," said she.

"Who?" George Bethune demanded.

"A man who has been asking for you, sir—and
said he would wait."

At the same moment there came out of the
gloom a rather shabby-looking person.

"Mr. George Bethune?" he said.

"Yes, that is my name," the old man answered,
impatiently: probably he suspected.

"Something for you, sir," said the stranger,
handing a folded piece of paper—and therewith he left.

It was all the work of a second; and the next
instant they were indoors, and in the little parlour;
but in that brief space of time a great change had
taken place.  Indeed, Maisrie's mortification was
a piteous thing to see; it seemed so hard she
should have had to endure this humiliation under
the very eyes of her lover; she would not look his
way at all; she busied herself with putting things
on the table; her downcast face was overwhelmed
with confusion and shame.  For surely Vincent
would know what that paper was?  The appearance
of the man—his hanging about—her grandfather's
angry frown—all pointed plainly enough.
And that it should happen at the end of this long
and happy day—this day of reconciliation—when
she had tried so assiduously to be kind to
him—when he had spoken so confidently of the future
that lay before them!  It was as if some cruel
fate had interposed to say to him: 'Now you see
the surroundings in which this girl has lived:
and do you still dream of making her your wife?'

And perhaps old George Bethune noticed this
shame and vexation on the part of his granddaughter,
and may have wished to divert attention
from it; at all events, when he had brewed his
toddy, and lit his pipe, and drawn his chair in
towards the fire, he set off upon one of his
monologues, quite in the old garrulous vein; and
he was as friendly towards Vincent as though this
visit had been quite anticipated.  Maisrie sat
silent and abashed; and Vincent, listening vaguely,
thought it was all very fine to have a sanguine and
happy-go-lucky temperament, but that he—that is,
the younger man—would be glad to have this
beautiful and pensive creature of a girl removed
into altogether different circumstances.  He knew
why she was ashamed and downcast—though, to
be sure, he said to himself that the serving of a writ
was no tremendous cataclysm.  Such little incidents
must necessarily occur in the career of any one who
had such an arrogant disdain of pounds and pence
as her grandfather professed.  But that Maisrie
should have to suffer humiliation: that was what
touched him to the quick.  He looked at her—at
her beautiful and wistful eyes, and the sensitive
lines of her profile and under-lip; and his heart
bled for her.  And all this following upon her
outspoken avowal of that morning seemed to demand
some more definite and immediate action on his
part—when once the quiet of the night had enabled
him to consider his position.

When he rose to leave, he asked them what they
meant to do the next day.  But Maisrie would
hardly say anything; she seemed rather to wish
him to go, so distressed and disheartened she was.
And go he did, presently; but he bore away with
him no hurt feeling on account of his tacit
dismissal.  He understood all that; and he understood
her.  And as he went away home through the dark,
he began to recall the first occasions on which he
had seen Maisrie Bethune walking in Hyde Park
with her grandfather; and the curious fancies that
were then formed in his own mind—that here
apparently was a beautiful, and sensitive, and
suffering soul that ought to be rescued and cheered
and comforted, were one found worthy to be her
champion and her friend.  Her friend?—she had
confessed he was something more than that on this
very morning.  Her lover, then?—well, her lover
ought to be her champion too, if only the hours of
the night would lend him counsel.





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.. _`ON THE BRINK`:

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   CHAPTER VIII.


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   ON THE BRINK.

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Nay, he could see but the one clear and resolute
way out of all these perplexities, which was that
he should forthwith and without further
preamble marry Maisrie Bethune: thereafter his
relatives might do or say whatever it most pleased
them to do or say.  This would be his answer to
the vague but persistent suspicions of Mrs. Ellison,
and to the more precise but none the less
preposterous accusations of his father.  Then as regards
Maisrie herself, would not this conclusive act banish
all those dim presentiments and alarms with which
she seemed to regard the future?  And if her
present circumstances involved her in humiliation,
lie would take her out of these.  As for old George
Bethune, ought he not to welcome this guardianship
that would succeed his own?  The happiness of his
granddaughter seemed to be his first care; and here
was a stay and bulwark for her, a protection for
her when his own should be withdrawn in the
natural course of things.

This solution of the difficulty seemed reasonable
and simple, though sometimes his arguments would
suddenly get lost in a flood of wild wonder and joy;
and entrancing visions of that pretty canary-cage
he meant to secure—down by Chelsea way, perhaps,
or up about Campden Hill, or it might be out among
some suburban gardens—would interfere with the
cool and accurate representations he was preparing
to lay before his friends.  For after all, simple as
the solution appeared, there were ways and means
to be considered.  Vincent was now about to
discover—nay, he already perceived—that for a young
man to be brought up without any definite calling
meant a decided crippling of his independence.
The canary-cage, charming and idyllic as it might
be, would cost something, even if he went as far as
Shepherd's Bush or Hammersmith; and the little
fortune that had been left him did not produce
much of an annual income.  Then again his father:
would not the great socialist (on paper) instantly
withdraw the handsome allowance he had hitherto
made, on hearing that his son contemplated marrying
that dangerous person, that low-born adventuress,
that creature of the slums?  For Vincent Harris
was not given to disguising things from himself.
He knew that these were the phrases which his
father would doubtless apply to Maisrie Bethune.
Not that they or any other phrases were of much
import: the capitalist-communist was welcome to
invent and use as many as he chose.  But his
opposition to this marriage, which was almost to be
counted on, might become a very serious affair for
everybody concerned.

Next morning Vincent was up betimes; and at
an early hour he went along to the Bedford Hotel.
He was told that Lord Musselburgh was in the
coffee-room; and thither he accordingly proceeded.

"Oh, yes, I'll have some breakfast, thank you,"
said he, as he took a seat at the small table.
"Anything—anything.  The fact is, Musselburgh,
I want to speak to you, if you can give me a little
time.  Something of importance, too—to me at
least——"

"Let me tell you this, Vin, first of all," said the
elder of the two young men, with a smile.  "You'll
have to make your peace with Mrs. Ellison.  She is
mortally offended at the notion of your coming to
Brighton, and going to a hotel.  I suppose you
imagined she didn't know you had come down?
We saw you yesterday."

"Where?" said Vincent, quickly.

"In the Marine Parade.  We followed you some
little way—if you had turned round you would
have seen us."

"What time?"

"Why, about one, I should think."

"Then—then you saw—"

"Yes, we saw—" said the other.

There was a moment's silence; Vin's eyes were
fixed on his companion with a curious expectancy
and prayer; had this friend of his, if he were a
friend at all, no approving word to say about
Maisrie?

Well, Lord Musselburgh was an exceedingly
good-natured young man; and on this occasion he
did not allow a selfish discretion to get the better
of him.

"I don't know that I intended to tell you," said
he.  "Fact is, Mrs. Ellison hinted that I'd better
follow her example; and have nothing to say on a
certain subject; but really, Vin, really—I had no
idea—really——"

"Yes?—what?" said Vincent, rather breathlessly.

"Well, to be candid with you, I never was so
surprised in my life!  Why, you remember that
afternoon in Piccadilly, when I first saw them—perhaps
I did not pay much attention to the girl—she
seemed a slip of a thing—pretty, oh, yes, pretty
enough; but yesterday—when I saw her yesterday—by
George, she's grown to be one of the most
beautiful creatures I ever beheld!  And so
distinguished-looking—and apparently so unconscious
of it too!  Again and again I noticed people
half-turn their heads to get another glimpse of her as
she went by—and no wonder—why, really, such a
carriage—such an air of distinction and quiet
self-possession, for all she looked so young—I never was
so surprised in all my life!  Oh, a most beautiful
creature!—and that I must say in common honesty,
whatever comes of it."

Nay, the very incoherence of his praise was
proof of its sincerity; and Vincent's face burned
with pleasure and pride.  How could sweeter words
have been poured into a lover's ears?

"Did you chance to notice her hair?—did you?"
said he, eagerly.  "Did you chance to see the
sunlight on it?  And—and you were behind her—you
must have seen how she walked—the lightness and
grace of her step.  Mind you, Mussel burgh," he
went on—and his breakfast received but scant
attention, now that he had found someone to whom
he could talk on this enchanting and all-engrossing
theme.  "A light and graceful step means far more
than mere youth and health—it means a perfect
and supple figure as well.  Did you think she was
rather pale?" he asked—but only to answer his
own question.  "Yes, I dare say you might think
she was rather pale.  But that is not because she is
delicate—oh, dear, no!—not in the least: it is the
natural fineness of her complexion; and when brisk
walking, or a cold wind blowing, brings colour into
her cheeks, then that is all the rarer and more
beautiful.  Of course you couldn't see her eyes at
all?—she doesn't stare at people in the streets; she
seems to find the sea more interesting when we are
walking up and clown; but they are the clearest, the
most expressive, eyes you could imagine!  She
hardly has to speak—she has only to look!  I do
think blue-grey is by far the prettiest colour of
eyes; they vary so much; I've seen Maisrie
Bethune's eyes quite distinctly blue—that is when
she is very strong and well, and out in the open air.
I don't suppose it possible that any reflection from
the sky or sea can affect the colour of the eyes; it
must be simply that she is in the fresh air, and
stimulated with exercise and happy——"  He
paused for a second.  "Is there anything so very
amusing?"

"To tell you the truth, Vin," his companion
admitted, "I was thinking that when you came in
you announced you had something of importance to
say——"

"Instead of which I have been talking about
Miss Bethune," Vincent said, without taking any
offence.  "But who began?  I thought it was you
who introduced the subject—and you seemed
interested in her appearance——"

"Oh, yes, of course, of course," the young
nobleman said, goodnaturedly.  "I beg your pardon.
And I understand how the subject may be of
importance to you——"

"Well, yes, it is," said Vincent, calmly.  "For I
propose to marry Miss Bethune, and at once, if she
will consent."

Lord Musselburgh looked up quickly, and his
face was grave enough now.

"You don't mean that, Vin?"

"That is precisely what I do mean," the young
man said.

"I thought—I had fancied—that certain things
had been found out," his friend stammered, and
then stopped; for it was a hazardous topic.

"Oh, you have been told too?" Vincent said,
with a careless disdain.  "Well, when I heard
those charges brought against Miss Bethune's
grandfather, I did not choose to answer them; but
speaking about him to you is another thing; and I
may say to you, once for all, that more preposterous
trash was never invented.  I won't deny," he
continued, with a perfectly simple frankness, "that
there are one or two things about Mr. Bethune that
I cannot quite explain—that I rather shut my eyes
to; and perhaps there are one or two things that
one might wish altered—for who is perfect?  But
the idea that this old man, with his almost
obtrusively rugged individuality, his independence, his
self-will and pride, should be a scheming impostor
and swindler—it is too absurd!  To my mind—and
I think I know him pretty intimately—he appears
to be one of the finest and grandest characters it is
possible to imagine; a personality you could never
forget, once you had learned to know him even a
little; and that this man, of all men, should be
suspected of being a fawning and wheedling writer of
begging-letters—it is too laughable!  I admit that
he has little or no money—if that is a crime.  They
live in straitened circumstances, no doubt.  And of
course there are many unpleasant things connected
with poverty that one would rather hide from the
eyes of a young lady, and that can't well be hidden:
though I don't know that her nature, if she has a
fine and noble nature, need suffer from that.  For
example, it isn't nice for her to see her grandfather
served with a writ; but many excellent people have
been served with writs; it doesn't follow that
Mr. Bethune must be a thief because he has no
money—or perhaps because he has been negligent about
some debt or other.  But even supposing that he
was a questionable person—even supposing that he
was in the habit of using doubtful means to
supplement his precarious income; isn't that all the
greater reason why such a girl should be taken
away from such circumstances?"

Lord Musselburgh did not reply to this question.
He had heard from Mrs. Ellison that the granddaughter
was suspected, or more than suspected, of
being an accomplice; and although, of course, he
could not in the least say whether there was any
truth in this allegation, he deemed it wiser to hold
his tongue.

"Now you may put all that aside," Vincent went
on.  "That is all rubbish and trash—a pack of old
wives' stories.  And what I want of you, Musselburgh,
is to give me your honest opinion on a
certain point.  I ask for your advice.  I want you
to tell me what you think would happen in a
possible case.  And the main question is this:
assuming that I could persuade Miss Bethune to
marry me at once, and assuming also that her
grandfather approved—when the marriage had
actually taken place, what would my relatives say?
Or rather, that is not the question: the question is
what they would do.  I know what they would say.
They would be wild enough.  Their heads are full
of these foolish fancies and suspicions; and beside
that, I gather that they want me to marry some
noble damsel whose family would have political
influence.  Yes, they would be wild enough, no
doubt; but when they found the thing actually
settled, what would they do?  Would my father
make a deadly quarrel of it and cut me off with a
shilling, like something out of a play; or would he
exercise a little common-sense, and make the best
of it, seeing the thing was done?"

"Really," said Musselburgh, who seemed more
concerned than one might have expected from his
half-cynical, half-careless temperament, "you ask
me what I can't answer.  And giving advice is a
perilous business.  All I can say is this, Vin—you
seem to me to have got into a devilish awkward
position, and I wish to goodness you were out
of it."

"You think I regret anything that has
happened?" Vincent said.  "Not I!  I would not go
back—not for all the world.  But as for this
monetary difficulty, there it is; and it has to be faced.
You see, I have been brought up to do nothing;
and consequently I am in a measure dependent on
my father.  My own little income doesn't amount
to much.  Then again, if I were to marry Maisrie
Bethune, I should have to leave her grandfather
whatever small fund they have—I don't quite
understand about it—anyhow, I couldn't take that
away, for I imagine the old gentleman's earnings
from newspaper work are not very substantial or
regular.  Now what do you think my father would do?"

"Wouldn't it be the simplest thing to go and ask
him—to go and ask him now?" said Lord Musselburgh,
who clearly did not wish to assume any
responsibility in this serious matter.

"I can tell myself what he would say now,"
Vincent made answer; "the question is what he
would say then."

"After the marriage?"

"Yes."

His companion across the little table hesitated for
a second or two.

"You see, Vin, it isn't only in plays that fathers
get angry—unfortunately, it sometimes happens in
real life; and occasionally they get very angry
indeed.  According to your own showing, if your
father refused to acknowledge this marriage—if he
declared he would have nothing further to do with
you—you would find yourself in rather desperate
straits.  Why should you, with your eyes open,
walk into any such straits?  You know what may
happen.  And then—with a young wife—with next
to no resources—what would you do?  Let us come
to one definite and immediate thing, that I hope is
not far off now; who would pay your election
expenses at Mendover?"

"You yourself, Musselburgh, in the interests of
the party!"

"I am glad you can make a jest of the situation,
Vin——"

"No, really, I don't," Vincent said, more
seriously.  "But if I were to ask for my father's
consent I should not get it—I know that quite
well; and meanwhile this girl is supposed to be—oh,
I need not name the things!  You don't understand!
She is my dearest in all the world; how
can I stand by and allow these base accusations to
be brought against her, without protest?  And that
would be my protest!  That would show them what
I thought of their mean suspicions and their
preposterous charges."

"And thereafter?" said Lord Musselburgh.

"Thereafter?  Well, as I say, my father might
show some common sense and accept the thing,
seeing it was done.  I can tell you it isn't very
pleasant to find myself so dependent on any other
human being's reasonableness.  I haven't been used
to it.  I dare say I have been spoiled—things made
too easy for me.  And now when I look round and
wonder what I could turn to, I suppose I am simply
in the position of a thousand others, who haven't
had any special training.  The few articles I have
written have paid me well enough; but at present
I don't see anything substantial and permanent in
that direction.  If you were in office I should ask
you for a private secretaryship——"

"Why not ask someone who is in office?"

"I could not change my coat quite so quickly as that."

"Ah, you haven't had much experience in practical
politics," Lord Musselburgh observed.  "Well,
now, Vin, look here: it seems to me you are on the
brink of a tremendous catastrophe.  You have asked
for my advice; I will give it you frankly.  For
goodness sake, don't marry that girl!  She may be
everything you say; her grandfather may be
everything you say; but don't do anything rash—don't
do anything irrevocable.  And consider this: if
your relations should look on such a marriage with
disfavour, it is in your own interest; it is no selfish
wish on their part that you should marry well—marry
in your own sphere—marry some one who
would do you credit and be a fit companion for you.
Mind you, I say nothing against Miss Bethune—nothing;
I would not even if I could—I am not
such a fool—for I should simply anger you without
convincing you; but just consider for a moment
what her experiences must have been.  You know
what Mrs. Ellison so frequently talks about—the
sentimental fallacy of supposing that there is
anything intrinsically noble or beautiful about poverty.
I'm afraid she's right.  I am afraid that poverty is
altogether a debasing and brutalising thing,
destroying self-respect, stunting the mind as well as
the body."

"Yes," said Via Harris, rather scornfully, "I am
quite aware that is the opinion of poverty held by
the rich.  They show it.  They profess to believe
what the Sermon on the Mount says about the
Kingdom of Heaven being reserved for the poor;
but catch any single man-jack of them putting
aside his riches in order to secure that other
inheritance!  Not much!  He prefers the Kingdom
he has got—in consols."

"I was only wondering," Musselburgh said, with a
little hesitation, "what influence those—those
associations might have had on Miss Bethune herself.
Not the best training for a young girl, perhaps?"

"If she had been brought up in a thieves' den,"
said Vincent, hotly, "she would have remained the
pure and beautiful-souled creature that she is now.
But I see there is no use talking.  I have asked for
your advice—for your opinion; and you have given
it to me.  I thank you, and there's an end."

He rose.  But his friend also rose at the same
moment.

"No, no, Vin, you're not going to quarrel with
me.  Come into the smoking-room, and we'll have
a cigarette."

Nor did he wish to quarrel.  They left the
coffee-room together.  But as luck would have it,
in crossing the hall, he chanced to look towards the
front door; and behold!  all the outer world was
shining in clear sunlight.  It suddenly occurred to
this young man that he had been sitting plunged in
gloom, listening to coward counsels, regarding the
future as something dark; while there—out
there—the golden pavements, and the far-shimmering
sea, and the wide white skies spoke only of hope,
and seemed to say that Maisrie would soon be
coming along, proud and tall and sweet.  Why, it
was to her that he ought to have appealed—not to
any timorous, vacillating temporiser; it was her
hands he ought to have taken and held, that he
might read the future in her true eyes.  And so,
with some brief words of apology and thanks, he
left Lord Musselburgh, and made his way into the
outer air: this was to breathe more freely—this was
to have the natural courage of youth mounting into
the brain.

He walked away along the King's Road; and
unconsciously to himself he held his head erect; as
if in imitation of the stout-hearted old man who,
despite his threescore years and ten, could still bear
himself so bravely in face of all the world.  Moreover,
there were some lines in one of Maisrie's songs
haunting him; but not in any sad way; nay, he
found himself dwelling on the *r*'s, as if to recall her
soft pronunciation:—

   |  Elle fit un' rencontre
   |  De trente matelots,
   |  De trente matelots
   |    Sur le bord de l' île.

He had thrust aside those pusillanimous counsels:
out here was the sunlight and the fresh-blowing
wind; his soul felt freer; he would gain new
courage from Maisrie's eyes.  This was the kind
of morning to bring a touch of crimson to the
transparent pallor of her cheek; her teeth would
glisten when she laughed; her graceful step would
be lighter, more buoyant, than ever.  *Sursum corda*!
Nay, he could have found it in his heart to adopt
the proud-sounding 'Stand Fast, Craig-Royston!'—if
only to fling it back in the face of those who
had brought those monstrous accusations.

His long and swinging stride soon carried him to
the house in German Place, where he found George
Bethune and his granddaughter just making ready
to come out.

"This will not do, Maisrie," said old George
Bethune, in his gay, emphatic fashion.  "Too much
idleness.  Too much idleness.  Fresh air is all
very well; but we must not become its slaves.
Remember Horace's warning.  '*Tu, nisi ventis debes
ludibrium, cave*.'"

"Why, who could keep at work on a morning
like this!" Vincent protested.  "A west wind and
brilliant sunlight are not so common in December.
It makes it hard for me that I've to go away to-morrow."

"Are you going away to-morrow, Vincent?" said
Maisrie, regarding him.

"Yes," said he.  "I have to go down to Mendover
on Thursday, to deliver a sort of address—a
lecture—and I've only got the heads and divisions
sketched out as yet.  I wish I could escape it
altogether; but I dare not play any tricks at
present; I'm on my best behaviour.  And this time
at least I don't mean to drag Lord Musselburgh
down with me; I'm going alone."

"And after that you return to London?" she asked.

He hardly knew what to say.  A single word of
encouragement from either of them, and he would
at once and gladly have promised to come back to
Brighton at the earliest possible moment; but he
had not forgotten the implied understanding on
which Maisrie and her grandfather had come away
from their lodgings in Mayfair.

"Yes, to London," he replied vaguely.  "But I
have no definite plans at present.  I dare say my
aunt, Mrs. Ellison, will want me to come down here
at Christmas."

When they were outside, and had gone on to the
Parade, he besought his two companions, instead of
taking their accustomed stroll into the town, to
come away out into the country.  The Downs, he
said, would be looking very cheerful on so pleasant
a morning.  And of course it mattered little to
them whither they went.  They acceded at once;
and by-and-bye they had left the wide thoroughfare
and the houses behind them, and were walking
along the soft turf, alone with the cliffs, and the sea,
and the smooth, faintly-coloured uplands.  The
spring-time was not yet; but there were hues of
green and red in those far-stretching breadths of
soil; and the sky was of a cloudless blue.

And how strange it was that out here in the open,
in the clear sunlight, those dark imaginings of the
Private Inquiry Offices seemed to fall helplessly
away from these two friends of his, and they
themselves stood sharply defined just as he had always
known them—the two solitary and striking figures
that his fancy had invested with so pathetic an
interest.  Mentally he addressed Lord Musselburgh:
'Come and see them here—in the white light of day—and
ask yourself whether you can believe in those
midnight things you have heard of them.  Look
at this girl: you say yourself she is of extraordinary
beauty; but is there not a still stranger fascination—is
there not something that wins the heart to
sympathy, and pity, and respect?  Look at the
pensive character of her mouth—look at the strange
resignation in the beautiful eyes: perhaps her life
has not been altogether too happy?—and is that to
be brought as a charge against her?  Then this old
man—look at his proud bearing—look at the
resolute set of his head—his straight glance—the
courage of his firm mouth: has he the appearance,
the demeanour, of a sharper, of a plausible and
specious thief?'  At this moment, at all events, it
did not seem as if George Bethune's mind was set
upon any swindling scheme.  As he marched along,
with head erect, and with eyes fixed absently on the
far horizon, he was reciting to himself, in sonorous
tones, the metrical version of the Hundredth
Psalm—

   |  'O enter then His gates with praise,
   |    Approach with joy his courts unto;
   |  Praise, laud, and bless His name always,
   |    For it is seemly so to do.
   |  For why? the Lord our God is good,
   |    His mercy is for ever sure;
   |  His truth at all times firmly stood,
   |    And shall from age to age endure.'

No doubt it was some reminiscence of his
youthful days—perhaps a Saturday night's task—that
had lain dormant in his memory for sixty years or
more.

The two young folk were mostly silent; they had
plenty to think about—especially in view of
Vincent's departure on the morrow.  As for him, his
one consuming desire was to make sure of Maisrie,
now that she had disclosed her heart to him; he
wished for some closer bond, some securer tie, so
that, whatever might happen, Maisrie should not be
taken away from him.  For he seemed to know as
if by some inscrutable instinct that a crisis in his
life was approaching.  And it was not enough that
her eyes had spoken; that she had given him the
sandal-wood necklace; that she had striven with an
almost pathetic humility to show her affection and
esteem.  He wished for some clearer assurance with
regard to the future.  Those people in the
background who had pieced together that malignant
story: were they not capable of further and more
deadly mischief?  He had affected to scorn them
as mere idle and intermeddling fools; but they
might become still more aggressive—enemies
striking at him and at his heart's desire from the
dim phantom-world that enshrouded them.  Anyhow,
he meant to act now, on his own discretion.
Lord Musselburgh's advice was no doubt worldly-wise
enough and safe; but it was valueless in these
present circumstances.  Vincent felt that his life
was his own, and that the moment had come when
he must shape it towards a certain end—for good or
ill, as the years might show.

After a pretty long walk along the cliffs, they
returned to the town (on the Parade they met
Sherry, who cheerfully informed them that he was
on the point of starting for Monte Carlo, and hoped
they would wish him good luck) and Vincent was
easily persuaded by Maisrie to share their modest
luncheon with them.  Thereafter, when tobacco was
produced, she begged to be excused for a little
while, as she had some sewing to do in her own
room; and thus it was that Vincent, quite suddenly
and unexpectedly, found himself presented with an
opportunity of approaching the old man on the
all-important theme.  But on this occasion he was
much more precise and urgent in his prayer; for
he had thought the whole matter clearly out, through
many a sleepless hour; and his plans lay fixed and
definite before him.

"You yourself," he went on, "have often hinted
that your future movements were uncertain—you
might have to go away—and—and then I don't say
that either Maisrie or I would forget—only I am
afraid of absence.  There appear to be certain
people who don't wish you well; there might be
more stories; who can tell what might not happen?
Indeed," said he, regarding the old man a little
anxiously, "I have been thinking that—that if
Maisrie would consent—our getting married at once
would be the safest and surest tie of all.  I have
not spoken of it to her—I thought I would put it
before you first——"

Here he paused, in something of anxious uncertainty.

"Married at once?" George Bethune repeated,
slowly.  There was no expression of surprise or
resentment; the old man waited calmly and
courteously for further elucidation of these plans;
his eyes were observant and attentive—but quite
inscrutable.

"And I want to show you how I am situated,"
Vincent went on (but not knowing what to make of
that perfectly impassive demeanour).  "I hope
there is no need to conceal anything—indeed, I
should think you were pretty well acquainted with
my circumstances by this time.  You know my
father is a rich man.  I am his only son; and I
suppose I shall inherit his fortune.  I have a little
money of my own—not much of an annual income,
to be sure; and I have some friends who would help
me if the worst came to the worst, but I don't see
how that necessity should arise.  For myself, I have
unfortunately been brought up to no profession; I
was trained for public life—for polities—if for
anything: it has never been considered necessary that
I should learn some method of making my own
living.  That is a misfortune—I can see that now;
but at least I have been trying to do something of
late; and I have got some encouragement; if there
were any need, I fancy I could earn a modest
income by writing for the newspapers.  You have
seen one or two of those articles—and I have
been offered introductions, as you know.  Well,
now——"

And again he paused.  All this had been more or
less of plain sailing: now he was approaching a
much more delicate matter.

"Well—the fact is—there has been some envious
tittle-tattle—wretched stuff—not worth mentioning
—except for this: that if I went to my father and
told him I wished to marry your granddaughter, he
would be opposed to it.  Yes, that is the truth.  He
does not know you; he has never even seen Maisrie;
and of course he goes by what he hears—absolute
folly as it is.  However," Vincent continued, with
some effort at cheerfulness (for he was glad to get
away from that subject without being questioned),
"the main point is this: if Maisrie and I were to
get married, at once—as we have the right to
do—we are surely of sufficient age—we know our own
minds—I am quite certain my father would accept
the whole affair good-naturedly and reasonably, and
all would be well.  Then see what it would be for
Maisrie to have an assured position like that!  She
would be able to give up her share in the small
income you once spoke of; that would be altogether
yours; and surely you would be glad to know that
her future was safe, whatever might happen.  There
would practically be no separation between you and
her; it isn't as if she were moving into another
sphere—among pretentious people; in fact, all the
advantages are on her side; if we have plenty of
money, she has birth and name and family; and
then again, when Maisrie and I took up house for
ourselves, there would be no more welcome guest
than her grandfather.  I think I can promise that."

There was silence for a moment—an ominous silence.

"Has Maisrie," said George Bethune, with slow
and measured enunciation, and he regarded the
young man from under his shaggy eyebrows, "has
Maisrie intimated to you her wish for that—that
arrangement?"

"No," said Vincent, eagerly.  "How could she?
I thought I was bound to speak to you first; for of
course she will do nothing without your approval.
But don't you think she has had enough of a
wandering life—enough of precarious circumstances;
and then if her heart says yes too——?"

Well, if this venerable impostor had at last
succeeded in entrapping a rich man's son—in
getting him to propose marriage to his
granddaughter—he did not seem to be in a hurry to
secure his prey.

"Maisrie has said nothing?" George Bethune
asked again, in that curiously impassive fashion.

"No——"

"Has expressed no wish?"

"No—I have not spoken to her about this
immediate proposal."

"Then, until she has," said the old man, calmly,
"I must refuse any consent of mine.  I think you
have described the whole situation very fairly—clearly
and honestly, as I imagine; but I do not
see any reason for departing from what I said to
you before, that I would rather my granddaughter
was not bound by any formal tie or pledge—much
less by such a marriage as you propose.  For one
thing, she may have a future before her that she
little dreams of.  Of course, if her happiness were
involved, if she came to me and said that only by
such and such an arrangement could her peace of
mind be secured, then I might alter my views: at
present I see no cause to do so.  You are both
young: if you care for each other, you should be
content to wait.  Years are a valuable test.  After
all, according to your own showing, you are
dependent on your father's caprice: some angry
objection on his part—and where would the fortunes
of the young married couple be?"

But Vincent was too impetuous to be easily
discouraged.

"Even then I should not be quite helpless," he
urged.  "And is my willingness to work to count
for nothing?  However, that is not the immediate
question.  Supposing Maisrie's happiness *were*
concerned?—supposing she were a little tired of
the uncertainty of her life?—supposing she were
willing to trust herself to me—what then?  Why,
if she came to you, and admitted as much, I know
you would consent.  Is not that so?—I know it is
so!—you would consent—for Maisrie's sake!"

The old man's eyes were turned away now—fixed
on the slumbering coals in the grate.

"I had dreamed of other things," he said, almost
to himself.

"Yes; but if Maisrie came to you?" Vincent
said, with the same eagerness—almost, indeed, with
some trace of joyous assurance—"She would not
have long to plead, I think!  And then again, at
any moment, my circumstances might be so altered
as to give you all the guarantee for the future which
you seem to think necessary.  A word from my
father to-morrow might settle that: if I went to
him, and could get him to understand what Maisrie
really was.  Or I might obtain some definite post:
I have some good friends: I am going up to London
to-morrow, and could begin to make inquiries.  In
the meantime," he added hastily—for he heard
someone on the stair—"do you object to my telling
Maisrie what you have said?"

"What I have said?  I dare say she knows," old
George Bethune made answer, in an absent sort of
way—and at this moment Maisrie entered the room,
bringing her sewing with her, and further speech
was impossible.

It was on this same afternoon that Lord Musselburgh
carried along to his fair fiancée a report of
the interview he had had with Vincent in the
morning.  The young widow was dreadfully alarmed.

"Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed, and she
began to pace up and down the room in her
agitation.  "Marry the girl at once?  Why, it is
destruction!  Fancy what all our plans and
interests, all our lives, would be—with Vin cut out!
It cannot be—it shall not be—it must be prevented
at any cost!  He would be dead—worse than
dead—we should be pitying him always, and knowing
where he was, and not able to go near him.  You
don't mean to say he is definitely resolved?" she
demanded in her desperation.

"Indeed, there is no doubt about it—he spoke as
plainly as you could wish," said Lord Musselburgh.
"And he has argued the thing out; his head is
clear enough, for all this wild infatuation of his.
He sees that his father will not consent—beforehand;
so he means to marry, and then hope for
reconciliation when the whole affair is past praying for.
That's the programme, you may depend on it."

"Harland must know at once," said Mrs. Ellison,
going instantly to her writing-desk.  "This must
and shall be prevented.  I am not going to have
my boy's life ruined by a pack of begging-letter
swindlers and cheats!"





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.. _`"AND HAST THOU PLAYED ME THIS!"`:

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   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium

   "AND HAST THOU PLAYED ME THIS!"

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And now in this time of urgency the appeal was to
Maisrie herself; and how could he doubt what her
answer would be, in spite of all those strange and
inexplicable forebodings that seemed to haunt her
mind?

But when he got up next morning he found to
his dismay that a sudden change in the weather
was like to interfere in a very practical manner
with his audacious plans.  During the night the
wind had backed to the south-west, accompanied by
a sharp fall of the barometer; and now a stiff gale
was blowing, and already a heavy sea was thundering
in on the beach.  There was as yet no rain, it
is true; but along the southern horizon the louring
heavens were even darker than the wind-driven
waters; and an occasional shiver of white sunlight
that swept across the waves spoke clearly enough of
coming wet.  Was it not altogether too wild and
stormy a morning to hope that Maisrie would
venture forth?  And yet he was going away that
day—with great uncertainty as to the time of his
return; and how could he go without having some
private speech with her?  Nor was there any
prospect of a lightening up of the weather outside;
the gale seemed to be increasing in fury; and he
ate his breakfast in silence, listening to the long,
dull roar and reverberation of the heavy-breaking surf.

Nevertheless here was a crisis; and something
had to be done; so about half-past ten he went
along to the lodging-house in German Place.  The
servant-maid greeted this handsome young man
with an approving glance; and informed him that
both Mr. and Miss Bethune were in the parlour
upstairs.

"No, thank you," said he, in answer to this
implied invitation, "I won't go up.  I want to see
Miss Bethune by herself: would you ask her if she
would be so kind as to come downstairs for just
a moment—I won't detain her——"

The girl divined the situation in an instant; and
proved herself friendly.  Without more ado she
turned the handle of a door near her.

"Won't you step in there, sir?—the gentleman
'as gone out."

Vincent glanced into the little parlour.  Here,
indeed, was a refuge from the storm; but all the
same he did not like to invade the privacy of a
stranger's apartments.

"Oh, no, thanks," he said.  "I will wait here, if
Miss Bethune will be so kind as to come down for a
minute.  Will you ask her, please?"

The girl went upstairs; returned with the
message that Miss Bethune would be down directly;
then she disappeared, and Vincent was left alone in
this little lobby.  It was not a very picturesque
place, to be sure, for an interview between two
lovers: still, it would serve—especially if the
friendly chambermaid were out of earshot, and if
no prying landlady should come along.  The gale
outside was so violent that all the doors and windows
of the house were shaking and rattling: he could
not ask Maisrie to face such a storm.

But in a second or so here was Maisrie herself, all
ready apparelled—hat, muff, gloves, boa, and the
furred collar of her jacket turned up.

"Why, Maisrie," he said, "you don't mean you
are going out on such a morning—it is far too wild
and stormy!——"

"That is of no consequence," she made answer,
simply.  "I have something to say to you, Vincent,
before you go."

"And I have something to say to you, Maisrie.
Still," he continued, with some little hesitation (for
he was accustomed to take charge of her and guard
her from the smallest harms), "I don't want you to
get wet and blown about—"

"What does that matter?" she said: it was not
of a shower of rain that she was thinking.

"Oh, very well," said he at last.  "I'll tell you
what we'll do; we'll fight our way down to the
sea-front, and then go out to the end of the Chain Pier.
There are some places of shelter out there; and
there won't be a living soul anywhere about on such
a morning.  For I am going to ask you to make a
promise, Maisrie," he added in a lower voice, "and the
sea and the sky will be quite sufficient witnesses."

And truly this was fighting their way, as they
discovered the moment they had left the house;
for the gusts and squalls that came tearing along
the street were like to choke them.  She clung to
his arm tightly; but her skirts were blown about
her and impeded her; the two ends of her boa went
flying away over her shoulders; while her hair was
speedily in a most untoward state—though her
companion thought it was always prettier that way
than any other.  Nevertheless they leant forward
against the wind, and drove themselves through it,
and eventually got down to the sea-front.  Here,
again, they were almost stunned by the terrific
roar; for the tide was full up; and the huge,
brown, concave, white-crested waves, thundering
down on the shelving shingle, filled all the thick
air with spray; while light balls of foam went
sailing away inland, tossed hither and thither up
into the purple-darkened sky.  So far the driving
squalls had brought no rain; but the atmosphere
was surcharged with a salt moisture; more than
once Vincent stopped for a second and took his
handkerchief to dry Maisrie's lashes and eyebrows,
and to push back from her forehead the fine wet
threads of her glistening hair.

But soon they had got away from this roar of
water and grinding pebbles, and were out on the
pier, that was swaying sinuously before these fierce
trusts, and that trembled to its foundations under
each successive shock of the heavy surge.  And
now they could get a better view of the wide and
hurrying sea—a sea of a tawny-brownish hue
melting into a vivid green some way further out, and
always and everywhere showing swift flashes of
white, that seemed to gleam all the more suddenly
and sharply where the weight of the purple skies
darkened down to the horizon.

"What a shame it is," he said to her (perhaps
with some affectation of cheerfulness, for she seemed
curiously preoccupied), "What a shame it is to drag
you out on such a morning!"

"I do not mind it," she made answer.  "It will
be something to remember."

When they reached the end of the pier, which
was wholly deserted, he ensconced her snugly in a
corner of one of the protected seats; and he was
not far away from her when he sate down.  Her
lips had grown pale with the buffeting of the wind;
the outside threads and plaits of her hair were
damp and disordered; and her eyes were grave even
to sadness; and yet never had the strange witchery
of her youthful beauty so entirely entranced him.
Perhaps it was the dim fear of losing her, that
dwelt as a sort of shadow in his mind even when he
was most buoyed up by the radiant confidence of
four-and-twenty; perhaps it was the knowledge
that, for a time at least, this was to be farewell; at
all events he sate close to her, and held her hand
tight, as though to make sure she should not be
stolen away from him.

"Maisrie," said he, "do you know that I spoke
to your grandfather yesterday?"

"Yes," she answered.  "He told me."

"And what did he say?"

"At first," she said, with a bit of a sigh, "he
talked of Balloray.  I was sorry that came up
again; he is happier when he does not think of it.
And, indeed, I have noticed that of late he has
almost given up speaking of the possibility of a
great change in our condition.  What chance is
there of any such thing?  We have no money to
go to law, even if the law had not already decided
against us.  Then grandfather's idea that the
estates might come to us through some accident, or
series of accidents—what is that but a dream?  I
am sure he is far more content when he forgets
what might have been; when he trusts entirely to
his own courage and self-reliance; when he is
thinking, not of lost estates, but of some ballad he
means to write about in the *Edinburgh Chronicle*.
Poor grandfather!—and yet, who can help admiring
his spirit—the very gaiety of his nature—in spite
of all his misfortunes?"

"Yes, Maisrie—but—but what did he say about you?"

"About me?" the girl repeated.  "Well, it was
his usual kindness.  He said I was only to think of
what would tend to my own happiness.  Happiness?"
she went on, rather sadly.  "As if this
world was made for happiness!"

It was a strange speech for one so young—one
who, so far as he could make out, had been so
gently nurtured and cared for.

"What do you mean, Maisrie?" said he in his
astonishment.  "Why should you not have happiness,
as well as another?  Who can deserve it more
than you—you who are so generous and well-wishing
to everyone—"

"I would rather not speak of myself at all,
Vincent," she said.  "That is nothing.  I want to
speak of you.  I want you to consider—what is best
for you.  And I understand your position—perhaps
more clearly than you imagine.  You have made
me think, of late, about many things; and now
that you are going away, I must speak frankly.  It
will be difficult.  Perhaps—perhaps, if you were
more considerate, Vincent—?"

"Yes?" said he.  That Maisrie should have to
beg for consideration!

"There might be no need of speaking," she went
on, after that momentary pause.  "If you were to
go away now, and never see us any more, wouldn't
that be the simplest thing?  There would be no
misunderstanding—no ill-feeling of any kind.  You
would think of the time we knew you in London—and
I'm sure I should always think of it—as a
pleasant time: perhaps something too good to last.
I have told you before: you must remember what
your prospects are—what all your friends expect of
you—and you will see that no good could come of
hampering yourself—of introducing someone to your
family who would only bring difficulty and trouble—"

"Yes, I understand!" he said—and he threw
away her hand from him.  "I understand now.
But why not tell the truth at once—that you do
not love me—as I had been fool enough to think you did!"

"Yes, perhaps I do not love you," she said in a
low voice.  "And yet I was not thinking of myself.
I was trying to think of what was best for you—"

Her voice broke a little, and there were tears
gathering on her eyelashes: seeing which made
him instantly contrite.  He caught her hand again.

"Maisrie, forgive me!  I don't know why you
should talk like that!  If I have your love I do
not fear anything that may happen in the future.
There is nothing to fear.  When I spoke to your
grandfather yesterday afternoon, I told him
precisely how I was situated; and I showed him that,
granting there were some few little difficulties, the
best way to meet them would be for you and me to
get married at once: then everything would come
right of its own accord—for one must credit one's
relatives with a little common sense.  Now that is
my solution of all this trouble—oh, yes, I confess
there has been a little trouble; but here is my
solution of it—if you have courage, Maisrie.
Maisrie, will you give me your promise—will you
be my wife?"

She looked at him for a second; then lowered
her eyes.

"Vincent," she said slowly, "you don't know
what you ask.  And I have wished that you would
understand, without my having to speak.  I have
wished that you would understand—and go away—and
make our friendship a memory, something to
think over in after years.  For how can I tell you
clearly without seeming cruel and ungrateful to
one who has through my whole life been kindness
and goodness to me?—no!—no!"

She withdrew her hand; she turned away from
him altogether.

"Maisrie," said he, "I don't want you to say
anything, except that you love me, and will be my wife."

"Your wife, Vincent—your wife!" she exclaimed,
in a piteous sort of way.  "How can you ask any
one to be your wife who has led the life that I have
led?  Can you not guess—Vincent—without my
having to speak?"

He was astounded—but not alarmed: never had
his faith in her flinched for a single instant.

"The life you have led?" said he, rather breathlessly;
"Why—a—a beautiful life—an idyllic
life—constant travel—and always treated with such
kindness and care and affection—an ideal life—why,
who would not envy you?"

She was sobbing—with her head averted.

"Don't, Vincent, don't!  I cannot—I will not—tell
you," she said, in a kind of despair.  "What is
the use?  But it is you who have made me think—it
is you who have shown me clearly what I have
been.  I—I was young—I was only a child; my
grandfather was everything to me; whatever he
did was right.  And now I have become a woman
since I knew you—I can see myself—and I know
that never, never can I be your wife."

"Maisrie!"

But she paid no heed.  She was strangely
excited.  She rose to her feet: and for a moment he
thought he saw a look of her grandfather in her
face.

"And yet even in my degradation—my degradation,"
she said, repeating the words with cruel
emphasis, "I have some pride.  I know what
your friends think of me: or I can guess.  Perhaps
they are right.  Perhaps the stories you spoke of
were all to be believed.  That is neither here nor
there now.  But, at least, they need not be afraid
that I am coming to them as a suppliant.  I will
not bring shame upon them; they have nothing to
fear from me."

He regarded her with astonishment, and with
something of reproach also: these proud tones did
not sound like Maisrie's voice.  And all of a sudden
she changed.

"Why, Vincent, why," she said, "should you put
yourself in opposition to your friends?  Why give
up all the splendid future that is before you?  Why
disappoint all the hopes that have been formed of
you——?"

"If need were, for the sake of your love, Maisrie,"
he said.

"My love?" she said.  "But you have that,
Vincent—and—and you shall have that always!"

And here she burst into a passionate fit of weeping;
and in vain he tried to soothe her.  Nay, she
would not have him speak.

"Let this be the last," she said, through her
bitter sobs.  "Only—only, Vincent, don't go away
with any doubt about that in your mind.  I love
you!—I shall love you always!—I will give my life
to thinking of you—when you are far too occupied—ever
to think of me.  Will you believe me,
Vincent!—Will you believe, always, that I loved
you—that I loved you too well to do what you
ask—to become a drag on you—and a shame."  The
tears were running down her cheeks; but she kept
her eyes fixed bravely and piteously on him, as she
uttered her wild, incoherent sentences.  "My
dearest—my dearest in all the world—will you
remember—will you believe that always?  Will
you say to yourself, 'Wherever Maisrie is at this
moment, she loves me—she is thinking of
me.'  Promise me, Vincent, that you will never doubt
that!  No—you need not put it into words: your
heart tells you that it is true.  And now, Vincent,
kiss me!—kiss me, Vincent!—and then good-bye!"

She held up her face.  He kissed her lips, that
were salt with the sea-foam.  The tangles of her
wind-blown hair touched his cheek—and thrilled him.

He did not speak for a moment.  He was over-awed.
This pure confession of a maiden soul had
something sacred about it: how could he reply
with commonplace phrases about his friends and
the future?  And yet, here was Maisrie on the
point of departure; she only waited for a word of
good-bye; and her eyes, that were now filled with
a strange sadness and hopelessness, no longer
regarded him.  The farewell had been spoken—on
her side.

"And you think I will let you go, after what you
have just confessed?" he said to her—and his calm
and restrained demeanour was a sort of answer to
her trembling vehemence and her despair.  "You
give me the proudest possession a man may have on
this earth: and I am to stand idly by, and let it be
taken away from me.  Is that a likely thing?"

He took her hand, and put her back into the
sheltered corner.

"Sit down there, Maisrie, out of the wind.  I
want to talk to you.  I was a fool when I mentioned
those stories the other day: I could have cut my
tongue out the next moment.  And indeed I
thought you took no notice.  Why should you take
any notice?  Insensate trash!  And who escapes
such things?—and who is so childish as to heed
them?  Then again I remember your saying that
I knew nothing about your grandfather or yourself.
Do you think that is so?  Do you think I have
been all this time constantly in your society—watching
you—studying you—yes, and studying
you with the anxiety that goes with love—for, of
course, you want the one you love to be perfect—do
you imagine, after all this that I do not know
you and understand you?  Degradation!—very
well, I accept that degradation: I welcome all the
degradation that is likely to be associated with you.
If I were to wash my hands in that sort of degradation,
I think they would come out a little whiter!
I know you to be as pure and noble as the purest
and noblest woman alive; and what do I care about
your—your circumstances?"

"Don't, Vincent!—don't be kind to me, Vincent!"
she said, piteously.  "It will be all the harder to
think of when—when we are separated—and far
away from each other."

"Yes, but we are not going to separate," said he
briefly.  "Your grandfather has left you to decide
for yourself; and surely after what you have said
to me this morning, surely I have the right to
decide for you.  I tell you, we are not going to
separate, Maisrie—except for a few days.  When I
am up in London I mean to look round and see
what dispositions can be made with regard to the
future.  Oh, I assure you I am going to be very
prudent and circumspect; and I am ready to turn
my hand to anything.  Then, in another direction,
Maisrie, you might give me a hint," he went on,
with much cheerfulness, but watching her to see
how she would take it.  "What part of London do
you think you would like best to live in?  If we
could get a small house with a garden up
somewhere about Campden Hill—that would be pleasant;
and of course there must be a library for your
grandfather, for we should want the privacy of the
morning-room for ourselves."

She shook her head.

"Dreams, Vincent, dreams!" she murmured.

"But sometimes dreams come true," said he, for
he was not to be daunted.  "And you will see how
much dream-work there will be about it when I get
things put into trim in London.  Now I'm not
going to keep you here any longer, Maisrie; for I
fancy there is some rain coming across; and you
mustn't be caught.  I will go in and say good-bye to
your grandfather, if I may; and the next you will
hear of me will be when I send you some news from
town.  In the meantime, hearts up, Maisrie!—surely
the granddaughter of your grandfather
should show courage!"

When, that afternoon, Vincent arrived in London,
he did not go to his temporary lodgings (what
charm had the slummy little street in Mayfair for
him now?) but to Grosvenor Place, where he shut
himself up in his own room, and managed to get on
somehow with that detested lecture.  And next
day he went down to Mendover: and next evening
he made his appearance before the Mendover
Liberal Association; and there were the customary
votes of thanks to wind up the proceedings.  There
was nothing in all this worthy of note: what was of
importance happened after, when the President of
the Association, who had occupied the chair in the
absence of Lord Musselburgh, accompanied Vincent
home to the Red Lion.  This Mr. Simmons was a
solicitor, and a great political power in Mendover;
so, when he hinted that the Red Lion had a certain
bin of port that was famous all over the county—and,
indeed, was powerful enough to draw many a
hunt-dinner to this hostelry by its own influence
alone—be sure that Master Vin was not long in
having a decanter of the wine placed on the table
of the private parlour he had engaged.  Mr. Simmons,
who was a sharp, shrewd-looking little man,
with a pale face and intensely black hair and
short-cropped whiskers, suggested a cigar, and took the
largest he could find in his host's case.  Then he
proceeded to make himself important and happy—with
his toes on the fender, and his shoulders softly
cushioned in an easy chair.

"Yes," said he, complacently, when the cigar
was going well, "I think I can predict some good
fortune for you, and that without having my hand
crossed with a shilling.  I hope I am breaking no
confidence; we lawyers are supposed to be as mum
as a priest after confessional; but of course what is
said between gentlemen will go no further than the
four walls of this room."

"I think you may trust me for that," Vincent said.

"Very well, then," continued Mr. Simmons, with
an air of bland consequence.  "I will say this at
least—that in January you may fairly expect to
be offered a very pretty New Year's present."

"Oh, really," said Vincent, without being much
impressed: he fancied the Liberal Association were
perhaps going to pass a vote of thanks—possibly
inscribed on vellum—with the names of all the
officials writ large.

"A very pretty present: the representation of Mendover."

But at this he pricked up his ears; and Mr. Simmons
smiled.

"Mr. Richard Gosford is my client, as I think
you know," the black-a-viced little lawyer went on,
"but what I am telling you does not come direct
from him to me.  I need not particularise my
sources of information.  But from what I can
gather I am almost certain that he means to resign
at the end of the year—he did talk of waiting for
the next General Election, as Lord Musselburgh
may have told you; but his imaginary troubles
have grown on him; and as far as I can see there
will be nothing for you but to slip easily and
quietly into his shoes next January.  A very pretty
New Year's present!"

"But of course there will be a contest!" Vincent
exclaimed.

"Not a bit," Mr. Simmons made answer, regarding
the blue curls of smoke from the cigar.  "The
snuggest little seat in England.  Everybody knows
you are Lord Musselburgh's nominee; and Lord
Musselburgh has promised to do everything for our
public park that Mr. Gosford ought to have done
when he presented the ground.  See?  No bribery
on your part.  Simple as daylight.  We'll run you
in as if you were an infant on a wheelbarrow."

"It's very kind of you, I'm sure," said Vincent.
"Is there anything you would recommend me to do——?"

"Yes; I would recommend you to go and call
on old Gosford to-morrow, before you leave for town."

"Wouldn't that look rather like undue haste in
seizing a dead man's effects?" Vincent ventured to ask.

"A dead man?" said Mr. Simmons, helping himself
to another glass of port.  "He is neither dead
nor dying, any more than you or I.  And that's
what you've got to remember to-morrow, when you
go to see him.  For goodness' sake, don't tell him
he's looking well—as you've got to say to most
invalids.  Tell him he's looking very poorly.  Be
seriously concerned.  Then he'll be off to bed
again—and delighted.  For what he suffers from is
simply incurable laziness—and nervous timidity;
and so long as he can hide himself under the
blankets, and read books, he's happy."

"But what excuse am I to make for calling on
him?" Vincent asked again.

"Oh," said Mr. Simmons, carelessly, "one public
character visiting another.  You were here
delivering a lecture; and of course you called on the
sitting member.  You won't want any excuse if you
will tell him he should take extraordinary care of
himself in this changeable weather."

"And should I say anything about the seat?"
Vincent asked further.

"I must leave that to your own discretion.
Rather ticklish.  Perhaps better say nothing—unless
he introduces the subject: then you can talk
about the overcrowding of the House, and the late
hours, and the nervous wear and tear of London.
But you needn't suggest to him, in set terms, that
as he is retiring from business he might as well
leave you the goodwill: perhaps that would be a
little too outspoken."

As luck would have it, a day or two after Vin's
return to town, Mr. Ogden came to dine at
Grosvenor Place.  It was a man's dinner—a dinner of
political extremists and faddists; but so far from
Master Vincent retiring to his own room and his
books, as he sometimes did, he joined the party, and
even stipulated for a place next the great electioneerer
and wire-puller of the North.  Further than
that, he made himself most agreeable to Mr. Ogden:
was most meek and humble and good-humoured
(for to what deeps of hypocrisy will not a young
man descend when he is madly in love?), and
seemed to swallow wholesale the long-resounding
list of Reforms—Reforms Administrative, Reforms
Electoral, Reforms Fiscal, Reforms Social and
Political.  For all the while he was saying within
himself: 'My dear sir, perhaps what you say is
quite true: and we're all going headlong to the
devil—with the caucus for drag.  And I could wish
you to have a few more A's: still, many excellent
men have lived and died without them.  The main
point is this—if one might dare to ask—Is your
Private Secretaryship still open; and, if so, what
salary would you propose to give?'  But, of course,
he could not quite ask those questions at his own
father's dinner-table; besides, he was in no hurry;
he wanted a few more days to look round.

The guests of this evening did not go up to the
drawing-room; they remained in the dining-room,
smoking, until it was time for them to leave: then
Harland Harris and his son found themselves alone
together.  Now the relations between father and
son had been very considerably strained since the
morning on which the former had brought his
allegations against old George Bethune and his
granddaughter; but on this occasion Vincent was
in a particularly amiable and generous mood.  He
was pleased with himself for having paid court to
Mr. Ogden; he looked forward with some natural
gratification to this early chance of getting into
Parliament; and, again, what was the use of
attaching any importance to those preposterous
charges?  So he lit another cigarette; stretched
out his legs before the fire; and told his
father—but with certain reservations, for on one or
two points he was pledged to silence—what had
happened down at Mendover.

"I am heartily glad to hear it," said the
communist-capitalist, with a certain cold severity of
tone.  "I am glad to hear that you begin to realise
what are the serious interests of life.  You are a
very fortunate young man.  If you are returned for
Mendover, it will be by a concurrence of
circumstances such as could not easily have been
anticipated.  At the same time I think it might be
judicious if you went down again and hinted to
Mr.——what did you say?—Simmons?—Mr. Simmons
that in the event of everything turning
out well, there would be no need to wait for Lord
Musselburgh's contribution towards the completion
of the public park.  What Lord Musselburgh is
going to gain by that passes my comprehension.
I can hardly suppose that he made such a promise
in order to secure your election: that, indeed, would
be a wild freak of generosity—so wild as to be
incredible.  However," continued Mr. Harris, in his
pedantic and sententious manner, "it is unnecessary
to seek for motives.  We do not need to be indebted
to him.  I consider that it is of the greatest
importance that you should enter Parliament at an
early age; and I am willing to pay.  Mendover
ought to be a secure seat, if it is kept warm.
Promise them what you like—I will see to the rest.
There are other things besides a park, if they
prefer to keep Lord Musselburgh to his promise: a
free library, for example—if they have one already,
another one: a clubhouse for the football club—a
pavilion for the cricketers—a refreshment tent
for the tennis ground—a band to play on the
summer evenings—a number of things of that
kind that you could discover from your friend the
solicitor."

Vincent could have laughed, had he dared.  Here
he was invited to play the part of a great local
magnate, plutocrat, and benefactor; and it was less
than half-an-hour ago that he had been anxiously
wondering whether £200 a year, or £250 a year,
would be the probable salary of Mr. Ogden's private
secretary.  Harland Harris went on:

"It is so rarely that such an opportunity occurs—in
England at least—that one must not be niggardly
in welcoming it.  Simmons—did you say Simmons? is
clearly of importance: if you make him your
agent in these negotiations, that will be enough for
him—he will look after himself.  And he will keep
you safe: the elected member may steal a horse,
whereas as a candidate he daren't look over the
hedge.  And once you are embarked on a career of
public usefulness——"

"Bribery, do you mean?" said Vincent, meekly.

"I refer to the House of Commons: once you
have your career open to you, you will be able to
show whether the training you have undergone has
been the right one, or whether the ordinary
scholastic routine—mixed up with monkish
traditions—would have been preferable.  At all events
you have seen the world.  You have seen men, and
their interests, and occupations: not a parcel of
grown-up schoolboys playing games."  And therewithal
he bade his son good-night.

A day or two passed: Vincent was still making
discreet inquiries as to how a young man, with
some little knowledge of the world, and a trifle of
capital at his back, but with no specific professional
training, could best set to work to earn a moderate
income for himself; and also he was sounding one
or two editors for whom he had done some occasional
work as to whether employment of a more permanent
kind might be procurable.  Moreover, he had
ordered the little brooch for Maisrie—a tiny white
dove this was, in mother-of-pearl, on a transverse
narrow band of rubies; and besides that he had
picked up a few things with which to make her
room a little prettier, when she should return to
town.  Some of the latter, indeed, which were fit
for immediate installation, he had already sent
home; and one afternoon he thought he might as
well go up and see what Mrs. Hobson had done with
them.

It was the landlady's husband who opened the
door; and even as he ushered the young man up to
the parlour, he had begun his story, which was so
confused and disconnected and inclined to tears
that Vincent instantly suspected gin.

"Lor bless ye, sir, we ev bin in such a sad
quandary, to be sure, and right glad I am to see
you, sir, with them things a comin ome, and you
was so particular about not a word to be said, and
there was the missis, a angin of em up, and the
beautiful counterpane, all spread out so neat and
tidy, 'why,' says she, 'the Queen on the throne she
aint got nothin more splendid, which he is the most
generous young genelman, and jest as good as he's
ansome'—beggin' your pardon, sir, for women will
talk, and then in the middle of it hall, here comes
the old genelman as we were not expecting of im,
sir—ah, sir, a great man, a wonderful man, sir, in
sorrowful sikkumstances—and the young lady, too,
and hall to be settled up reglar—oh, heverythink,
sir—like a genelman——"

"What the mischief are you talking about?"
said Vincent, in his bewilderment.  "Do you mean
to say that Mr. Bethune and Miss Bethune have
been in London?"

"Yesterday, sir, yesterday, more's the pity, sir,
to give up their rooms for good and hall, for never
again shall we 'ev sich lodgers in this poor ouse.
A honour, sir, as was least knowed when it was
most appreciated, as one might say, sir, a man like
that, sir, a great man, sir, though awaitin his time,
like many others, and oldin is ead igh against fate
and fortune whatever the world might say.  And
the young lady—beautiful she was, as you know,
sir—as you know, sir—and as good as gold—well,
never again—in this poor ouse——"

"Look here," said Vincent, impatiently—for this
rigmarole threatened at any moment to dissolve in
maudlin weeping, "will you answer me one question:
am I to understand that Mr. Bethune and his
granddaughter are not coming back here?"

"Indeed, no, sir, more's the pity, sir, it was a
honour to this pore ouse, and heverythink paid up
like a genelman, though many's the time I was
sayin to the missis as she needn't be so ard——"

"Where have they gone, then?" the younger
man demanded, peremptorily.

"Lor bless ye, sir, it took me all of a suddent—they
didn't say nothin about that, sir—and I was
that upset, sir——"

Vincent glanced at his watch: five minutes past
four was the time.

"Oh, I see," he said, with a fine carelessness (for
there were wild and alarming suspicions darting
through his brain).  "They're going to remain in
Brighton, I dare say.  Well, good-bye, Hobson!
About those bits of things I sent up—you keep
them for yourself—tell Mrs. Hobson I make her a
present of them—you needn't say anything about
them to anybody."

He left the house.  He quickly crossed the street,
and went up to his own rooms: the table there was
a blank—he had almost expected as much.  Then
he went out again, hailed a hansom, drove down to
Victoria-station, and caught the four-thirty train to
Brighton.  When he reached the lodging-house in
German Place, he hardly dared knock: he seemed
to know already what was meant by this hurried
and stealthy departure.  His worst fears were
immediately confirmed.  Mr. Bethune—Miss Bethune—had
left the previous morning.  And did no one
know whither they had gone?  No one.  And there
was no message—no letter—for any one who might
call?  There was no message—no letter.

The young man turned away.  It was raining:
he did not seem to care.  Out there in the dark
was the solitary light at the end of the pier: why,
how many days had gone by since she had said to
him, with tears running down her cheeks—'Vincent,
I love you!—I love you!—you are my dearest in
all the world!—remember that always!'  And
what was this that she had done?—for that it was
of her doing; he had no manner of doubt.  Enough:
his heart, that had many a time been moved to pity
by her solitariness, her friendlessness, had no more
pity now.  Pride rose in its place—pride, and
reproach, and scorn.  There was but the one
indignant cry ringing in his ears—"False love—false
love—and traitress!"

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   END OF VOL. II.

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   LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
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