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

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 42731
   :PG.Title: Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume III)
   :PG.Released: 2013-05-17
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: William Black
   :DC.Title: Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume III)
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1891
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON! (VOLUME III)
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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. III.

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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. III.

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   CHAPTER

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   I.  `In Vain—in Vain`_
   II.  `Beyond Seas`_
   III.  `West and East`_
   IV.  `Enlightenment`_
   V.  `Marriage not a la Mode`_
   VI.  `A Split at Last`_
   VII.  `New Ways of Life`_
   VIII.  `In a Northern Village`_
   IX.  `A Babble o' Green Fields: the End`_

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.. _`IN VAIN—IN VAIN`:

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   STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON!

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   CHAPTER I.

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   IN VAIN—IN VAIN.

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One evening Mr. Courtnay Fox, the London
correspondent of the Edinburgh *Chronicle*, was as usual
in his own room in the office in Fleet-street, when a
card was brought to him.

"Show the gentleman up," said he to the boy.

A couple of seconds thereafter Vincent Harris
made his appearance.

"Mr. Fox?" said he, inquiringly.

The heavy-built journalist did not rise to receive
his visitor; he merely said—

"Take a chair.  What can I do for you?"

"No, thanks," said Vincent, "I don't wish to
detain you more than a moment.  I only wanted
to see if you could give me any information about
Mr. George Bethune."

"Well, that would be only fair," said the big,
ungainly man, with the small, keen blue eyes glinting
behind spectacles; "that would be only a fair
exchange, considering I remember how Mr. Bethune
came down here one night and asked for information
about you."

Vincent looked astonished.

"And I was able," continued Mr. Fox, "to give
him all the information he cared for—namely, that
you were the son of a very rich man.  I presume
that was all he wanted to know."

There was something in the tone of this speech—a
familiarity bordering on insolence—that Vincent
angrily resented; but he was wise enough to show
nothing: his sole anxiety was to have news of
Maisrie and her grandfather; this man's manner
did not concern him much.

"I do not ask for information about Mr. Bethune
himself; I dare say I know him as well as most
do," said he with perfect calmness.  "I only wish
to know where he is."

"I don't know where he is," said the burly
correspondent, examining the stranger with his small
shrewd eyes, "but I guarantee that, wherever he is,
he is living on the best.  Shooting stags in Scotland
most likely—"

"They don't shoot stags in December," said
Vincent, briefly.

"Or careering down the Mediterranean in a
yacht—gad, an auxiliary screw would come in handy for
the old man," continued Mr. Fox, grinning at his
own gay facetiousness; "anyhow, wherever he is,
I'll bet he's enjoying himself and living on the fat
of the land.  Merry as a cricket—bawling away at
his Scotch songs: I suppose that was how he amused
himself when he was in Sing Sing—perhaps he
learnt it there—"

"I thought you would probably know where he
is," said Vincent, not paying much heed to these
little jocosities, "if he happened to be sending in
to you those articles on the Scotch ballads—"

"Articles on Scotch ballads!" said Mr. Fox, with
a bit of a derisive laugh.  "Yes, I know.  A
collation of the various versions: a cold collation, I
should say, by the time he has got done with them.
Why, my dear sir, have you never heard of
Professor Childs, of Harvard College?"

"I have heard of Professor Child," said Vincent.

"Well, well, well, well, what is the difference?"
said the ponderous correspondent, who rolled from
side to side in his easy-chair as if he were in a bath,
and peered with his minute, twinkling eyes.  "And
indeed it matters little to me what kind of rubbish
is pitchforked into the *Weekly*.  If my boss cares
to do that kind of thing, for the sake of a 'brother
Scot,' that's his own look-out.  All I know is that
not a scrap of the cold collation has come here, or
has appeared in the *Weekly* as yet; so there is no
clue that way to the whereabouts of old Father
Christmas, old Santa Claus, the Wandering Scotch
Jew—if that is what you want."

"I am sorry to have troubled you," said Vincent,
with his hand on the door.

"Stop a bit," said Mr. Fox, in his blunt and
rather impertinent fashion.  "You and I might
chance to be of use to each other some day.  I like
to know the young men in politics.  If I can do you
a good turn, you'll remember it; or rather you
won't remember it, but I can recall it to you, when
I want you to do me one.  Take a seat.  Let's
make a compact.  When you are in the House,
you'll want the judicious little paragraph sent
through the provinces now and again: I can manage
all that for you.  Then you can give me an
occasional tip: you're in ——'s confidence, people
say—as much as any one can expect to be, that is.
Won't you take a seat?—thanks, that will be better.
I want to know you.  I've already made one
important acquaintanceship through your friend
Mr. Bethune: it was quite an event when the great
George Morris condescended to visit this humble
office——"

"George Morris!" said Vincent.

"Perhaps you know him personally?" Mr. Fox
said, and he went on in the most easy and affable
fashion: "I may say without boasting that I am
acquainted with most people—most people of any
consequence: it is part of my business.  But
George Morris, somehow, I had never met.  You
may imagine, then, that when he came down here,
to ask a few questions, I was precious glad to be of
such service as I could; for I said to myself that
here was just the man for me.  Take a great
scandal, for example—they do happen sometimes,
don't they?—even in this virtuous land of England:
very well—I go to George Morris—a hint from him—and
there I am first in the field: before the old
mummies of the London press have had time to
open their eyes and stare."

Vincent had brought a chair from the side of the
room, and was now seated: there was only the table,
littered with telegrams and proofs, between those two.

"Did I understand you to say," he asked, with
his eyes fixed on this man, "that George Morris had
come to you to make inquiries about Mr. Bethune?"

"You understood aright."

"Who sent him?" demanded Vincent, abruptly—for
there were strange fancies and still darker
suspicions flying through his head.

But Courtnay Fox smiled.

"George Morris, you may have heard, was not
born yesterday.  His business is to get out of you
what he can, and to take care you get nothing out
of him.  It was not likely he would tell me why he
came making these inquiries—even if I had cared
to ask, which I did not."

"You told him all you knew, of course, about
Mr. Bethune?" Vincent went on, with a certain cold
austerity.

"I did."

"And how much more?"

"Ah, very good—very neat," the spacious-waisted
journalist exclaimed with a noisy laugh.  "Very
good indeed.  But look here, Mr. Harris, if the
great solicitor was not born yesterday, you
were—in a way; and so I venture to ask you why you
should take such an interest in Mr. Bethune's affairs?"

Vincent answered him without flinching.

"Because, amongst other things, certain lies have
been put in circulation about Mr. Bethune, and I
wished to know where they arose.  Now I am
beginning to guess."

For an instant Mr. Courtnay Fox seemed
somewhat disconcerted; but he betrayed no anger.

"Come, come," said he, with an affectation of
good humour, "that is a strong word.  Morris heard
no lies from me, I can assure you.  Why, don't we
all of us know who and what old George Bethune
is!  He may flourish and vapour successfully
enough elsewhere; but he doesn't impose on
Fleet-street; we know him too well.  And don't imagine
I have any dislike towards your venerable friend;
not the slightest; in fact, I rather admire the
jovial old mountebank.  You see, he doesn't treat
me to too much of his Scotch *blague*; I'm not to
the manner born; and he knows it.  Oh, he's skilful
enough in adapting himself to his surroundings—like
a trout, that takes the colour of the pool he
finds himself in; and when he gets hold of a
Scotchman, I am told his acting of the rugged and manly
independence of the Scot—of the Drury Lane Scot,
I mean—is splendid.  I wonder he doesn't go and
live in Edinburgh.  They take things seriously
there.  They might elevate him into a great
position—make a great writer of him—they're in
sore need of one or two; and then every now and
again he could step out of his cloud of metaphysics,
and fall on something.  That's the way the Scotchmen
get hold of a subject; they don't take it up as
an ordinary Christian would; they fall on it.  We
once had an English poet called Milton; but Masson
fell on him, and crushed him, and didn't even leave
us an index by which to identify the remains.  Old
Bethune should go back to Scotland, and become
the Grand Lama of Edinburgh letters: it would be
a more dignified position than cadging about for a
precarious living among us poor southrons."

Vincent paid but small heed to all this farrago:
he was busily thinking how certain undoubted
features and circumstances of old George Bethune's
life might appear when viewed through the
belittling and sardonic scepticism of this man's mind;
and then again, having had that hue and shape
conferred upon them, how would they look when
presented to the professional judgment of such a
person as Mr. George Morris?

"The Scotch are the very oddest people in all
the world," Mr. Fox continued, for he seemed to
enjoy his own merry tirade.  "They'll clasp a
stranger to their bosom, and share their last bawbee
with him, if only he can prove to them that he,
too, was born within sight of MacGillicuddy's
Reeks——"

"MacGillicuddy's Reeks are in Ireland," said Vincent.

"Well, MacGillicuddy's Breeks—no, that won't
do; they don't wear such things in the north.  Any
unpronounceable place—any kind of puddle or
barren rock: to be born within sight of that means
that you own everything of honesty, and manliness,
and worth that's going—yes, worth—worth is a
sweet word—manly worth—it is the prerogative of
persons who have secured the greatest blessing on
earth, that of being born north of the Tweed.  Now,
why doesn't old George Bethune go away back
there; and wave his tartan plaid, and stamp, and
howl balderdash, and have monuments put up to
him as the White-haired Bard of Glen-Toddy?
That surely would be better than hawking bogus
books about London and getting subscriptions for
things that never appear; though he manages to
do pretty well.  Oh, yes, he does pretty well, one
way and another.  The cunning old cockroach—to
take that girl around with him, and get her to make
eyes at tradesmen, so as to swindle them out of
pounds of tea!"

But at this a sudden flame seemed to go through
the young man's brain—and unhappily he had his
stick quite close by.  In an instant he was on his
feet, his right hand grasping the cane, his left fixed
in the coat-collar of the luckless journalist, whose
inert bulk he was attempting to drag from the
chair.

"You vile hound!" Vincent said with set teeth—and
his nostrils were dilated and his eyes afire,
"I have allowed you to insult an old man—but
now—now you have gone too far.  Come out of
that—and I will break every bone in your body——!"

Down came the stick; but by a fortunate accident
it caught on the back of the chair, and the force of
the blow sent it flying in two.

"For God's sake—stop!" the other cried—but
in a terrified whisper—and his face was as white as
death.  "What are you doing!—are you mad!—I
beg your pardon—can I do more?  I beg your
pardon—for God's sake, have a little common sense!"

Vincent looked at the man: more abject cowardice
he had never beheld than was displayed in every
trembling limb of his huge carcase, in every feature
of the blanched face.  He flung him from him—in
disdain.

"Yes," said Mr. Fox, with a desperate effort at
composure, and he even tried to put his coat collar
to rights, though his fingers were all shaking, and
himself panting and breathless.  "You—you may
thank me—for—for having saved you.  If—I had
touched that bell—if I had called out—you would
have been ruined—ruined for life—a pretty story
for —— to hear—about his favourite protégé—increase
your chances of getting into Parliament,
wouldn't it?  Can't you take a bit of a
joke?—you're not a Scotchman!"

Vincent was still standing there, with louring
brow.

"When you are busy with your jokes," said he,
"I would advise you to keep any friends of mine
out of them—especially a girl who has no one to
defend her.  But I am glad I came here to-night.
I begin to understand in whose foul mind arose
those distortions, and misrepresentations, and lies.
So it was to you George Morris came when he
wanted to know about Mr. Bethune and his
granddaughter?  An excellent authority!  And it was
straight from you, I suppose, that George Morris
went to my father with his wonderful tale——"

"One moment," said Courtnay Fox—and he
appeared to speak with a little difficulty: perhaps
he still felt the pressure of knuckles at his neck.
"Sit down.  I wish to explain.  Mind you, I could
make this a bad night's work for you, if I chose.
But I don't, for reasons that you would understand
if you were a little older and had to earn your
own living, as I have.  It is my interest to make
friends——"

"And an elegant way you have of making them,"
said Vincent, scornfully.

"——and I want to assure you that I never said
anything to George Morris about Mr. Bethune that
was not quite well-known.  Nor had I the least
idea that Morris was going to your father; or that
you had the least interest or concern in the matter.
As for a bit of chaff about Scotland: who would
mind that?  Many a time I've had it out with
Mr. Bethune himself in this very room; and do you
suppose he cared?—his grandiloquent patriotism
soared far away above my little Cockney jests.  So
I wish you to perceive that there was no enmity in
the affair, no intention to do harm, and no
misrepresentation; and when you see that, you will see also
that you have put yourself in the wrong, and I
hope you will have the grace to apologise."

It was a most creditable effort to escape from
a humiliating position with some semblance of
dignity.

"Apologise for what?" said Vincent, staring.

"Why, for your monstrous and outrageous conduct
of this evening!"

—"I am to apologise?" said Vincent, with his
brows growing dark again.  "You introduce into
your scurrilous talk the name of a young lady who
is known to me—you speak of her in the most
insulting and gratuitous fashion—and—and I am
to apologise!  Yes, I do apologise: I apologise for
having brought such a fool of a stick with me: I
hope it will be a heavier one if I hear you make
use of such language again."

"Come, come, threats will not serve," said
Mr. Fox—but he was clearly nervous and apprehensive.
"Wouldn't it be better for you, now, to be a little
civil—and—and I could promise to send you
Mr. Bethune's address if I hear of it?  Wouldn't that
be better—and more reasonable?  Yes, I will—I
promise to send you his address if it comes in any
way to this office—isn't that more reasonable?"

"I thank you," said Vincent, with formal politeness;
and with an equally formal 'Good night' the
young man took his leave.  Mr. Courtnay Fox
instantly hid the broken portions of the cane (until
he should have a chance of burning them), and,
ringing the bell, called in a loud and manly voice
for the latest telegrams.

So Vincent was once more thrown back on himself
and his own resources.  During these past few days
he had sought everywhere for the two lost ones;
and sought in vain.  First of all he had made sure
they had left Brighton; then he had come to
London; and morning, noon, and night had visited
their accustomed haunts, without finding the least
trace of them.  He went from this restaurant to
that; in the morning he walked about the Parks;
he called at the libraries where they were known;
no sign of them could be found anywhere.  And
now, when he thought of Maisrie, his heart was no
longer angry and reproachful: nay, he grew to
think it was in some wild mood of self-sacrifice that
she had resolved to go away, and had persuaded
her grandfather to take her.  She had got some
notion into her head that she was a degraded
person; that his friends suspected her; that no
future as between him and her was possible; that
it was better they should see each other no more.
He remembered how she had drawn up her head
in maidenly pride—in indignation, almost: his
relatives might be at peace: they had nothing to
fear from her.  And here was the little brooch—with
its tiny white dove, that was to rest on her
bosom, as if bringing a message of love and safety—all
ready for her; but her place was empty; she
had gone from him, and perhaps for ever.  The very
waiters in the restaurants, when he went there all
alone, ventured to express a little discreet surprise,
and make enquiries: he could say nothing.  He had
the sandal-wood necklace, to be sure; and sometimes
he wore it over his heart; and on the way home,
through the dark thoroughfares, at times a faint
touch of the perfume reached his nostrils—but there
was no Maisrie by his side.  And then again, a
sudden, marvellous vision would come before him:
of Maisrie, her hair blown by the winds, her eyes
piteous and full of tears, her eyebrows and lashes
wet with the flying spray; and she would say 'Kiss
me, Vincent, kiss me!' as if she had already
resolved to go, and knew that this was to be a last,
despairing farewell.

The days passed; and ever he continued his
diligent search, for he knew that these two had
but little money, and guessed that they had not
departed on any far travel, especially at this time
of the year.  He went down to Scotland, and made
enquiries among the Edinburgh newspaper offices—without
avail.  He advertised in several of the
London daily journals: there was no reply.  He
told the head-waiter at the Restaurant Mentavisti,
that if Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter—who
were well-known to all in the place—should make
their appearance any evening, and if he, the
headwaiter, could manage to send some one to follow
them home and ascertain their address, that would
mean a couple of sovereigns in his pocket; but the
opportunity never presented itself.  And meanwhile
this young man, taking no care of himself, and
fretting from morning till evening, and often all
the sleepless night through as well, was gradually
losing his colour, and becoming like the ghost of
his own natural self.

Christmas came.  Harland Harris and Vincent
went down to pass the holidays with Mrs. Ellison,
at Brighton; and for the same purpose Lord
Musselburgh returned to the Bedford Hotel.  The
four of them dined together on Christmas evening.
It was not a very boisterous party, considering that
the pragmatical and pedantic voice of the man
of wealth was heard discoursing on such light and
fanciful themes as the payment of returning officers'
expenses, the equalisation of the death duties, and
the establishment of state-assisted intermediate
schools; but Musselburgh threw in a little jest
now and again, to mitigate the ponderosity of the
harangue.  Vincent was almost silent.  Since
coming down from London, he had not said a
single word to any one of them about Mr. Bethune
or his granddaughter: no doubt they would have
told him—and perhaps rejoiced to tell him—that
he had been betrayed.  But Mrs. Ellison, sitting
there, and watching more than listening, was
concerned about the looks of her boy, as she called
him; and before she left the table, she took up her
glass, and said—

"I am going to ask you two gentlemen to drink
a toast—and it is the health of the coming member
for Mendover.  And I'm going to ask him to pull
himself together, and show some good spirits; for
there's nothing a constituency likes so much as a
merry and good-humoured candidate."

It was clear moonlight that night: Vin's room
faced the sea.  Hour after hour he sate at the
window, looking on the wide, grey plain and the
faint blue-grey skies; and getting no good of either;
for the far-searching doves of his thoughts came
back to him without a twig of hope in their bill.
The whole world seemed empty—and silent.  He
began to recall the time in which he used to think—or
to fear—that some day a vast and solitary sea
would come between Maisrie and himself; it was
something he had dreamed or imagined; but this
was altogether different now—this blank ignorance
of where she might be was a far more terrible thing.
He went over the different places he had heard her
mention—Omaha, Chicago, Boston, Toronto,
Montreal, Quebec: they only seemed to make the world
the wider—to remove her further away from him,
and interpose a veil between.  She had vanished
like a vision; and yet it was but the other day that
he had found her clinging tight to his arm, her
beautiful brown hair blown wet about her face, her
eyes with love shining through her tears, her
lips—when he kissed them—salt with the flying spray.
And no longer—after that first and sudden outburst
of indignant wrath—did he accuse her of any
faithlessness or treachery: rather it was himself whom
he reproached.  Had he not promised, at the very
moment when she had made her maiden confession
to him, and spoken to him as a girl speaks once
only in her life, had he not promised that always
and always he would say to himself 'Wherever
Maisrie is—wherever she may be—she loves me,
and is thinking of me?'  This was the Mizpah set
up between those two; and he had vowed his vow.
What her going away might mean he could not tell;
but at all events it was not permitted him to
doubt—he dared not doubt—her love.

As for these repeated allegations that old George
Bethune was nothing less than a mendicant impostor,
what did that matter to him?  Even if these
charges could be substantiated, how was that to
affect Maisrie or himself?  No association could
sully that pure soul.  Perhaps it was the case that
Mr. Bethune was not over-scrupulous and careful
about money matters; many otherwise excellent
persons had been of like habit.  The band of private
inquiry agents had amongst them discovered that
the old man had allowed Vincent to pay the bill at
the various restaurants they frequented.  Well, that
was true.  Among the vague insinuations and
assumptions that had been pieced together to form
an indictment, here was one bit of solid fact.  And
what of it?  Of what importance were those
few trumpery shillings?  It was of little moment
which paid: here was an arrangement, become a
habit, that had a certain convenience.  And Vincent
was proud to set against that, or against any
conclusions that might be drawn from that, the incident
of old George Bethune's stopping the poor woman
in Hyde Park, and handing over to her all he
possessed—sovereigns, shillings, and pence—so that
he did not even leave himself the wherewithal to
buy a biscuit for his mid-day meal.  Perhaps there
were more sides to George Bethune's character than
were likely to occur to the imagination of
Messrs. Harland Harris, Morris, and Company?

The white moon sailed slowly over to the west;
the house was still; the night outside silent; but
there was no peace for him at all.  If only he could
get to see Maisrie—for the briefest moment—that
he might demand the reason of her sudden flight!
Was it some over-strung sensitiveness of spirit?
Did she fear that no one would understand this
carelessness of her grandfather about
money-matters; and that she might be suspected of
complicity, of acquiescence, in certain doubtful ways?
Was that the cause of her strange sadness, her
resignation, her hopelessness?  Was that why she
had spoken of her 'degradation'—why she had
declared she could never be his wife—why she had
begged him piteously to go away, and leave this
bygone friendship to be a memory and nothing
more?  'Can you not understand, Vincent!' she
had said to him, in heart-breaking accents, as
though she could not bring herself to the brutality
of plainer speech.  Well, he understood this at all
events: that in whatever circumstances Maisrie
Bethune may have been placed, no contamination
had touched *her*; white as the white moonlight out
there was that pure soul; he had read her eyes.

The next morning Lord Musselburgh was out
walking in the King's Road with the fair young
widow who hoped soon to be re-transformed into a
wife.

"That friend of yours down at Mendover," said
she,—"what is his name?—Gosford?—well, he
seems an unconscionable time dying.  I wish he'd
hurry up with his Chiltern Hundreds and put an
end to himself at once.  That is what is wanted for
Vin—the novelty and excitement of finding himself
in the House of Commons.  Supposing Mr. Gosford
were to resign at once, how soon could Vin be
returned?  There's some procedure, isn't there?—the
High Sheriff or somebody, issues a writ, or
something——?"

"I really cannot say," her companion answered
blandly.  "I belong to a sphere in which such
violent convulsions are unknown."

"At all events, Parliament will meet about the
middle of February?" she demanded.

"I presume so," was the careless answer.

"I wish the middle of February were here now,
and Vin all securely returned," said she.  "I
suppose that even in the case of a small borough like
Mendover, one's constituents can keep one pretty
busy?  They will watch how you vote, won't they?—and
remonstrate when you go wrong; and pass
resolutions; and expect you to go down and be
cross-examined.  Then there are always public
meetings to be addressed; and petitions to be
presented; and people wanting admission to the
Speaker's Gallery——"

"Why, really, Madge, there's a sort of furious
activity about you this morning," said he.  "You
quite take one's breath away.  I shouldn't be
surprised to see you on a platform yourself."

"It's all for Vin's sake I am so anxious," she
exclaimed.  "I can see how miserable and sad the
poor boy is—though he bears it so bravely—never
a word to one of us, lest we should ask him if he
believes in those people now.  I wonder if he can.
I wonder if he was so blinded that even now he will
shut his eyes to their true character?"

"They are quite gone away, then?" her companion asked.

"Oh, yes," she made answer.  "I hope so.
Indeed, I know they are.  And on the whole it was
opportune, just as this election was coming on; for
now, if ever, Vin will have a chance of throwing off
an infatuation that seemed likely to be his ruin,
and of beginning that career of which we all hope
such great things."

She glanced round, cautiously; and lowered her voice.

"But, oh, my goodness, if ever he should find out
the means we took to persuade them to go, there
will be the very mischief to pay: he will tear us to
pieces!  You know how impetuous and proud he
is; and then those people have appealed to him in
a curious way—their loneliness—their poverty—and
their——  Yes, I will admit it—certain
personal qualities and characteristics.  I don't deny it;
any more than I would deny that the girl was
extremely pretty, and the old man picturesque,
and even well-mannered and dignified in his way.
All the more dangerous—the pair of them.  Well,
now they are gone, I breathe more freely.  While
they were here, no argument was of any avail.  Vin
looked into the girl's appealing face—and
everything was refuted.  And at all events we can say
this to our own conscience—that we have done
them no harm.  We are not mediæval tyrants; we
have not flung the venerable patriot and the
innocent maiden into a dungeon, to say nothing of
breaking their bones on a rack.  The venerable
patriot and the innocent maiden, I have no doubt,
consider themselves remarkably well off.  And that
reminds me that Harland Harris, although he is of
opinion that all property should be under social
control——"

"Not all property, my dear Madge," said Lord
Musselburgh, politely.  "He would say that all
property should be under social control—except his
property."

"At all events, it seems to me that he occasionally
finds it pretty convenient to have plenty of
money at his own individual command.  Why, for
him to denounce the accumulation of capital," she
continued, with a pretty scorn, "when no one makes
more ostentatious use of the power of money!  Is
there a single thing he denies himself—one single
thing that is only possible to him through his being
a man of great wealth?  I shouldn't wonder if, when
he dies, he leaves instructions to have the electric
light turned on into his coffin, just in case he should
wake up and want to press the knob."

"Come, come, Madge," said Musselburgh.  "Be
generous.  A man cannot always practice what he
preaches.  You must grant him the privilege of
sighing for an ideal."

"Harland Harris sighing for an ideal," said
Mrs. Ellison, with something of feminine spite, "would
make a capital subject for an imaginative picture by
Watts—if my dear brother-in-law weren't rather
stout, and wore a black frock-coat."

Meanwhile, Vincent returned to London, and
renewed his solitary search; it was the only thing
he felt fit for; all other employments had no
meaning for him, were impossible.  But, as day by day
passed, he became more and more convinced that
they must have left London: he knew their familiar
haunts so well, and their habits, that he was certain
he must have encountered them somewhere if they
were still within the great city.  And here was the
New Year drawing nigh, when friends far separated
recalled themselves to each other's memory, with
hopes and good wishes for the coming time.  It
seemed to him that he would not have felt this
loneliness so much, if only he had known that
Maisrie was in this or that definite place—in Madrid—in
Venice—in Rome—or even in some huge steamship
ploughing its way across the wide Atlantic.

But a startling surprise was at hand.  About
half-past ten on the last night of the old year a
note was brought upstairs to him by a servant.
His face grew suddenly pale when he saw the
handwriting, which he instantly recognised.

"Who brought this?" he said, breathlessly.

"A man, sir."

"Is he waiting?"

"No, sir; he said there was no answer."

"What sort of man?" asked Vincent, with the
same rapidity—and not yet daring to open the
letter.

"A—a common sort of man, sir."

"Very well—you needn't wait."

The moment that the servant had retired, Vincent
tore open the envelope; and the first thing that he
noticed, with a sudden sinking of the heart, was
that there was no address at the head of the letter.
It ran thus—the handwriting being a little tremulous
here and there—

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

   'DEAR VINCENT,

When you receive this, we shall be far
away; but I have arranged that you shall get it
just before the New Year, and it brings my heart-felt
wishes for your happiness, as well as the good-bye
that I cannot say to you personally now.  What
I foresaw has come to pass; and it will be better
for all of us, I think; though it is not with a very
light heart that I write these few lines to you.
Sometimes I wish that we had never met each
other; and then again I should never have known
all your kindness to me and to my grandfather,
which will always be something to look back upon;
and also the companionship we had for a time,
which was so pleasant—you would understand how
pleasant to me, if you had known what had gone
before, and what is now likely to come after.  But
do not think I repine: more has been done for me
than ever I can repay; and as I am the only one
to whom my grandfather can look now for help
and sympathy, I should be ungrateful indeed if I
grudged it.

Forgive me, dear friend, if I speak so much of
myself; my thoughts are far more often concerned
about you than with anything that can happen to
me.  And I know that this step we are taking,
though it may pain you for a little while, will be
salutary in the end.  You have a great future before
you; your friends expect much of you; you owe it
to yourself not to disappoint them.  And after a
little while, you will be able to go back to the
places where we used to go; and there will be
nothing but friendly recollections of pleasant
evenings; and I am sure nothing need ever come
between us (as you feared) I mean in the way of
having kind thoughts of each other, always and
always; and when you marry no one will more
heartily wish you every happiness and blessing than
I shall.  This is to be my last letter to you; I have
promised.  I wish I could make it convey to you
all I think; but you will understand, dear Vincent,
that there is more in it than appears in these stiff
and cold words.  And another kindness I must beg
of you, dear friend, before saying good-bye—and
farewell—it is this, Would you try to forget a *little*
of what I said to you that morning on the pier?  If
you thought anything I said was a little more
than a girl should have confessed, would you try
to forget it, dear Vincent?  I was rather
miserable—I foresaw we should have to say good-bye to
each other, when you would not see it, for you were
always so full of courage and confidence; and
perhaps I told you more than I should have done—and
you will try to forgot that.  I don't want
you to forget it *all*, dear Vincent; only what you
think was said too frankly—or hurriedly—at such a
moment.

And now, dearest friend, this is good-bye; and
it is good-bye for ever, as between you and me.  I
will pray for your happiness always.

.. vspace:: 1

MAISRIE.

.. vspace:: 1

P.S.—There was one thing I said to you that you
*promised* you would not forget.

.. vspace:: 1

M.'

.. vspace:: 2

Was he likely to forget it, or any single word she
had uttered, on that wild, wind-tossed morning?
But in the meantime the immediate question was—How
and whence had this letter come?  For one
thing, it had been brought by hand; so there was no
post-mark.  Who, then, had been the messenger?
How had he come to be employed?  What might he
not know of Maisrie's whereabouts?  Was there a
chance of finding a clue to Maisrie, after all, and
just as the glad New Year was coming in?

It was barely eleven o'clock.  He went down into
the hall, whipped on overcoat and hat, and the next
moment was striding away towards Mayfair; he
judged, and judged rightly, that a boon companion
and poet was not likely to be early abed on such a
night.  When he reached the lodging-house in the
little thoroughfare off Park-street, he could hear
singing going forward in the subterranean kitchen:
nay, he could make out the raucous chorus—

   |      *Says Wolseley, says he,*
   |      *To Arabi,*
   |  *You can fight other chaps, but you can't fight me.*
   |

He rapped at the door; the landlady's daughter
answered the summons; she showed him into a
room, and then went below for her father.  Presently
Mr. Hobson appeared—quite creditably sober,
considering the occasion.

"Did you bring a note down to me to-night,
Hobson?" was the young man's first question.

"I did, sir."

His heart leapt up joyously: his swift surmise
had been correct.

"And has Miss Bethune been here recently?"
he asked, with the greatest eagerness.

"No, no, sir," said Hobson, shaking his head.
"That was giv me when they was going away,
and says she, 'Hobson,' says she, 'I can trust you;
and there's never a word to be said about this
letter—not to hany one whatever; and the night afore
New Year's Day you'll take it down yourself, and
leave it for Mr. Harris.'  Which I did, sir; though
not waitin,' as I thought there wasn't a answer; and
ope there's nothing wrong, sir."

Vincent was standing in the middle of the room—not
listening.

"You have heard or seen nothing, then, of
Mr. Bethune or of Miss Bethune, since they left?" he
asked, absently.

"Nothing, sir—honly that I took notice of some
advertisements, sir, in the papers—"

"I know about those," said Vincent.

So once more, as on many and many a recent
occasion, his swiftly-blossoming hopes had been
suddenly blighted; and there was nothing for him
but to wander idly and pensively away back to
Grosvenor Place.  The New Year found him in his
own room—with Maisrie's letter before him; while,
with rather a careworn look on his face he studied
every line and phrase of her last message to him.

But the New Year had something else in store
for him besides that.  He was returned, unopposed,
for the borough of Mendover.  And about the first
thing that his constituents heard, after the election,
was that their new member proposed to pay a visit
to the United States and Canada, and that at present
no date had been fixed for his coming back.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BEYOND SEAS`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER II.


.. class:: center medium

   BEYOND SEAS.

.. vspace:: 2

Out here on the deck of this great White Star
Liner—with the yellow waters of the Mersey lapping
in the sunlight, and a brisk breeze blowing, and
the curious excitement of departure thrilling
through all the heterogeneous crowd of passengers—here
something of hope came to him at last.
This was better than haunting lonely restaurants,
or walking through solitary streets; he seemed to
know that Maisrie was no longer in the land he was
leaving; she had fled away across the ocean—gone
back to the home, to some one of the various homes,
of her childhood and girlhood.  And although it
appeared a mad thing that a young man should set
out to explore so vast a continent in search of his
lost love, it was not at all the impossible task it
looked.  He had made certain calculations.
Newspaper offices are excellent centres of intelligence;
and Scotch-American newspaper offices would still
further limit the sphere of his inquiries.  He had
dreamed of a wide and sorrowful sea lying between
him and her; but instead of that imaginary and
impassable sea, why, there was only the familiar
Atlantic, that nowadays you can cross in less than
a week.  And when he had found her, and seized
her two hands fast, he would reproach her—oh,
yes, he would reproach her—though perhaps
there might be more of gladness than of anger
in his tones....  'Ah, false love—traitress—coward
heart—that ran away!  What Quixotic self-sacrifice
was it, then, that impelled you?—what fear
of relatives?—what fire of wounded pride?  No
matter now: you are caught and held.  You gave
yourself to me; you cannot take yourself away
again; nor shall any other.  No more sudden
disappearances—no more trembling notes of
farewell—while I have you by the hand!'

The last good-byes had been called by the people
crowded on the deck of the tender, the great ship
was cautiously creeping down the stream, and the
passengers, having done with the waving of
handkerchiefs (and here and there a furtive drying of
eyes) set about preparing for the voyage—securing
their places at table, investigating their cabins, and
getting their things unpacked.  These occupations
kept most of them in their state-rooms until close
on dinner-time, so that they had not much chance
of examining each other; but it is wonderful how
rumour runs in a ship—especially if the Purser be
a cheerful and communicative sort of person; and
so it was that when all were assembled in the long
and gorgeous saloon, two things had already
become known; first, that the tall and handsome
young Englishman who seemed to have no
companion or acquaintance on board was the
newly-elected member for Mendover; and second, that
the extremely pretty woman who had the seat of
honour at the Captain's table was a Mrs. de Lara,
a South American, as might have been guessed
from her complexion, her eyes, and hair.  It
appeared to be a foregone conclusion that Mrs. de
Lara was to be the belle of the ship on this
voyage; such things are very soon settled; perhaps
one or two of the commercial gentlemen may have
crossed with her before, and seen her exercise her
sway.  As for Vin Harris, his unopposed return
for such an insignificant place as Mendover would
not have secured much notice throughout the
country had it not been that, immediately after the
election, the great —— had been kind enough
to write to the new member a charming note
of congratulation, which, of course, had to be
published.  It was a significant pat on the back,
of which any young man might very well have been
proud; and Mrs. Ellison bought innumerable copies
of that morning's newspapers, and cut the letter
out, and sent it round to her friends, lest they
should not have seen it.  Mr. Ogden was also so
condescending as to send a similar message—but
that was not published.

Now during the first evening on board ship,
strangers mostly remain strangers to each other;
but next morning things become different—especially
if the weather be fine, and everyone is
on deck.  Small courtesies are tendered and
accepted; people get introduced, or introduce each
other, on the smallest pretence—except the old
stagers, the wary ones, who hang aloof, in order
to pick and choose.  As for Vincent, he was well
content with his own society, varied by an occasional
chat with the Purser, when that ubiquitous official
could spare a few moments.  He was not anxious to
make acquaintances.  His thoughts were far ahead.
He saw—not the thin, blue line of the Irish coast
that actually was visible on the horizon—but the
shallow waters at Sandy Hook, the broad bay, the
long dusky belt of the city, with its innumerable
spires jutting up into the white sky.  He was
wondering how long ago it was since Maisrie and
her grandfather had crossed the Newfoundland
Banks: it was a long start, but he would overtake
them yet.  Perhaps, when he was down in the big
and busy town, making his inquiries from one
newspaper-office to another he might suddenly find
himself face to face with the splendid old man,
and the beautiful, pensive-eyed girl....  'Ah,
Maisrie, you thought you would escape?—but I
have you now—never to let you go again!  And if
you would rather not return to England—if your
pride has been wounded—if you are indignant at
what has been said or suspected of you and your
grandfather—well, then, I will remain with you
here!  My love is more to me than my home:
we will fight the world together—the three of
us together: remaining here, if that pleases you
better—only, no further thought of separation
between you and me!'

On this brisk and bracing morning he was leaning
idly with his elbows on the rail, and looking
towards the distant line of the Irish coast that was
slowly becoming more definite in form, when
Mr. Purser Collins came up to him.

"There's a very charming lady would like to
make your acquaintance," said the officer.  "Will
you come with me, and I will introduce you?"

"Oh, very well," Vincent said, but with no great
eagerness.  "Tell me her name now that I may
make sure of it."

"You are favoured—Mrs. de Lara."

"Oh, really," he said, indifferently.  "She seems
to me to have had half the men on the ship fetching
and carrying for her all the morning."

And indeed, when he followed the Purser in
order to be introduced to this lady, he found her
pretty well surrounded by assiduous gentlemen;
and 'if you please—if you please,' Mr. Collins had
to keep repeating, before he could bring the new
comer into the august presence.  Mrs. de Lara—who,
on closer inspection, turned out to be quite
a young woman, with a pale, clear, olive complexion,
softly-lustrous dark eyes that could say a good deal,
a pretty smile and dimple, and magnificent
hair—received him very graciously; and at once, and
completely, and without the slightest compunction,
proceeded to ignore the bystanders who had been so
officiously kind to her.  Of course their conversation
was at first the usual nothings.  Wonderful weather.
Might be midsummer, but for the cold wind.
Captain been on the bridge ever since Liverpool,
poor man; get some rest after leaving Queenstown.
Was she a good sailor?—Some ladies remained
in their berths all the way over.  Dry champagne,
and plenty of it, the only safe-guard?  Crossed
many times?  And so forth.  But at length she said—

"Couldn't you find a chair, and bring it along?"

Now the assiduous gentlemen had managed to
find a very snug corner for Mrs. de Lara, where
there was just room for two deck chairs—her own
and that of her companion and friend, Miss Martinez;
and Vincent, being rather shy, had no intention of
jamming himself into this nook.  He made some
little excuse—and remained standing with the
others: whereupon Mrs. de Lara said to her
companion—

"Isabel, will you go and see that the letters I left
in my cabin are all properly stamped and put in
the post-bag for Queenstown.  Thank you, dear!"

Then, the moment her faithful friend was gone,
she said, with something of a French manner—

"Here is a seat for you: come, tell me what the
news of the ship is!"

Vincent could not very well refuse; though the
result of her open preference and selection was that
her other obsequious admirers fell away one by one,
under some pretence of playing rope-quoits or
shovel-board: so that, eventually, he and she were
left alone together, for Miss Martinez did not
return.

"Now," said the young grass-widow, whose very
pretty chin was cushioned on abundant furs, "I am
going to make you happy.  But first of all I must
tell you—you are in love."

"Oh, really?" said Vincent.

"Ah, yes, yes, yes," she said, with a charming
insistence.  "I have watched you.  I know.  You
keep apart; you look far away; you speak to no
one.  And then I said to myself that I would make
you happy.  How?  By asking you to tell me all
about her."

Whereupon Vincent said to himself, 'You're
a very impertinent woman—although you've got
pretty eyes.'  And again he said, 'But after all
you are a woman; and perhaps from you I may
learn something more about Maisrie.'  So he said
aloud—

"The deck of a steamer is hardly the place for
secrets."

"Why not?" she protested.  "Besides, it is no
secret—to anyone with eyes.  Come, tell me all
about her—and be happy!  I wish to interest you;
I wish you to interest me; and so let us talk about
the only thing that is worth talking about—that is,
love.  No, there are two things, perhaps—love, and
money; but love is so full of surprises; it is the
perpetual miracle that no one can understand; it is
such a wonderful, unexpected, desperate kind of
thing, that it will always be the most interesting.
Now!"

"Well," said he—for there was something
catching in the mad audacity of this young
matron—"it must be secret for secret.  My story for
yours!"

She laughed long and heartily—until her
merriment brought tears to her eyes.

"Why, I'm an old married woman!" she
exclaimed.  "Ah, I see what your bargain means.
You only want to put me off.  You think the time
and place are not romantic enough; some night—out
in mid-Atlantic—with perhaps a moon—and
you'll be more communicative, when you forsake
the smoking-room for half-an-hour, and send me
a little message to meet you.  Very well.
Perhaps there are too many people tramping up
and down.  Shall we have a tramp too?  Sitting
still so stiffens one.  There—can you pull off the
rugs, do you think?  They've swathed me up like
a mummy.  Now give me your arm; and mind you
don't let me go flying—I'm never steady on my feet
for the first day or two."

Well, he found the grass-widow a most charming
companion—bright, loquacious, and happy, until,
indeed, they steamed into the entrance to Cork
Harbour.  Here, as most of the passengers were
going on board the tender, for a scamper ashore,
while the ship waited for the mails to arrive,
Mrs. de Lara began to look a little wistful.  All of a
sudden it occurred to him that he ought, if only in
common gratitude for her marked condescension, to
ask her if she would care to go also.

"Oh—Mrs. de Lara," said he, "wouldn't you like
to go ashore, and have a look round Queenstown?"

Her face lighted up in an instant; but there was
a curious, amused expression in her eyes.

"I couldn't go alone with you, you know," said she.

"Why not?" said he.

She did not answer that question.

"If you like to ask Miss Martinez as well as
myself," she continued, "I'm sure we should be
delighted—and it would be very kind of you."

"Of course I will!" he said—and at once he went
off in search of the needful companion.  A few
minutes thereafter the three of them were on board
the tender, along with the rest of this crowd of
eager, chattering passengers.

And a very pleasant visit it was they paid to the
picturesque watering-place and its wide-stretching
bay.  First of all he took his two guests to a hotel,
and gave them an excellent lunch, at which
Mrs. de Lara made merry like an enfranchised
schoolgirl; then he got an open carriage, and they were
driven all about the place; and he bought them
such fruit and flowers as he could find, until they
were quite laden by the time they got back to the
tender.  They were in plenty of time; the mails
were late.  When they eventually returned on
board the steamer, Vincent was on the whole very
well pleased with that little excursion; only he
hoped that the new acquaintanceship that had been
formed had not been too conspicuously displayed,
for people are given to talking during the *longueurs*
of an Atlantic voyage.

And indeed it very soon appeared that after this
little adventure ashore Mrs. de Lara meant to claim
him as her own.  When she came on deck for the
usual promenade before dinner, she sent for him
(though there were plenty of gentlemen only too
anxious to wait on her), and she took his arm during
that perfunctory march up and down.  Then she
said to him—

"Would you think me very rude if I asked you
to come and sit at our table?  The fact is, I want
somebody to be good to me, and to look after me;
and the Captain, although he is a most delightful
man when he happens to be there, is nearly always
away, on duty, no doubt.  I hate sitting next an
empty chair—that throws me on to Miss Martinez
and she and I have exhausted all our subjects long
ago.  You've no particular friend, have you?  Come
to our table!"

"But I couldn't think of turning anybody out!"
he protested.

"Oh, that's all right!" she made answer,
cheerfully enough.  "Miss Martinez will get a place
somewhere else—Mr. Collins will arrange that—I
dare say she will be rather pleased to be set free."

And so it came to pass that at dinner Vincent
found himself in the seat that had been vacated
by the useful Isabel; and perhaps his promotion
provoked a few underhand comments and significant
glances at certain of the other tables, for very small
trifles are noted on board ship.  At all events he
only knew that Mrs. de Lara was as engaging, and
complaisant, and loquacious as ever; and that she
talked away with very little regard as to who might
overhear her.  Nor was she any longer the merry,
rattle-pated creature of the Queenstown hotel.  Oh,
no.  Her conversation now was of a quite superior
order.  It was literary; and she had caught up
plenty of the phrases of the rococo school; she could
talk as well as another of environments, conditions,
the principal note, style charged with colour, and
the like.  Nay, she adventured upon an epigram
now and again—or, at least, something that sounded
like an epigram.  "England," she said, "was a
shop; France a stage; Germany a camp; and the
United States a caucus."  And again she said,
"There are three human beings whom I wish to
meet with before I die: a pretty Frenchwoman, a
modest American, and an honest Greek.  But I am
losing hope."  And then there was a tirade against
affectation in writing.  "Why should the man
thrust himself upon me?" she demanded.  "I don't
want to know him at all.  I want him to report
honestly and simply what he has seen of the world
and of human nature, and I am willing to be talked
to, and I am willing to believe; but when he begins
to posture and play tricks, then I become resentful.
Why should he intrude his own personality at all?—he
was never introduced to me; I have no wish for
his acquaintance.  So long as he expresses an honest
opinion, good and well; I am willing to listen; but
when he begins to interpose his clever little tricks
and grimaces, then I say, 'Get away, mountebank—and
get a red-hot poker ready for pantaloon.'"  And
in this way she went on, whimsical, petulant,
didactic by turns, to the stolid astonishment of a
plethoric and red-faced old lady opposite, who
contributed nothing to the conversation but an indigestion
cough, and sate and stared, and doubtless had
formed the opinion that any one who could talk in
that fashion before a lot of strangers was no better
than she should be.

But it was not of literature that Mrs. de Lara
discoursed when Vincent returned that evening to
the saloon, after having been in the smoking-room
for about an hour, watching the commercials playing
poker and getting up sweepstakes on the next day's
run.  When she caught sight of him, she
immediately rose and left the group of newly-formed
acquaintances with whom she had been sitting—in
the neighbourhood of the piano—and deliberately
came along and met him half-way.

"Let us remain here," said she; "and then if we
talk we shan't interfere with the music."

She lay back in her chair as if waiting for him to
begin; he was thinking how well her costume became
her—her dress of black silk touched here and there
with yellow satin—the sharp scarlet stroke of her
fan—the small crescent of diamonds in her jet-black
hair.  Then the softened lamplight seemed to lend
depth and lustre to her dark eyes; and gave
something of warmth, too, to the pale and clear
complexion.  She had crossed her feet; her fan lay idle
in her lap; she regarded him from under those
long, out-curving lashes.

"They cannot hear you," she said—perhaps
thinking that he was silent out of politeness to the
innocent young damsels who were doing their best
at the piano—"and you cannot hear them, which is
also fortunate.  Music is either divine—or
intolerable; what they are doing is not divine; I have
been listening.  But good music—ah, well, it is not
to be spoken of.  Only this; isn't it strange that
the two things that can preserve longest for you
associations with some one you have been fond of
are music and scent?  Not painting—not any
portrait; not poetry—not anything you have read,
or may read: but music and scent.  You will
discover that some day."

He laughed.

"How curiously you talk!  I dare say I am
older than you—though that is not saying much."

"But I have seen the world," said she, with a
smile, almost of sadness.

"Not half of what I have seen of it, I'll answer for that."

"Oh, but you," she continued, regarding him
with much favour and kindliness, "you are an
*ingénu*—you have the frank English character—you
would believe a good deal—in any one you cared
for, I mean."

"I suppose I should," he said, simply enough.
"I hope so."

"But as I say," she resumed, "the two things
that preserve associations the longest—and are apt
to spring on you suddenly—are music and scent.
You may have forgotten in every other direction;
oh, yes, forgetting is very easy, as you will find out;
for 'constancy lives in realms above,' and not here
upon earth at all: well, when you have forgotten
the one you were fond of, and cannot remember,
and perhaps do not care to remember all that
happened at that too blissful period of life—then,
on some occasion or another there chances to
come a fragment of a song, or a whiff of scent,
and behold! all that bygone time is before you
again, and you tremble, you are bewildered!  Oh,
I assure you," she went on, with a very charming
smile, "it is not at all a pleasant experience.  You
think you had buried all that past time, and hidden
away the ghosts; you are beginning to feel pretty
comfortable and content with all existing
circumstances; and then—a few notes of a violin—a
passing touch of perfume—and your heart jumps
up as if it had been shot through with a rifle-ball.
What is your favourite scent?" she asked,
somewhat abruptly.

"Sandal-wood," said he (for surely that was
revealing no secret?)

"Then she wore a string of sandal-wood beads,"
said Mrs. de Lara, with a quick look.

He was silent.

"And perhaps she gave them to you as a
keep-sake?" was the next question.

Here, indeed, he was startled; and she noticed it;
and laughed a little.

"No, I am not a witch," she said.  "All that has
happened before now: do you think you are the
first?  Why, I'm sure, now, you've worn those beads
next your heart, in the daytime, and made yourself
very uncomfortable; yes, and you've tried wearing
them at night, and couldn't sleep because they hurt
you.  Never mind, I will tell you what to do: get
them made into a watch chain, with small gold
links connecting the beads; and when you wear it
with evening dress, every woman will recognise it as
a love-gift—every one of them will say 'A girl gave
him that.'"

"Perhaps I might not wish to make a display of
it," said Vincent.

"Then you're in the first stage of inconstancy,"
said she, promptly.  "If you're not madly anxious
that the whole world should know you have won her
favour, then you've taken the first step on the
downward road to indifference; you are regarding certain
things as bygone, and your eyes are beginning to
rove elsewhere.  Well, why not?  It's the way of
the world.  It's human nature.  At the same time
I want to hear some more about the young lady
of the sandal-wood necklace."

"I have told you more than I intended," he
answered her.

"You haven't told me anything: I guessed for myself."

"Well, now, I am going to ask your advice," said
he—for how could he tell but that this bright, alert,
intrepid person, with her varied experience of the
world, might be able to help him?  She was far
different from Maisrie, to be sure; different as night
from day; but still she was a woman; and she might
perhaps be able to interpret a nature wholly alien
from her own.

So she sate mute and attentive, and watching
every expression of his face, while he put before
her a set of imaginary circumstances.  It was not
his own story; but just so much of it as might
enable her to give him counsel.  And he had hardly
finished when she said—

"You don't know where to find her; and yet you
have never thought of a means of bringing her to
you at once?"

"What means?" said he.

"Why, it is so simple!" she exclaimed.  "Have
you no invention?  But I will tell you, then.  As
soon as you land in New York, get yourself knocked
over by a tram-car.  The accident to the rich young
Englishman who has just arrived in America will be
in all the papers, and will lose nothing in the telling.
Your father's name is known; you have recently
been elected a member of Parliament; they will make
the most of the story—and of course you needn't
say your life is *not* in danger.  Then on the wings
of love the fair one comes flying; flops down by the
side of your bed, in tears; perhaps she would even
consent to a marriage—if you were looking dreadfully
pale; then you could get well again in double
quick time—and live happy ever after."

She was still watching him from under her long,
indolent lashes; and of a sudden she changed her tone.

"Are you vexed?  You find me not sympathetic?
Perhaps I am not.  Perhaps I am a little
incredulous.  You have told me very little; but I
surmise; and when a young lady remains away from
her lover, and does not wish it to be known where
she is, then I confess I grow suspicious.  Instead of
'Seek the woman,' it is 'Find the man'—oh, I
mean in most cases—I mean in most cases—not in
all—you must not misunderstand me!"

"In this case you are mistaken, then," said
Vincent, briefly.

Indeed the gay young grass-widow found that she
could not get very far into Vincent's confidence in
this matter; and when she indulged in a little
pleasantry, he grew reserved and showed a
disposition to withdraw; whereupon she thought it better
to give up the subject altogether.  But she did not
give him up; on the contrary, she took possession
of him more completely than ever; and made no
secret of the favour she bestowed on him.  For
example, there was an amateur photographer on
board; and one morning (everybody knew everybody
else by this time) he came up to Mrs. de Lara,
who was seated in her deck-chair, with a little
band of devoted slaves and admirers surrounding her.

"Mrs. de Lara," said he, "I've taken nearly
everybody on board except you.  Aren't you going
to give me a chance?"

"Oh, yes," said she.  "Yes, certainly."  Then
she looked round, and added, in the most natural
way in the world—"But where is Mr. Harris?"

"He's in the saloon writing letters—I saw him
there a minute ago," said one of the bystanders.

"Won't somebody go and fetch him?" she continued.
"We ought to be all in—if Mr. Searle can
manage it."

Accordingly Vincent was summoned from below,
and forthwith made his appearance.

"You come and sit by me, Mr. Harris," said the
young matron.  "It would look absurd to have one
sitting and all the others standing."

"Oh, no—this will do," said Vincent, seating
himself on a signal-cannon that was close to the
rail, while he steadied himself by putting a hand
on the shrouds.

"Not at all," she protested, with a certain
imperious wilfulness.  "You're too far over; you'll be
out of the picture altogether.  There is Isabel's
chair over there: fetch that."

And, of course, he had to do as he was bid; though
it was rather a conspicuous position to assume.
Then, when that negative was taken, she would have
the grouping altered; Vincent had to stand by her
side, with his arm on her chair; again he had to
seat himself on the deck at her feet; whatever
suggestions were made by the artist, she managed
somehow that she and Vincent should be together.
And when, next day, the bronze-brown proofs were
handed about, they were very much admired—except,
perhaps, by the lady-passengers, who could
not understand why Mrs. de Lara should pose as the
only woman on board the steamer.

But it was not Mrs. de Lara who was in his
thoughts when, early one morning, he found himself
on the upper deck, just under the bridge, with his
eyes fixed on a far strip of land that lay along the
western horizon.  Not a thin sharp line of blue,
but a low-lying bulky mass of pale neutral tint;
and there were faint yellow mists hanging about it,
and also covering the smooth, long-undulating
surface of the sea.  However, the sunrise was now
declared; this almost impalpable fog would soon
be dispersed; and the great continent behind that
out-lying coast would gradually awaken to the
splendour of the new day.  And in what part of its
vast extent was Maisrie now awaiting him?—no, not
awaiting him, but perhaps thinking of him, and
little dreaming he was so near?

They cautiously steamed over the shallow waters
at Sandy Hook; they sailed up the wide bay;
momentarily the long flat line of New York, with
its towering buildings and steeples jutting up here
and there, was drawing nigh.  Mrs. de Lara, rather
wistfully, asked him whether she was ever likely to
see him again; he answered that he did not know
how soon he might have to leave New York; but, if
she would be so kind as to give him her address,
he would try to call before he went.  She handed
him her card; said something about the pleasant
voyage they had had; and then went away to
see that Isabel had not neglected anything in her
packing.

They slowed into the wharf; the luggage was got
ashore and examined—in this universal scrimmage
he lost sight of Mrs. de Lara and her faithful
companion: and by and by he was being jolted and
pitched and flung about in the coach that was
carrying him to the hotel he had chosen.  With
an eager curiosity he kept watching the passers-by
on the side-walk, searching for a face that was
nowhere to be seen.  He had heard and known of
many strange coincidences: it would only be
another one—if a glad and wonderful one—were
he to find Maisrie on the very first day of his
arrival in America.

As soon as he had got established in his hotel,
and seen that his luggage had been brought up, he
went out again and made away for the neighbourhood
of Printing House Square.  It needs hardly
be said that the *Western Scotsman* was not in
possession of a vast white marble building, with
huge golden letters shining in the afternoon sun;
all the same he had little difficulty in finding the
small and unpretentious office; and his first inquiry
was for Mr. Anstruther.  Mr. Anstruther had been
there in the morning; but had gone away home,
not feeling very well.  Where did he live?—over
in Brooklyn.  But he would be at the office the
next day?  Oh, yes; almost certainly; it was
nothing but a rather bad cold; and as they went to
press on the following evening, he would be pretty
sure to be at the office in the morning.

Then Vincent hesitated.  This clerk seemed a
civil-spoken kind of young fellow.

"Do you happen to know if—if a Mr. Bethune
has called at this office of late?"

"Bethune?—not that I am aware of," was the answer.

"He is a friend of Mr. Anstruther's," Vincent
went on, led by a vague hope, "an old gentleman
with white hair and beard—a handsome old man.
There would be a young lady with him most
probably."

"No, sir; I have not seen any one of that description,"
said the clerk.  "But he might have called
on Mr. Anstruther at his home."

"Oh, yes, certainly—very likely," said Vincent.
"Thank you.  I will come along to-morrow morning,
and hope to find Mr. Anstruther quite well again."

So he left and went out into the gathering dusk
of the afternoon; and as he had nothing to do now,
he walked all the way back to his hotel, looking at
the various changes that had taken place since
last he had been in the busy city.  And then,
when he reached the sumptuous and
heavily-decorated apartment that served him at once as
sitting-room and bed-room, he set to work to put
his things in order, for they had been rather
hurriedly jammed into his portmanteau on board ship.

He was thus engaged when there came a knock at the door.

"Entrez!" he called out, inadvertently (with
some dim feeling that he was in a foreign town.)

The stranger needed no second invitation.  He
presented himself.  He was a small man, with a
sallow and bloodless face, a black beard closely
trimmed, a moustache allowed to grow its natural
length, and dark, opaque, impassive eyes.  He was
rather showily dressed, and wore a pince-nez.

For a second he paused at the door to take out
his card-case; then, without uttering a word, he
stepped forward and placed his card on the table.
Vincent was rather surprised at this form of
introduction; but of course he took up the card.  He
read thereon.  '*Mr. Joseph de Lara.*'

"Oh, really," said he (but what passed through
his mind was—'Is that confounded woman going to
persecute me on shore as well as at sea?').  "How
do you do?  Very glad to make your acquaintance."

"Oh, indeed, are you?" the other said, with a
peculiar accent, the like of which Vincent had
never heard before.  "Perhaps not, when you
know why I am here.  Ah, do not pretend!—do
not pretend!"

Vincent stared at him, as if this were some
escaped lunatic with whom he had to deal.

"Sir, I am here to call you to account," said the
little foreigner, in his thick voice.  "It has been
the scandal of the whole ship—the talk of all the
voyage over—and it is an insult to me—to me—that
my wife should be spoken of.  Yes, you must
make compensation—I demand compensation—and
how?  By the only way that is known to an
Englishman.  An Englishman feels only in his
pocket; if he does wrong, he must pay; I demand
from you a sum that I expend in charity——"

Vincent who saw what all this meant in a
moment, burst out laughing—a little scornfully.

"You've come to the wrong shop, my good
friend!" said he.

"What do you mean?  What do you mean?"
the little dark man exclaimed, with an affectation
of rising wrath: "Look at this—I tell you, look at
this!"  He drew from his pocket one of the
photographs which had been taken on board the
steamer, and smacked it with the back of his hand.
"Do you see that?—the scandal of the whole
voyage!  My wife compromised—the whole ship
talking—you think you are to get off for nothing?
No!  No! you do not!  The only punishment that
can reach you is the punishment of the pocket—you
must pay."

"Oh, don't make a fool of yourself!" said
Vincent, with angry contempt.  "I've met members
of your profession before.  But this is too thin."

"Oh—too thin?  You shall find out!" the other
said, vindictively—and yet the black and beady
eyes behind the pince-nez were impassive and
watchful.  "There, on the other side of my card, is
my address.  You can think over it.  Perhaps I
shall see you to-morrow.  If I do not—if you do
not come there to give the compensation I demand,
I will make this country too hot to hold you—yes,
very much too hot, as you shall discover.  I will
make you sorry—I will make you sorry—you shall
see——"

He went on vapouring in this fashion for some
little time longer, affecting all the while to become
more and more indignant; but at length Vincent,
growing tired, walked to the door and opened it.

"This is the way out," he said curtly.

Mr. de Lara took the hint with a dignified
equanimity.

"You have my address," he said, as he passed
into the corridor; "I do not wish to do anything
disagreeable—unless I am compelled.  You will
think over it; and I shall see you to-morrow, I
hope.  I wish to be friendly—it will be for your
interest, too.  Good night!"

Vincent shut the door and went and sate down,
the better to consider.  Not that he was in the
least perturbed by this man's ridiculous threats;
what puzzled him—and frightened him almost—was
the possible connection of the charming and
fascinating Mrs. de Lara with this barefaced attempt
at blackmail.  But no; he could not, he would not,
believe it!  He recalled her pretty ways, her
frankness, her engaging manner, her good humour, her
clever, wayward talk, her kindness towards himself;
and he could not bring himself to think that all the
time she had been planning a paltry and despicable
conspiracy to extort money, or even that she would
lend herself to such a scheme at the instigation of
her scapegrace husband.  However, his speculations
on these points were now interrupted by the arrival
of the dinner-hour; and he went below to the table
d'hôte.

During dinner he thought that a little later on in
the evening he would go along to Lexington Avenue,
and call on a lawyer whose acquaintance he had
made on a former visit to New York.  He might by
chance be at home and disengaged; and an apology
could be made for disturbing him at such an
unusual hour.  And this, accordingly, Vincent did;
found that Mr. Griswold was in the house; was
shown into the study; and presently the lawyer—a
tall, thin man, with a cadaverous and deeply-lined
face and cold grey eyes—came in and received his
unexpected visitor politely enough.

"De Lara?" said he, when Vincent had told his
story.  "Well, yes, I know something of De Lara.
And a very disagreeable fellow he is to have any
dealings with."

"But I don't want to have any dealings with
him," Vincent protested, "and I don't see how there
should be any necessity.  The whole thing is a
preposterous attempt at extortion.  If only he were
to put down on paper what he said to me this
evening, I would show him something—or at least
I should do so if he and I were in England."

"He is not so foolish," the lawyer said.  "Well,
what do you propose to do?—compromise for the
sake of peace and quietness?"

"Certainly not," was the instant reply.

"He's a mischievous devil," said Mr. Griswold,
doubtfully.  "And of course you don't want to
have things said about you in newspapers, however
obscure.  Might get sent over to England.  Yes,
he's a mischievous devil when he turns ugly.  What
do you say now?—for the sake of peace and quietness—a
little matter of a couple of hundred dollars—and
nobody need know anything about it——"

"Give a couple of hundred dollars to that infernal
scoundrel?—I will see him d——d first!" said
Vincent, with a decision that was unmistakeable.

"There's no reason why you should give him a
cent—not the slightest," the lawyer went on.  "But
some people do, to save trouble.  However, you
will not be remaining long in this city; I see it
announced that you are going on a tour through the
United States and Canada."

"The fact is, Mr. Griswold," said Vincent, "I
came along—at this unholy hour, for which I hope
you will forgive me—not to ask you what I should
do about that fellow's threats—I don't value them a
pin's-point—but merely to see if you knew anything
about those two——"

"The De Lara's?"

"Yes, what does he do, to begin with?  What's
his occupation—his business?"

"Nominally," said Mr. Griswold, "he belongs to
my own profession; but I fancy he is more mixed
up with some low-class newspapers.  I have heard,
indeed, that one of his sources of income is levying
black-mail on actresses.  The poor girls lose nerve,
you understand: they won't fight; they would
rather 'see' him, as the phrase is, than incur his
enmity."

"Well, then, what I want to know still more
particularly," the young man proceeded, "is this:
is Mrs. de Lara supposed to take part in these pretty
little plans for obtaining money?"

The lawyer smiled.

"You ought to know her better than I do; in
fact, I don't know her at all."

Vincent was silent for a second.

"No; I should not have imagined it of her.  It
seems incredible.  But if you don't know her
personally, perhaps you know what is thought of
her?  What is her general reputation?"

"Her reputation?  I can hardly answer that
question.  I should say," Mr. Griswold went on,
in his slow and deliberate manner, "that there is
a kind of—a kind of impression—that, so long as
the money was forthcoming, Mrs. de Lara would
not be too anxious to inquire where it came from."

"She was at the Captain's table!" Vincent exclaimed.

"Ship captains don't know much about what is
going on on shore," was the reply.  "Besides, if
Mrs. de Lara wanted to sit at the Captain's table,
it's at the Captain's table you would find her, and
that without much delay!  In any case why are
you so anxious to find out about Mrs. de Lara's
peculiarities—apart from her being a very pretty
woman?"

"Oh," said Vincent, as he rose to apologise once
more for this intrusion, and to say good-night, "one
is always meeting with new experiences.  Another
lesson in the ways of the world, I suppose."

But all the same, as he walked slowly and
thoughtfully back to his hotel, he kept saying to
himself that he would rather not believe that
Mrs. de Lara had betrayed him and was an accomplice
in this shameless attempt to make money out of
him.  Nay, he said to himself that he would refuse
to believe until he was forced to believe: though
he did not go a step further, and proceed to ask
himself the why and wherefore of this curious
reluctance.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`WEST AND EAST`:

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   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center medium

   WEST AND EAST.

.. vspace:: 2

When Vincent went along the next morning to the
office of the *Western Scotsman*, he was at once
shown into the editorial room, and there he found
before him a short, thick-set man with a leonine
profusion of light chestnut hair thrown back from
a lofty forehead, somewhat irregular features, and
clear blue eyes that had at present something of a
cold scrutiny in them.  To any one else, the editor
of the *Western Scotsman* might have appeared a
somewhat commonplace-looking person; but to
Vincent he was far from commonplace.  Here was
one who had befriended the two world-wanderers;
who had known them in the bygone years; perhaps
Maisrie herself had sat, in this very room, patiently
waiting, while the two men talked.  And yet when
he asked for news of old George Bethune and his
granddaughter, Mr. Anstruther's manner was
unaccountably reserved.

"No," said he, "I know nothing of them, nothing
whatever; but I can well understand that George
Bethune might be in New York, or might have
passed through New York, without calling on me."

"Why?" said Vincent in surprise.

"Oh, well," said the Editor, with some touch of
asperity and even of indignation, "I should like to
believe the best of an old friend; and certainly
George Bethune always seemed to me a loyal
Scot—proud of his country—proud of the name he
bears, as well he might; but when you find him
trying to filch the idea of a book—from a
fellow-countryman, too—and making use of the letter of
introduction I gave him to Lord Musselburgh to
get money——"

"But that can all be explained," said Vincent,
eagerly—and he even forgot his immediate
disappointment in his desire to clear away those
imputations from Maisrie's grandfather.  "The money
was repaid to Lord Musselburgh as soon as it was
found that the American book was coming out; I
know it was—I am certain of it; and when the
volume did come out, no one was so anxious to
welcome it, and give it a helping hand, as
Mr. Bethune himself.  He wrote the review in the
*Edinburgh Chronicle*——"

"Oh, did he?" said the Editor, with some slight
alteration in his tone.  "I am glad of that.  I
could see it was written by some one with ample
knowledge: in fact, I quoted the article in the
*Scotsman*, it seemed to me so well done.  Yes, I am
glad of that," Mr. Anstruther repeated.

"And then," continued Vincent, "the old man
may easily have persuaded himself that, being
familiar with the subject, he was entitled to publish
a volume on the other side of the water.  But I
know this, that what he desired above all was that
honour should be done to those Scotchmen who had
written about their affection for their native country
while living in other lands, and that the people at
home should know those widely-scattered poets;
and when he found that this work had already been
undertaken, and was actually coming out, there was
no jealousy in his mind—not the slightest—he was
only anxious that the book should be known
everywhere, but especially in Scotland."

"I can assure you I am very glad to hear it,"
said Mr. Anstruther, who was clearly much mollified
by this vague but earnest vindication.  "And I
may say that when some one came here making
inquiries about George Bethune, I did not put
matters in their worst light——"

"Oh, some one has been here making inquiries?"
said Vincent, quickly.

"About a month ago, or more."

"Who was it?"

"I forget the name," the Editor replied.  "In
fact, I was rather vexed at the time about my
friend Ross's book—and Mr. Bethune getting
money from Lord Musselburgh; and I did not say
very much.  I am glad there is some explanation;
one likes to think the best of a brother Scot.  But
you—you are not a Scot?" he demanded with a
swift glance of inquiry.

"No, I am not," said Vincent, "but I am very
much interested in Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter;
and as they quite suddenly disappeared from
London, I thought it very likely they had returned
to the United States; and also, if they had come to
New York, I imagined you would be sure to know."

"One thing is pretty certain," said Mr.
Anstruther.  "If George Bethune is in this city,
he will be heard of to-morrow evening."

"To-morrow evening?" Vincent repeated, vaguely.

"The twenty-fifth!" exclaimed the Editor, with
an astonished stare.

And yet the young man seemed none the wiser.

"It is evident you are no Scotchman," Mr. Anstruther
said at length, and with good humour.
"You don't remember that 'a blast o' Janwar win'
blew hansel in on Robin'?  The twenty-fifth of
January—the birthday of Robert Burns!"

"Oh, yes—oh, certainly," said Vincent, with
guilty haste.

"There will be a rare gathering of the clans
to-morrow night," the Editor continued; "and if
George Bethune is on this side the water, he'll
either show up himself or somebody will have heard
of him."

"I think he must be over here," Vincent said.
"At first I imagined he might have gone to
Scotland: he was thinking of a topographical and
antiquarian book on the various places mentioned
in the Scotch songs—and he had often spoken of
making a pilgrimage through the country for that
purpose.  So I went down to Scotland for a few
days, but I could hear nothing of him."

"What do you say—that you have been quite
recently in Scotland?" Mr. Anstruther said, with a
sudden accession of interest.

"About three weeks ago," was the answer.

"Well, well, well!" the Editor exclaimed, and
he regarded the young man with quite a kindly
curiosity.  "Do ye tell me that!  In Scotland—not
more than three weeks since!  And whereabouts—whereabouts?"

"I was in Edinburgh most of the time," Vincent said.

"In Edinburgh?—did ye see the Corstorphine
Hills?" was the next eager question; and the man's
eyes were no longer coldly scrutinising, but full of
a lively interest and friendliness.  "Ay, the
Corstorphine Hills: ye would see them if ye went up to
the top of Nelson's Monument, and looked away
across the town—away along Princes Street—that
wonderful view!—wonderful!—when I think of it,
I seem to see it all a silver-white—and Scott's
Monument towering high in the middle, like some
splendid fountain turned to stone.  Ay, ay, and ye
were walking along Princes Street not more than
three weeks ago; and I suppose ye were thinking
of old Christopher, and the Ettrick Shepherd, and
Sir Walter, and Jeffrey, and the rest of them?
Dear me, it's a kind of strange thing!  Did ye
go out to Holyrood?  Did ye climb up Arthur's
Seat?  Did ye see Portobello, and Inch Keith, and
the Berwick Law——"

"'The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,'" Vincent
quoted, with a smile.

The other's eyes flashed recognition; and he
laughed aloud.

"Ay, ay, that was a great favourite with the old
man.  Many's the time he has announced himself
coming up these very stairs with that."

"Did Maisrie ever come with him?" Vincent
asked—with his heart going a bit quicker.

"His granddaughter?  Oh, yes, to be sure—sometimes.
He was fond of coming down the night
before we went to press, and looking over the
columns of Scotch news, and having a chat.  You
see we have to boil down the smaller Scotch papers
for local news—news that the bigger papers don't
touch; and very often you notice a name that is
familiar to you, or something of that kind.  Well,
now, I wish the old man was here this very minute!
I do indeed—most heartily.  We'd let bygones be
bygones—no doubt I was mistaken—I'll back
George Bethune for a true and loyal Scot.  Ah say,
man," continued Mr. Anstruther, pulling out his
big silver watch—and now all his assumption of the
reserved American manner was gone, and he was
talking with enthusiastic emphasis—"There's a
countryman of mine—a most worthy fellow—close
by here, who would be glad to see any friend of old
George Bethune's.  It's just about his lunch time;
and he'll no grudge ye a farl of oatcake and a bit of
Dunlop cheese; in fact nothing pleases him better
than keeping open house for his cronies.  A man of
sterling worth; and a man of substance, too: sooner
or later, I expect, he'll be going away back to the
old country and buying a bit place for himself in his
native county of Aberdeen.  Well, well," said the
Editor, as he locked his desk, and put on his hat,
and opened the door for his visitor, "and to think it
was but the other day ye were walking along Princes
Street in Edinburgh!  Did ye go out at night, when
the old town was lit up?—a grand sight, wasn't
it—nothing like it in the world!  Ye must tell honest
John—John MacVittie, that is—that ye've just come
straight from the 'land of brown heath and shaggy
wood,' and ye'll no want for a welcome!"

And indeed it was a very frank and friendly
welcome he received when they at length reached
Mr. MacVittie's place of business, and were shown
into the merchant's private room.  Here they found
himself and his two partners (all Scotchmen) about
to sit down at table; and places were immediately
prepared for the new-comers.  The meal was a much
more varied affair than the Editor had foreshadowed:
its remarkable feature being, as Vincent was
informed, that nearly everything placed on the board
had been sent over from Scotland.  Mr. MacVittie
made a little apology.

"It's a kind of hobby of mine," said he; "and even
with perishable things it's not so difficult nowadays,
the ice-houses of the big steamers being so convenient.
What would you like to drink, sir?  I can give ye
a choice of Talisker, Glenlivet, Long John, and
Lagavulin; but perhaps ye would prefer something
lighter in the middle of the day.  I hope you don't
object to the smell of the peats; we Scotch folk are
rather fond of it; I think our good friend here,
Anstruther, would rather have a sniff of the peat
than the smell of the best canvas-back duck that
was ever carried through a kitchen.  I get those
peats sent over from Islay: you see, I try to have
Scotland—or some fragments of it—brought to me,
since I cannot go to it."

"But why don't you go to Scotland, sir?" said
Vincent—knowing he was speaking to a man of
wealth.

"At my time of life," Mr. MacVittie answered,
"one falls into certain ways and grooves, and
it's an ill job getting out of them.  No, I do
not think I shall ever be in Scotland again, until
I'm taken there—in a box.  I shall have to be like
the lady in 'The Gay Goss-hawk'—

   |  'An asking, an asking, my father dear,
   |    An asking grant ye me!
   |  That if I die in merry England,
   |    In Scotland you'll bury me.'"
   |

"Oh, nonsense, John!" one of his partners cried.
"Nonsense, man!  We'll have you building a
castle up somewhere about Kincardine O'Neil; and
every autumn we'll go over and shoot your grouse
and kill your salmon for you.  That's liker it!"

Now here were three sharp and shrewd business
men met together in the very heart of one of the
great commercial cities of the world; and the fourth
was a purveyor of news (Vincent did not count: he
was so wonderstruck at meeting people who had
known George Bethune and Maisrie in former days,
and so astonished and fascinated by any chance
reference to them that he did not care to propound
any opinions of his own: he was well content to
listen) and it might naturally have been supposed
that their talk would have been of the public topics
of the hour—politics home and foreign, the fluctuations
of trade, dealings with that portentous surplus
that is always getting in the way, and so forth.  But
it was nothing of the kind.  It was all about the
dinner of the Burns' Society of New York, to be
given at Sutherland's in Liberty-street the following
evening, in celebration of the birthday of the Scotch
poet; and Tom MacVittie—a huge man with a
reddish-brown beard and a bald head—in the
enthusiasm of the moment was declaring that again
and again, on coming across a song, by some one of
the minor Scotch poets, that was particularly fine,
he wished he had the power to steal it and hand it
over to the Ayrshire bard—no doubt on the principle
that, 'whosoever hath, to him shall be given.'  Then
there was a comparison of this gem and that;
favourites were mentioned and extolled; the air was
thick with Willie Laidlaw, Allan Cunningham, Nicol,
Hogg, Motherwell, Tannahill, and the rest; while
the big Tom MacVittie, returning to his original
thesis, maintained that it would be only fair
punishment if John Mayne were mulcted of his 'Logan
Braes,' because of his cruel maltreatment of 'Helen
of Kirkconnell.'

"Yes, I will say," he continued—and his fist was
ready to come down on the table if needs were.
"Robbie himself might well be proud of 'Logan
Braes;' and John Mayne deserves to have something
done to him for trying to spoil so fine a thing
as 'Helen of Kirkconnell.'  I cannot forgive that.
I cannot forgive that at all.  No excuse.  Do ye
think the man that wrote the 'Siller Gun' did not
know he was making the fine old ballad into a
fashionable rigmarole?  Confound him, I would
take 'Logan Braes' from him in a minute, if I
could, and hand it over to Robbie——"

"Did you ever notice," interposed the editor of
the Scotch paper, "the clever little trick of
repetition in the middle of every alternate verse——

   |  'By Logan's streams that rin so deep,
   |  Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep;
   |  Herded sheep, or gathered slaes,
   |  Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes.
   |  But wae's my heart, thae days are gane,
   |  And I wi' grief may herd alane;
   |  While my dear lad maun face his faes,
   |  Far, far frae me and Logan braes.'

I do not remember Burns using that device, though
it was familiar in Scotch song—you recollect 'Annie
Laurie'—-'her waist ye weel might span.'  And
Landor used it in 'Rose Aylmer'—

   |  'Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
   |  Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes—'"
   |

"I would like now," continued Tom MacVittie,
with a certain impatience over the introduction
of a glaiket Englisher, "to hand over to Robbie
'There's nae luck about the house.'  The
authorship is disputed anyhow; though I tell you that
if William Julius Mickle ever wrote those verses
I'll just eat my hat—and coat, too!  It was Jean
Adams wrote that song; I say it was none other
than Jean Adams.  Mickle—and his Portuguese
stuff——"

"God bless me, Tom, do you forget 'Cumnor
Hall'?" his brother exclaimed.

"'Cumnor Hall?'  I do not forget 'Cumnor
Hall?'" Tom MacVittie rejoined, with a certain
disdain.  "'Cumnor Hall!'—a wretched piece of
fustian, that no one would have thought of twice,
only that Walter Scott's ear was taken with
the first verse.  Proud minions—simple
nymphs—Philomel on yonder thorn: do ye mean that a man
who wrote stuff like that could write like this—

   |  'Rise up and mak' a clean fireside,
   |    Put on the mickle pot;
   |  Gie little Kate her cotton gown,
   |    And Jock his Sunday's coat;
   |  And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,
   |    Their stockins' white as snaw;
   |  It's a' to pleasure our gudeman—
   |    He likes to see them braw.'

That's human nature, man; there you've the
good-wife, and the goodman, and the bairns; none o'
your Philomels, and nymphs, and swains!  That
bletherin' idiot, Dr. Beattie, wrote additional
verses—well, he might almost be forgiven for the last
couplet,

   |  'The present moment is our ain,
   |    The neist we never saw.'——"
   |

"That was a favourite quotation of old George
Bethune's," said the elder MacVittie, with a smile,
to Vincent.

The young man was startled out of a reverie.  It
was so strange for him to sit and hear conversation
like this, and to imagine that George Bethune had
joined in it, and no doubt led it, in former days, and
that perhaps Maisrie had been permitted to listen.

"Yes," he made answer, modestly; "and no man
ever carried the spirit of it more completely into his
daily life."

"What makes ye think he is in New York, or
in the United States, at least?" was the next
question.

"I can hardly say," said Vincent, "except that I
knew he had many friends here."

"If George Bethune is in New York," Tom
MacVittie interposed, in his decisive way, "I'll
wager he'll show up at Sutherland's to-morrow
night—I'll wager my coat and hat!"

And then the Editor put in a word.

"If I thought that," said he, "I would go along
to the Secretary, and see if I could have a ticket
reserved for him.  I'm going to ask Mr. Harris
here to be my guest; for if he isn't a Scotchman, at
least he has been in Scotland since any of us were
there."

"And I hope you don't need to be a Scotchman
in order to have an admiration for Robert Burns,"
said Vincent; and with that appropriate remark the
symposium broke up; for if MacVittie, MacVittie,
and Hogg chose to enliven their brief mid-day meal
with reminiscences of their native land and her
poets, they were not in the habit of wasting much
time or neglecting their business.

A good part of the next day Vincent spent in the
society of Hugh Anstruther; for in the stir and
ferment then prevailing among the Scotch circles in
New York, it was possible that George Bethune
might be heard of at any moment; and, indeed,
they paid one or two visits to Nassau-street, to ask
of the Secretary of the Burns Society whether
Mr. Bethune had not turned up in the company of some
friend applying for an additional ticket.  And in
the meantime Vincent had frankly confessed to this
new acquaintance what had brought him over to the
United States.

"Man, do ye think I could not guess that!"
Hugh Anstruther exclaimed: he was having
luncheon with Vincent at the latter's hotel.  "Here
are you, a fresh-elected member of Parliament—and
I dare say as proud as Punch in consequence;
and within a measurable distance of your taking
your place in the House, you leave England, and
come away over to America to hunt up an old man
and a young girl.  Do I wonder?—I do not wonder.
A bonnier lassie, a gentler creature, does not step
the ground anywhere; ay, and of good birth and
blood, too; though there may be something in that
to account for George Bethune's disappearance.  A
proud old deevil, ye see; and wilful; and always
with those wild dreams of his of getting a great
property——"

"Well, but is there the slightest possibility of
their ever getting that property?" Vincent interposed.

"There is a possibility of my becoming the
President of the United States of America," was the
rather contemptuous (and in point of fact, inaccurate)
answer.  "The courts have decided: you can't go
and disturb people who have been in possession for
generations—at least, I should think not!  As for
the chapter of accidents: no doubt the estates might
come to them for want of a more direct heir; such
things certainly do happen; but how often?
However, the old man is opinionated."

"Not as much as he was," Vincent said.  "Not
on that point, at least.  He does not talk as much
about it as he used—so Maisrie says."

"Oh, Maisrie?  I was not sure.  A pretty name.
Well, I congratulate you; and when, in the ordinary
course of things, it falls upon you to provide her
with a home, I hope she will lead a more settled, a
happier life, than I fancy she could have led in
that wandering way."

Vincent was silent.  There were certain things
about which he could not talk to this new acquaintance,
even though he now seemed so well disposed
towards old George Bethune and that solitary girl.
There were matters about which he had given up
questioning himself: mysteries that appeared
incapable of explanation.  In the meantime his hopes
and speculations were narrowed down to this one
point: would Maisrie's grandfather—from whichsoever
part of the world he might hail—suddenly
make his appearance at this celebration to-night?
For in that case she herself could not be far off.

And wildly enthusiastic this gathering proved to
be, even from the outset.  Telegrams were flying
this way and that (for in the old country the
ceremonies had begun some hours previously); there
was no distinction between members and friends;
and as Scot encountered Scot, each vied with the
other in recalling the phrases and intonation of
their younger years.  In the midst of this turmoil
of arrival and joyous greeting, Vincent's gaze was
fixed on the door; at any moment there might
appear there a proud-featured old man, white-haired,
keen-eyed, of distinguished bearing—a striking
figure—and not more picturesque than welcome!
For would not Maisrie, later on in the evening, be
still waiting up for him?  And if, at the end of the
proceedings, one were to walk home with the old
man, and have a chance of saying five words to
Maisrie herself, by way of good-night?  No, he
would not reproach her!  He would only take her
hand, and say, 'To-morrow—to-morrow, Maisrie, I
am coming to scold you!'

Thin Scot, burly Scot, red-headed Scot, black-a-vised
Scot, Lowlander and Highlander—all came
trooping in, eager, talkative, delighted to meet
friends and acquaintances; but there was no George
Bethune.  And when they had settled down in
their places, and when dinner had begun, Hugh
Anstruther, who was 'Croupier' on this occasion,
turned to his guest and said:—

"You must not be disappointed.  I hardly
expected him; I could not hear of any one who
had invited him.  But it is quite likely he may
turn up latter on—very likely, indeed, if he is
anywhere within travelling distance of New York.
George Bethune is not the one to forget the
twenty-fifth of January; and of course he must
know that many of his friends are assembled
here."

Then presently the Croupier turned to his guest
and said in an undertone—

"There's a toast that's not down in the list; and
I'm going to ask ye to drink it; we'll drink it
between ourselves.  Fill your glass, man—bless me,
what's the use of water!—see, here's some
hock—Sutherland's famous for his hock—and now this is
the toast.  'Here's to Scotch lassies, wherever they
may be!'"

"Yes—'wherever they may be,'" Vincent repeated,
absently.

"Oh, don't be downhearted!" his lion-maned
friend said, with cheerful good humour.  "If that
self-willed old deevil has taken away the lassie,
thinking to make some grand heiress of her, he'll
find it's easier to talk about royal blood than to
keep a comfortable house over her head; and some
day he may be glad enough to bring her back and
see her safely provided with a husband well-to-do
and able to take care of her.  Royal blood?—I'm
not sure that I haven't heard him maintain that
the Bethunes were a more ancient race than the
Stewarts.  I shouldn't wonder if he claimed to be
descended from Macbeth, King of Scotland.  Oh,
he holds his head high, the old scoundrel that has
'stole bonny Glenlyon away.'  But you'll be even
with him yet; you'll be even with him yet.  Why,
if he comes in to-night, and finds ye sitting here,
he'll be as astonished as Maclean of Duart was
at Inverary, when he looked up from the banquet
and saw his wife at the door."

So Vincent had perforce to wait in vague
expectancy; but nevertheless the proceedings of the
evening interested him not a little, and all the
more that he happened to know two of the principal
speakers.  For to Mr. Tom MacVittie was entrusted
the toast of the evening—"The Immortal Memory
of Robert Burns"—and very eloquently indeed did
the big merchant deal with that well-worn theme.
What the subject lacked in novelty was amply
made up by the splendid enthusiasm of his
audience: the most familiar quotations—rolled out
with MacVittie's breadth of accent and strong
north-country burr—were welcome as the songs of
Zion sung in a strange land; this was the magic
speech that could stir their hearts, and raise visions
of their far-off and beloved native home.  Nor were
they at all *laudatores temporis acti*—these perfervid
and kindly Scots.  When the Croupier rose to
propose the toast that had been allotted to
him—"The Living Bards of Scotland"—cheer after cheer
greeted names of which Vincent, in his southern
ignorance, had never even heard.  Indeed, to this
stranger, it seemed as if the Scotland of our own
day must be simply alive with poets; and not of the
kind that proclaimed at Paisley "They sterve us
while we're leevin, and raise moniments to us when
we're deed;" but of a quiet and modest character,
their subjects chiefly domestic, occasionally humorous,
more frequently exhibiting a sincere and effective
pathos.  For, of course, the Croupier justified
himself with numerous excerpts; and there was no
stint to the applause of this warm-blooded audience;
insomuch that Vincent's idle fancies went wandering
away to those (to him) little known minstrels
in the old land, with a kind of wish that they
could be made aware how they were regarded by
their countrymen across the sea.  Nay, when the
Croupier concluded his speech, "coupling with this
toast" a whole string of names, the young man,
carried away by the prevailing ardour, said—

"Mr. Anstruther, surely nothing will do justice to
this toast but a drop of whiskey!"

—and the Croupier, passing him the decanter, said
in reply——

"Surely—surely—on an evening like this; and
yet I'm bound to say that if it had not been for the
whiskey, my list of living Scotch poets would have
been longer."

The evening passed; and Vincent's hopes, that
had been too lightly and easily raised, were slowly
dwindling.  Had George Bethune been in New
York, or within any reasonable distance of it, he
would almost certainly have come to this
celebration, at which several of his old friends were
assembled.  As Vincent walked home that night to
his hotel, the world seemed dark and wide; and he
felt strangely alone.  He knew not which way to
turn now.  For one thing, he was not at all
convinced, as Hugh Anstruther appeared to be, that it
was Mr. Bethune who had taken his granddaughter
away, and that, sooner or later, he would turn up at
one or other of those trans-Atlantic gatherings of
his Scotch friends.  Vincent could not forget
Maisrie's last farewell; and if this separation were
of her planning and executing, then there was far
less chance of his encountering them in any such
haphazard fashion.  'It is good-bye for ever between
you and me,' she had written.  And of what avail
now were her wild words, 'Vincent, I love you!—I
love you!—you are my dearest in all the world!
You will remember, always and always, whenever you
think of me, that that is so: you will not forget:
remember that I love you always, and am thinking
of you!'  Idle phrases, that the winds had blown
away!  Of what use were they now?  Nay, why
should he believe them, any more than the pretty
professions that Mrs. de Lara had made on board
the steamer?  Were they not both women, those
two?  And then he drew back with scorn of
himself; and rebuked the lying Satan that seemed
to walk by his side.  Solitariness—wounded
pride—disappointment—almost despair—might drive
him to say or imagine mad things at the moment;
but never—never once—in his heart of hearts had
he really doubted Maisrie's faith and honour.  All
other things might be; not that.

He resolved to leave New York and go out west;
it was just possible that Maisrie had taken some
fancy for revisiting the place of her birth; he
guessed they might have certain friends there also.
Hugh Anstruther came to the railway station to see
him off.

"Yes," he said, "you may hear something about
them in Omaha; but it is hardly probable; for those
western cities grow at a prodigious pace, and the
traces of people who leave them get very soon
obliterated.  Besides, the population is more or less
shifting; there are ups and downs; and you must
remember it is a considerable time since
Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter left Omaha.
However, in case you don't learn anything of them there,
I have brought you a letter of introduction to
Daniel Thompson of Toronto—the well-known
banker—you may have heard of him—and he is as
likely as any one to know anything that can be
known of George Bethune.  They are old friends."

Vincent was very grateful.

"And I suppose," he said, as he was getting his
smaller belongings into the car, "I shan't hear
anything further of that fellow de Lara?"

"Not a bit—not a bit!" the good-natured Scotch
Editor made answer.  "You took the right way
with him at the beginning.  He'll probably call you
a scoundrel and a blackguard in one or two obscure
papers; but that won't break bones."

"I have a stout oak cudgel that can, though,"
said Vincent, "if there should be need."

It was a long and a lonely journey; Vincent was
in no mood for making acquaintances; and
doubtless his fellow-passengers considered him an
excellent specimen of the proud and taciturn travelling
Englishman.  But at last he came in sight of the
wide valley of the Missouri, with its long mud-banks
and yellow water-channels; and beyond that again
the flat plain of the city, dominated by the
twin-spired High School perched on a distant height.
And he could see how Omaha had grown even
within the short time that had elapsed since his last
visit; where he could remember one-storeyed
tenements stuck at haphazard amongst trees and waste
bits of green there were now streets with tram-cars
and important public buildings; the city had
extended in every direction; it was a vast wilderness
of houses that he beheld beyond the wide river.
Perhaps Maisrie had been surprised too—on coming
back to her old home?  Alas! it seemed so big a
place in which to search for any one; and he knew
of no kindly Scotch Editor who might help.

And very soon he got to recognise that Hugh
Anstruther's warnings had been well founded.  Omaha
seemed to have no past, nor any remembrance of
bygone things; the city was too busy pushing ahead
to think of those who had gone under, or left.  It is
true that at the offices of the Union Pacific Railway,
he managed to get some scant information about
the young engineer with whom fortune had dealt so
hardly; but these were not personal reminiscences;
there were new men everywhere, and Maisrie's
father had not been known to any of them.  As for
the child-orphan and the old man who had come to
adopt her, who was likely to remember them?
They were not important enough; Omaha had its
'manifest destiny' to think of; besides, they were
now gone some years—and some years in a western
city is a century.

This was not a wholesome life that Vincent was
leading—so quite alone was he—and anxious—and
despairing.  He could not sleep very well.  At
intervals during the night he would start up, making
sure that he heard the sound of a violin; and
sometimes the distant and almost inaudible notes seemed
to have a suggestion of Maisrie's voice in them—'*I
daurna tryst wi' you, Willie ... I daurna tryst ye
here ... But we'll hold our tryst in heaven, Willie
... In the spring-time o' the year*'—and then he would
listen more and more intently, and convince himself
it was only the moaning of the wind down the
empty street.  He neglected his meals.  When he
took up a newspaper, the printed words conveyed
no meaning to him.  And then he would go away
out wandering again, through those thoroughfares
that had hardly any interest for him now; while he
was becoming more and more hopeless as the long
hours went by, and feeling himself baffled at every
point.

But before turning his face eastward again, he had
written to Mr. Daniel Thompson of Toronto,
mentioning that he had a letter of introduction from
Hugh Anstruther, and stating what had brought
him out here to the west.  Then he went on:

"Mr. Bethune was never very communicative
about money-matters—at least, to me; indeed, he
seemed to consider such things too trivial for talking
about.  At the same time I understood from him
that when his son, Miss Bethune's father, died,
there was either some remnant of his shattered
fortunes—or perhaps it was some fund subscribed
by sympathising friends—I never could make out
which, and was not curious enough to inquire—that
produced a certain small annual income.  Now I
thought that if I could discover the trustees who
paid over this income, they would certainly know
where Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter were
now living; or, on the other hand, supposing the
fund was derived from some investment, if I could
find out the bank which held the securities, they
also might be able to tell me.  But all my inquiries
have been in vain.  I am a stranger; people don't
want to be bothered; sometimes I can see they are
suspicious.  However, it has occurred to me that you,
as an old friend of Mr. Bethune, might chance to
know who they are who have this fund in trust; and
if you could tell me, you would put me under a
life-long debt of gratitude.  If you were aware of all
the circumstances, you would be convinced that no
ill-use is likely to be made of the information.
When I first became acquainted with Mr. Bethune
and his granddaughter, they seemed to me to be
living a very happy and simple and contented life
in London; and I am afraid I am in some measure
responsible for their having suddenly resolved to
leave these quiet circumstances, and take to that
wandering life of which Miss Bethune seemed so
sadly tired.  If I can get no news of them here, I
propose returning home by Toronto and Montreal,
and I shall then give myself the pleasure of calling
upon you, when I may be able to assure you that, if
you should hear anything of Mr. Bethune and Miss
Bethune, you would be doing no injury to them, or
to any one, in letting me know."

Then came the answer—from a cautious Scot.

"Dear Sir,—As you rightly observe, my old
friend George Bethune was never very
communicative about money matters; and perhaps he was
even less so with me than with others—fearing that
any such disclosures might be misconstrued into an
appeal for help.  I was vaguely aware, like yourself,
that he had some small annual income—for the
maintenance of his granddaughter, as I understood;
but from whence it was derived I had, and have, no
knowledge whatever; so that I regret I cannot give
you the information you seek.  I shall be pleased
to see you on your way through Toronto; and still
further pleased to give you any assistance that may
lie in my power."

There was not much encouragement in this
letter; but after these weary and lonely days in
this hopeless city, he was glad to welcome any
friendly hand held out to him.  And he grew to
think that he would be more likely to hear of
Maisrie in Toronto or Montreal than in this big
town on the banks of the Missouri.  Canada had
been far longer her home.  She used to talk of
Toronto or Montreal—more rarely of Quebec—as
if she were familiar with every feature of them;
whereas she hardly ever mentioned Omaha.  He
remembered her telling him how she used to climb
up to the top of the tower of Toronto College, to
look away across the wide landscape to the lofty
column of soft white smoke that rose from
Niagara Falls into the blue of the summer sky.
He recalled her description of the small verandahed
villa in which they lived, out amongst the sandy
roads and trees and gardens of the suburbs.  Why,
it was the *Toronto Globe* or the *Toronto Mail* that
old George Bethune was reading, when first he had
dared to address them in Hyde Park.  Then
Montreal: he recollected so well her talking of the
Grey Nunnery, of Notre Dame, of Bonsecours
Market, of the ice palaces, and toboggan slides, and
similar amusements of the hard northern winter.
But a trivial little incident that befell him on his
arrival in Toronto persuaded him, more than any of
these reminiscences, that in coming to Canada he
was getting nearer to Maisrie—that at any moment
he might be within immediate touch of her.

It was rather late in the evening when he reached
his hotel; he was tired; and he thought he would
go soon to bed.  His room looked out into a side
street that was pretty sure to be deserted at this
hour; so that, just as he was turning off the light,
he was a trifle surprised to hear a slight and distant
sound as of singing; and from idle curiosity he went
to the window.  There was a full moon; the opposite
pavement and the fronts of the houses were white
in the cold and clear radiance; silence reigned save
for this chance sound he had heard.  At the same
moment he descried the source of it.  There were
two young girls coming along the pavement
opposite—hurrying home, apparently, arm-in-arm—while
they amused themselves by singing a little in an
underhand way, one of them even attempting a
second from time to time.  And how could he
mistake the air?—it was the *Claire Fontaine*!  The
girls were singing in no sad fashion; but idly and
carelessly to amuse themselves on their homeward
way; and indeed so quietly that even in this
prevailing silence he could only guess at the
words—

   |  J'ai perdu ma maîtresse
   |  Sans l'avoir mérité,
   |  Pour un bouquet de roses
   |  Que je lui refusai.
   |
   |   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*
   |
   |  Je voudrais que la rose
   |  Fût encore au rosier,
   |  Et moi et ma maîtresse
   |  Dans les mêms amitiés.

And then the two slight, dark figures went by in
the white moonlight; and eventually the sound
ceased in the distance.  But he had been greatly
cheered and comforted.  This was a friendly and
familiar air.  He had reached Maisrie's home at
last; *la Claire Fontaine* proclaimed it.  And if,
when he neared the realms of sleep, his heart was
full of the old refrain—

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

there was something of hopefulness there as well:
he had left the despair of Omaha behind him.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ENLIGHTENMENT`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium

   ENLIGHTENMENT.

.. vspace:: 2

Next morning he was up and out betimes—wandering
through this town that somehow seemed to
be pervaded by Maisrie's presence, or, at least, by
recollections of her and associations with her.  He
had hardly left his hotel when he heard a telegraph-boy
whistling the air of 'Isabeau s'y promène.'  He
went from one street to another, recognising this
and that public building: the polished marble
pillars shining in the cold, clear sunlight.  Then he
walked away up College Avenue, and entered
Queen's Park; and there, after some little delay,
he obtained permission to ascend to the top of the
University tower.  But in vain he sought along the
southern horizon for the cloud of soft white smoke
of which Maisrie had often spoken; the distant
Niagara was frozen motionless and mute.  When
he returned to the more frequented thoroughfares,
the business-life of the city was now in full flow;
nevertheless he kept his eyes on the alert; even
amid this hurrying crowd, the figure of George
Bethune would not readily escape recognition.
But, indeed, he was only seeking to pass the time,
for he thought he ought not to call on the banker
before mid-day.

Mr. Daniel Thompson he found to be a tall, spare
man, of well over sixty, with short white whiskers,
a face otherwise clean shaven, and eyes that were
shrewd and observant, but far from unkindly.  He
listened to the young man's tale with evident interest.

"And so you have come all the way across the
Atlantic," said he, "to look for my old friend
George Bethune and little Maggie."

"Maggie," repeated Vincent, somewhat startled.
"Maisrie, you mean."

"Maisrie!" the banker said, with a certain
impatience.  "Does he still keep up that nonsense?
The girl's name is Margaret; Margaret Bethune—surely
a good enough name for any Christian.
But his head is just full of old ballads and stuff of
that kind; any fancy that strikes him is just as real
to him as fact; I dare say he could persuade
himself that he was intimately acquainted with Sir
Patrick Spens and the Scots lords who were
drinking in Dunfermline town——"

"But in any case," Vincent protested (for how
could he surrender the name that was so deeply
graven on his heart)?  "Maisrie is only a form of
Margaret—as Marjorie is—a pet name—"

"Maisrie!" said the banker, contemptuously.
"Who ever heard of any human creature being
called Maisrie—outside of poetry-books and old
ballads?  I warned the little monkey, many and
many a day ago, when I first got her to write to me,
that she must sign her own name, or she would see
what I would do to her.  Well, how is the little
Omahussy?  What does she look like now?  A sly
little wretch she used to be—making people fond of
her with her earnest eyes—"

"I don't think you quite understand," said
Vincent, who resented this familiar tone, though
in truth it only meant an affectionate kindliness.
"Miss Bethune is no longer the little girl you seem
to imagine; she is quite a young lady now—and
taller than most."

"The little Omahussy grown up to be a tall
young lady?" said he, in a pleased fashion.  "Yes,
yes, I suppose so.  No doubt.  And tall, you say?
Even when she was here last she was getting on;
but the only photograph I have of her was done
long before that—when she was hardly more than
twelve; and then I'm an old bachelor, you see; I'm
not accustomed to watch children grow up; and
somehow I remember her mostly as when I first knew
her—a shy young thing, and yet something of a
little woman in her ways.  Grown up good-looking,
too, I suppose?—both her father and mother were
handsome."

"If you saw her now," said Vincent, "I think
you would say she was beautiful; though it might
not be her beauty that would take your attention
the most."

The elderly banker regarded this young man for
a second or so—and with a favouring glance: he
was clearly well impressed.

"I hope you will not consider me intrusive or
impertinent if I ask you a question," said he.  "I
am an old friend of George Bethune's—perhaps the
oldest alive now; and besides that I have always
regarded myself as a sort of second father to the
little Margaret—though their wandering way of life
has taken her out of my care.  Now—don't answer
unless you like—tell me to mind my own business—but
at the same time one would almost infer,
from your coming over here in search of them, that
you have some particular interest in the young
lady——"

"It is the chief interest of my life," said Vincent,
with simple frankness.  "And that is why I cannot
rest until I find them."

"Well, now, one question more," the banker
continued.  "I don't wish to pry into any young
lady's secrets—but—but perhaps there may be some
understanding between her and you?"

"I hope so," said Vincent.

"And the young wretch never wrote me a line
to tell me of it!" Mr. Thompson exclaimed—but
it was very obvious that this piece of news had
caused him no chagrin.  "The little Omahussy
grows up to be a fine and tall young lady; chooses
her sweetheart for herself; thinks of getting
married and all the rest of it; and not a word to me!
Here is filial gratitude for you!  Why, does she
forget what I have promised to do for her?  Not
that I ever said so to her; you don't fill a
school-girl's head full of wedding fancies; but her
grandfather knew; her grandfather must have told her
when this affair was settled between you and
her——"

But here Vincent had to interpose and explain
that nothing was settled; that unhappily everything
was unsettled; and further he went on to tell
of all that had happened preceding the disappearance
of Maisrie and her grandfather.  For this man
seemed of a kindly nature; he was an old friend of
those two; then Vincent had been very much alone
of late—there was no one in Omaha in whom he
could confide.  Mr. Thompson listened with close
attention; and at last he said—

"I can see that you have been placed in a very
peculiar position; and that you have stood the test
well.  The description of my old friend Bethune that
your father put before you could be made to look
very plausible; and I imagine that most young
men would have been staggered by it.  I can fancy
that a good many young men would have been apt
to say 'Like grandfather, like granddaughter'—and
would have declined to have anything more to
do with either.  And yet I understand that,
however doubtful or puzzled you may have been, at
least you never had any suspicion of Margaret?"

"Suspicion?" said Vincent.  "Of the girl whom
I hope to make my wife?  I need not answer the
question."

Mr. Thompson give a bit of a laugh, in a quiet,
triumphant manner.

"Evidently my little Omahussy had her eyes
widely and wisely open when she made her choice,"
said he, apparently to himself.

"And what can I do now?" Vincent went on, in
a half-despairing way.  "You say you are certain
they are not in Canada or they would have come to
see you.  The Scotchmen in New York told me
they were positive Mr. Bethune was not there, or
he would have shown up at the Burns Anniversary.
Well, where can I go now?  I must find her—I
cannot rest until I have found her—to have
everything explained—and—and to find out her reason
for going away——"

"I wonder," said Mr. Thompson, slowly, "what
old George had in his head this time?  To him, as
I say, fancies are just as real as facts, and I cannot
but imagine that this has been his doing.  She
would not ask him to break up all his arrangements
and ways of living for her sake; she was too
submissive and dependent on him for that; it is she
who has conformed to some sudden whim of his.
You had no quarrel with him?"

"A quarrel?  Nothing of the kind—not the
shadow of a quarrel!" Vincent exclaimed.

"Did you mention to him those reports about
himself?" was the next question.

"Well, yes, I did, in a casual sort of way," the
young man answered honestly.  "But it was merely
to account for any possible opposition on the part
of my father; and, in fact, I wanted Mr. Bethune to
consent to an immediate marriage between Maisrie
and myself."

"And what did Margaret say to that?" Mr. Thompson
proceeded to ask; he was clearly trying
to puzzle out for himself the mystery of this
situation.

"You mean the last time I saw her—the very
last time?" the young man answered him.  "Well,
she seemed greatly troubled: as I mentioned to
you, there was some wild talk about degradation—fancy
degradation having anything to do with
Maisrie Bethune!—and she said it would be better
for us to separate; and she made me promise
certain things.  But I wouldn't listen to her; I was
going down to Mendover; I made sure everything
would come right as soon as I could get back.  And
then, when I got back, they were gone—and not a
trace of them left behind."

"Had old George got any news about the
Balloray estates?" the banker asked, with a quick
look.

"Not that I know of," Vincent answered.  "Besides,
if there had been any news of importance,
it would have been in the papers; we should all
have seen it!"

"And you and Margaret parted on good terms?"

"Good terms?" said Vincent.  "That is hardly
the phrase.  But beyond what I told you, I cannot
say more.  There are some things that are for
myself alone."

"Quite right—quite right," said Mr. Thompson,
hastily, "I quite understand."

At this moment a card was brought in.

"Tell the gentleman I will see him directly," was
the reply.

Vincent, of course, rose.

"I confess," said the banker, "that the whole
affair perplexes me; and I should like a little time
to think it over.  Have you any engagement for
this evening?"

"No," said Vincent; "I only arrived in Toronto
last night: and I don't suppose I know any one in
the town."

"Come and dine with me at my club, then, this
evening, will you?  Just our two selves: the ——
club, at seven.  I want to talk to you about this
matter; for I have a particular interest, as you may
suppose, in the little Maggie; and I want to know
what it all means.  I should like to learn something
more about you, too, in view of certain possibilities.
And perhaps I can give you a few hints about my
old friend George, for you don't quite seem to
understand, even with all the chances you have
had.  Yes, I can see a little doubt in your mind
at times.  You would rather shut your eyes—for
Margaret's sake, no doubt; but I want to show you
that there isn't much of that needed, if you only
look the right way.  However, more of that when
we meet.  At seven, then.  Sorry to seem so
rude—but this is an appointment——"

That proved to be a memorable evening.  To
begin with small things: Vincent, after his late
solitary wanderings in unfamiliar conditions of life,
now and suddenly found himself at home.  The
quiet, old-fashioned unobtrusive comfort of this
club; the air of staid respectability; the manner of
the waiters; the very cooking, and the order in
which the wines were handed—all appeared to him
to be so thoroughly English; and the members,
judging by little points here and there, seemed also
to be curiously English in their habits and ways.
He had received a similar impression on his first
visit to Toronto; but on this occasion it was more
marked than ever; perhaps the good-humoured
friendliness of this Scotch banker had something
to do with it, and their being able to talk about
people in whom they had a common concern.
However, it was after dinner, in a snug corner of the
smoking-room, that Mr. Thompson proceeded to
talk of his old friend in a fashion that considerably
astonished the young man who was his guest.

"Yes," he continued, after he had examined and
cross-examined Vincent with regard to certain
occurrences, "there is no doubt at all that George
Bethune is a rank old impostor; but the person on
whom he has mostly imposed, all his life through,
has been—George Bethune.  I suppose, now, every
one of us has in his nature a certain amount of
self-deception; it would be a pity if it weren't so.  But
here is this man who has been gifted with a quite
unlimited faculty of self-deception; and with a
splendid imagination, too—the imagination of a
poet, without a poet's responsibilities; so that he
lives in a world entirely of his own creation, and
sees things just as he wants to see them.  As I say,
he has the imagination of a poet, and the unworldliness
of a poet, without any one calling him to do
anything to prove his powers; he is too busy
constructing his own fanciful universe for himself; and
all the common things of life—debts, bills,
undertakings, and so forth—they have no existence for
him.  Ah, well, well," Mr. Thompson went on, as
he lay back in his chair, and watched the blue
curls of smoke from his cigar, "I don't know
whether to call it a pity or not.  Sometimes one is
inclined to envy him his happy temperament.  I
don't know any human creature who has a braver
spirit, whose conscience is clearer to himself, who
can sleep with greater equanimity and content.
Why should he mind what circumstances are around
him when in a single second he can transport
himself to the Dowie Dens o' Yarrow or be off on a
raid with Kinmont Willie?  And there's nothing
that he will not seize if he has a mind to it—a
sounding name, a tradition, a historical
incident—why, he laid hold of the Bonnie mill-dams o'
Binnorie, carried them off bodily to Balloray, and I
suppose wild horses wouldn't tear from him the
admission that Balloray never had anything to
do with those mill-dams or the story of the two
sisters——"

"I know," said Vincent; "Maisrie told me about that."

"Maisrie!" said Mr. Thompson, with a return
of his former impatience.  "That is another of
his fantasticalities.  I tell you her name is
Margaret——."

"But she has been Maisrie to me, and Maisrie
she will be to me always," Vincent made answer
stoutly—for surely he had some right to speak on
this matter too.  "As I said this morning, it is
only a pet name for Margaret; and if she chooses
to use it, to please her grandfather, or to please
herself even——"

"Stay a moment: I want to show you something."

The banker put his hand into his breast-pocket;
and pulled out an envelope.

"Not the photograph?" said Vincent, rather breathlessly.

Mr. Thompson smiled in his quiet, sagacious way.

"When I mentioned this portrait to you to-day,"
said he, "I saw something in your eyes—though
you were too modest to put your request into
words.  Well, I have brought it; here it is; and
if you'll look at the foot you'll see that the little
Omahussy signs herself, as she ought to sign
herself, 'Margaret Bethune.'"

And what a revelation was this, of what Maisrie
had been in the years before he had known her!
The quaint, prim, small miss!—he could have
laughed, with a kind of delight: only that here
were those calm, grave, earnest eyes, that seemed
to know him, that seemed to speak to him.  Full
of wistfulness they were, and dreams: they said to
him, 'I am looking forward; I am waiting till I
meet you—my friend; life has that in store—for
you and me.'

"I thought you would be interested," said
Mr. Thompson, blandly.  "And I know you would like
me to give you that photograph: perhaps you
think you have some right to it, having won the
young lady herself——"

"Won her?" said Vincent, still contemplating
this strange, quaint portrait that seemed to speak
to him somehow.  "It hardly looks like it."

"Well, I cannot give you the photograph," the
elderly Scotchman continued, in his friendly way,
"but, if you like, I will have it copied—perhaps
even enlarged, if it will stand it—and I will send
you one——"

"Will you?" said Vincent, with a flash of gratitude
in his eyes.  "To me it would be simply a
priceless treasure."

"I just thought it would be," Mr. Thompson said,
considerately.  "I've seen something of the ways
of young people in my time.  Yes; I'll send you a
copy or two as soon as I can get them done."

Vincent handed back the photograph—reluctantly,
and keeping his eyes on it until it had disappeared.

"I brought it out to show you she could sign her
name properly when under proper instruction," the
banker continued.  "And now to return to her
grandfather, who seems to have puzzled you a
little, as well might be the case.  I can see how
you have been trying to blind yourself to certain
things: no doubt you looked towards Margaret, and
thought she would make up for all.  But I surmise
you have been a little unjust to my old friend;
notwithstanding your association with him, you
have not quite understood him; and perhaps that
is hardly to be wondered at.  And certainly you
would never take him to be what I consider him to
be—a very great man who has been spoiled by a
fatal inheritance.  I do truly and honestly believe
there were the makings of a great man in George
Bethune—a man with his indomitable pluck and
self-reliance, his imagination, his restless energy,
his splendid audacity and independence of character.
Even now I see something heroic in him: he seems
to me a man of heroic build—of heroic attitude
towards the rest of the world: people may say what
they like about George Bethune; but I know him
better than most, and I wholly admire him and
love him.  If it hadn't been for that miserable
property!  I suppose, now, a large estate may turn
out a fortunate or unfortunate legacy accordingly
as you use it; but if your legacy is only the
knowledge that the estate ought to be yours, and isn't,
that is a fine set of circumstances!  And I have
little doubt it was to forget that wretched lawsuit,
to escape from a ceaseless and useless disappointment,
that he took refuge in a world of imagination,
and built up delusions round about him—just as
other people take refuge in gin or in opium.  At
all events, his spirit has not been crushed.  Did you
ever hear him whine and complain?—I should
think not!  He has kept a stout heart, has old
George Bethune.  Perhaps, indeed, his pride has
been excessive.  Here am I, for example: I'm
getting well on in years, and I haven't a single
near relative now living; I've scraped together a
few sixpences in my time; and nothing would give
me greater pleasure than if George Bethune were
to come to me and ask me to share my purse with
him.  And he knows it too.  But would he?  Not
a bit!  Rather than come to me and get some useful
sum, he would go and get a few pounds out of some
newspaper-office on account of one of his frantic
schemes to do something fine for poor old Scotland.
No," the banker proceeded, with rather an injured
air, "I suppose I'm not distinguished enough.
Friend George has some very high and mighty
notions about the claims of long descent—and
*noblesse oblige*—and all that.  It is a condescension
on his part to accept help from any one; and it is
the privilege of those who have birth and lineage
like himself to be allowed to come to his aid.  I'm
only Thompson.  If I were descended from Richard
Coeur de Lion I suppose it would be different.  Has
he ever accepted any money from you?"

"Never," said Vincent—who was not going to
recall a few restaurant bills and cab fares.

"No," resumed the banker, "Your name is
Harris.  But when it comes to Lord Musselburgh,
that is quite different, that is all right.  No doubt
Lord Musselburgh was quite proud to be allowed to
subscribe—how much was it?—towards a book that
never came out."

"Oh, but I ought to explain that that money was
paid back," said Vincent, quickly.

"Paid back?" repeated the banker, staring.
"That is a new feature, indeed!  The money paid
back to Lord Musselburgh?  How did that come
about?  How did friend George yield to a weakness
of that kind?"

"The fact is," said Vincent, blushing like a
school-boy, "I paid it."

"Without letting the old gentleman know?"

"Yes."

"Then excuse my saying so," Mr. Thomson
observed, "but you threw away your money to very
little purpose.  If George Bethune is willing to
take a cheque from Lord Musselburgh—if he can
do so without the slightest loss of self-respect or
dignity—why should not his lordship be allowed
to help a brother Scot?  Why should you interfere?"

"It was for Maisrie's sake," said Vincent, looking down.

"Ah, yes, yes," the banker said, knitting his
brows.  "That is where the trouble comes in.  I
shouldn't mind letting George Bethune go his own
way; he is all right; his self-sufficiency will carry
him through anything: but for a sensitive girl like
that it must be terrible.  I wonder how much she
suspects," he went on.  "I wonder how much she
sees.  Or if it is possible he has blinded her as well
as himself to their circumstances?  For you must
remember this—I am talking to you now, Mr. Harris,
as one who may have a closer relationship
with these two—you must remember this, that to
himself George Bethune's conscience is as clear as
that of a one-year-old child.  Do you think he sees
anything shady or unsatisfactory in these little
transactions or forgetfulnesses of his?  He is careless of
money because he despises it.  If he had any, and
you wanted it, it would be yours."

"I know that," said Vincent, eagerly; and he
told the story of their meeting the poor woman in
Hyde Park.

"Take that string of charges you spoke of," the
banker resumed.  "I have not the least doubt that
from the point of view of the people who discovered
those things their story was quite accurate.  Except,
perhaps, about his calling himself Lord Bethune: I
don't believe that, and never heard of it; that was
more likely a bit of toadyism on the part of some
bar-loungers.  But, as I say, from a solicitor's point
of view, George Bethune would no doubt be regarded
as a habitual impostor; whereas to himself he is no
impostor at all, but a perfectly honourable person,
whose every act can challenge the light of day.  If
there is any wrong or injury in the relations between
him and the world, be sure he considers himself the
wronged and injured one: though you must admit
he does not complain.  The question is—does
Margaret see?  Or has he brought her up in that
world of imagination—careless of the real facts of
life—persuading yourself of anything you wish to
believe—thinking little of rent or butchers' bills so
long as you can escape into the merry green-wood
and live with Burd Helens and May Colleans and
the like?  You see, when I knew her she was little
more than a child; it would never occur to her to
question the conduct of her grandfather; but now
you say she is a woman—she may have begun to
look at things for herself——"

Mr. Thompson paused, and eyed his companion
curiously.  For a strange expression had come into
Vincent's face.

"What then?" asked the banker.

"I am beginning to understand," the young man
said, "and—and—perhaps here is the reason of
Maisrie's going away.  Suppose she imagined that
I suspected her grandfather—suppose she thought I
considered those reports true: then she might take
that as a personal insult; she might be too proud to
offer any defence; she would go to her grandfather
and say 'Grandfather, if this is what he and his
friends think of us, it is time we should take definite
steps to end this companionship.'  It has been all
my doing, then, since I was so blind?" Vincent
continued, evidently in deep distress.  "I don't wonder
that she was offended and insulted—and—and she
would be too proud to explain.  I have all along
had a kind of notion that she had something to do,
perhaps everything to do, with their going away.
And yet——"

He was silent.  Mr. Thompson waited for a
second or two, not wishing to interrupt: then he
said—

"Of course you know her better than I do; but
that is not how I should read the situation.  It is
far more probable that her own eyes have been
gradually opening—not to what her grandfather is,
but to what he may appear to be in the eyes of the
world; and when she has come more and more to
perceive the little likelihood of his being
considerately judged, she may have determined that you
should be set free from all association with him and
with her.  I think that is far more likely, in view
of the things you have told me.  And I can imagine
her doing that.  A resolute young creature; ready
to sacrifice herself; used to wandering, too—her
first solution of any difficulty would be to 'go
away.'  A touch of pride, perhaps, as well.  I dare say she
has discovered that if you look at George Bethune
through blue spectacles, his way of life must look
rather questionable; but if you look at him through
pink spectacles, everything is pleasant, and fine, and
even grand.  But would she ask anyone to put on
a pair of pink spectacles?  No; for she has the
stiff neck of the Bethunes.  I imagine she can hold
her head as high as any one, now she is grown up.
And of course she will not ask for generous
interpretation; she will rather 'go away.'"

Vincent was still silent; but at length he said—as
if speaking to himself—

"I wonder what Maisrie must have thought of me."

He had evidently been going over all that had
happened in those bygone days—by the light of
this new knowledge.

"What do you mean?" the banker said.

"Why, if there were any generous interpretation
needed or expected, surely it should have come first
of all from me.  The outside world might be
excused for thinking this or that of Mr. Bethune;
but I was constantly with him; and then, look at
the relations that existed between Maisrie and
myself.  I thought I was doing enough in the way
of generosity when I tried to shut my eyes to
certain things; whereas I should have tried to see
more clearly.  I might have understood—if any
one.  I remember now Maisrie's saying to me on one
occasion—it was about that book on the Scottish-American
poets—she said quite piteously: 'Don't
you understand?  Don't you understand that
grandfather can persuade himself of anything?
If he has thought a thing over, he considers it
done, and is ready for something else.'  And then
there was another time——"

"Come, come," said Mr. Thompson, good-naturedly,
"I don't see you have much to reproach
yourself with.  You must admit that that affair—if
he really did see the proof-sheets in New York—looked
pretty bad.  You say yourself that Hugh
Anstruther was staggered by it——"

"Yes, he was," said Vincent, "until I explained
that the money had been repaid to Lord Musselburgh,
and also that I had no doubt Mr. Bethune
considered himself, from his knowledge of the
subject, quite entitled to publish a volume on the
other side of the water.  Mr. Ross's book was
published only on this side—at least, that is my
impression."

"Did you tell Anstruther who repaid the money
to Lord Musselburgh?" Mr. Thompson asked, with
a shrewd glance.

"No," answered Vincent, looking rather shame-faced.

"Ah, well," the banker said, "a freak of generosity
is very pardonable in a young man, especially
where a young lady is concerned.  And you had
the means besides.  Your father is a rich man, isn't he?"

"Oh, yes, pretty well."

"And you—now forgive my curiosity—it only
arises from my interest in Margaret—I dare say
you are allowed a sufficient income?"

"I have more money than I need," said Vincent,
frankly, "but of course that would not be the case
if I married Maisrie Bethune, for then I should have
to depend on my own resources.  I should have to
earn my own living."

"Oh, earn your own living?  Well, that is very
commendable, in any case.  And how do you propose
to earn your own living?"

"By writing for the newspapers."

"Have you had any experience?" Maisrie's
'second father' continued.

"Yes, a little; and I have had fair encouragement.
Besides, I know one or two important people
in the newspaper world."

"And what about your seat in Parliament?"

"That would not interfere: there are several
journalists in the House."

The banker considered for a little while.

"Seems a little hazardous, doesn't it, to break
away from a certainty of income?" he asked, at
length.  "Are you quite convinced that if you married
Margaret your relatives would prove so implacable?"

"It isn't what they would do that is the question,"
Vincent responded, with promptitude.  "It is what
I should be inclined to do.  At present they regard
Maisrie as nothing more nor less than a common
adventuress and swindler—or rather an uncommon
one—a remarkably clever one.  Now do you think
I am going to take her by the hand, and lead her
up to them, and say, 'Dear Papa,' or 'Dear Aunt,'
as the case may be, 'Here is the adventuress and
swindler whom I have married, but she is not going
to be wicked any more; she is going to reform; and
I beg you to receive her into the family, and forgive
her all that she has been; and also I hope that you
will give me money to support her and myself.'  You
see," continued Vincent, "before I did that I think
I would rather try to find out how much a week I
could make by writing leading-articles."

"Quite right—quite right," said Mr. Thompson,
with a smile: for why this disdain?—*he* had not
counselled the young man to debase himself so.

"And then it isn't breaking away from any
certainty of income," Vincent proceeded, "but
quite the reverse.  The certainty is that as soon as
I announce my intention of marrying Miss Bethune,
my father will suggest that I should shift for
myself.  Very well.  I'm not afraid.  I can take
my chance, like another.  They say that poverty
is a good test of affection: I am ready to face it,
for one."

"Oh, as for that," the banker interposed, "I
wish you to understand this—that your bride won't
come to you empty-handed.  George Bethune may
hold aloof from me as long as he likes.  If he
thinks it is more dignified for him to go cadging
about with vague literary projects—all for the
honour and glory of Scotland, no doubt—instead
of letting his oldest friend share his purse with
him, I have nothing to say.  My name's only
Thompson; *noblesse oblige* has nothing to do with
me.  But when my little Margaret walks into
church to meet the man of her choice, it will
be my business to see that she is suitably provided
for.  I do not mean to boast, or make rash promises,
or raise false expectations; but when her husband
brings her away it will be no pauper he is taking
home with him.  And I want to add this, since we
are talking in confidence: I hope her husband will
be none other than yourself.  I like you.  I like
the way you have spoken of both grandfather and
granddaughter; and I like your independence.  By
all means when you get back to the old country: by
all means carry out that project of yours of earning
an income for yourself.  It can do you no harm,
whatever happens; it may be invaluable to you in
certain circumstances.  And in the meantime, if I
may still further advise, give up this search of yours
for the present.  I dare say you are now convinced
they are not on this side the water; well, let that
suffice for the time being.  Here is Parliament
coming together; you have your position to make;
and the personal friend and protégé of —— should
surely have a great chance in public life.  Of
course, you will say it is easy to talk.  But don't
misunderstand me.  What can you do except
attend to these immediate and practical affairs?
If George Bethune and Margaret have decided, for
reasons best known to themselves, to sever the
association between you and them, mere advertising
won't bring them back.  And searching the streets
of this or that town is a pretty hopeless business.
No; if you hear of them, it will not be in that
way: it will be through some communication with
some common friend, and just as likely as not that
friend will be myself."

All this seemed very reasonable—and hopeless.
Vincent rose.

"I must not keep you up too late," said he, in am
absent sort of way.  "I suppose you are right—I
may as well go away back to England at once.
But of course I will call to see you before I
go—to-morrow if I may—to thank you for all your
kindness."

"Ah, but you must keep up your heart, you
know," the banker said, regarding the young man
in a favouring way.  "No despair.  Why, I am sure
to hear from one or other of them; they cannot
guess that you have been here; even if they wish
to keep their whereabouts concealed from you they
would have no such secret from me.  And be sure
I will send you word the moment I hear anything.
I presume the House of Commons will be your
simplest and surest address."

As he walked away home that night Vincent had
many things to ponder over; but the question of
questions was as to whether Maisrie had indignantly
scorned him for his blindness in not perceiving
more clearly her grandfather's nature and circumstances,
or for his supineness in wavering, and half-admitting
that these charges might bring disquiet.
For now the figure of old George Bethune seemed
to stand out distinctly enough: an amiable and
innocent monomaniac; a romantic enthusiast; a
sublime egotist; a dreamer of dreams; a thaumaturgist
surrounding himself with delusions and not
knowing them to be such.  And if Daniel Thompson's
reading of the character of his old friend
was accurate—if George Bethune had merely in
splendid excess that faculty of self-deception which
in lesser measure was common to all mortals—who
was going to cast the first stone?





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.. _`MARRIAGE NOT A LA MODE`:

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   CHAPTER V.


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   MARRIAGE NOT A LA MODE.

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London had come to life again; the meeting of
Parliament had summoned fathers of families from
distant climes and cities—from Algiers and Athens,
from Constantinople and Cairo; the light blazed at
the summit of the Clock-tower; cabs and carriages
rattled into Palace Yard.  And here, at a table in
the Ladies' Dining-room of the House of Commons,
sate Mrs. Ellison and her friend Louie Drexel,
along with Lord Musselburgh and Vincent Harris,
the last-named playing the part of host.  This Miss
Drexel was rather an attractive-looking little person,
brisk and trim and neat, with a healthy complexion,
a pert nose, and the most astonishingly clear blue
eyes.  Very frank those eyes were; almost ruthless
in a way; about as ruthless as the young lady's
tongue, when she was heaping contempt and
ridicule on some conventionality or social
superstition.  "Seeva the Destroyer" Vincent used
gloomily to call her, when he got a little bit tired
of having her flung at his head by the indefatigable
young widow.  Nevertheless she was a merry and
vivacious companion; with plenty of independence,
too: if she was being flung at anybody's head it
was with no consent of her own.

"You don't say!" she was observing to her
companion.  "Fancy any one being in Canada in
the winter and not going to see the night
tobogganing at Rideau Hall!"

"I never was near Ottawa," said Vincent, in
answer to her; "and, besides, I don't know the
Viceroy."

"A member of the British Parliament—travelling
in Canada: I don't think you would have to
wait long for an invitation," said she.  "Why, you
missed the loveliest thing in the world—just the
loveliest thing in the whole world!—the toboggan-slide
all lit up with Chinese lanterns—the black
pine woods all around—the clear stars overhead.
Then they have great bonfires down in the hollow—to
keep the chaperons from freezing: poor things,
it isn't much fun for them; I dare say they find
out what a good thing hot coffee is on a cold night.
And you were at Toronto?" she added.

"Yes, I was at Toronto," he answered, absently:
indeed at this time he was thinking much oftener of
Toronto than this young lady could have
imagined—wondering when, or if ever, a message was
coming to him from the friendly Scotch banker
there.

Mrs. Ellison was now up in town making preparations
for her approaching marriage; but so anxious
was she that Louie Drexel and Vincent should get
thrown together, that she crushed the natural desire
of a woman's heart for a fashionable wedding, and
proposed that the ceremony should be quite a quiet
little affair, to take place at Brighton, with Miss
Drexel as her chief attendant and Vincent as best
man.  And of course there were many consultations;
and Mrs. Ellison and her young friend were much
together; and they seemed to think it pleasanter,
in their comings and goings, to have a man's escort,
so that the Parliamentary duties of the new member
for Mendover were very considerably interfered with.

"Look here, aunt," said he, at this little dinner,
"do you think I went into the House of Commons
simply to get you places in the Ladies' gallery and
entertain you in the Ladies' Dining-room?"

"I consider that a very important part of your
duties," said the young widow, promptly.  "And
I tell you this: when we come back from the
Riviera, for the London season, I hope to be kept
informed of everything that is going on—surely,
with a husband in one House and a nephew in the
other!"

"But what I want to know is," said Lord Musselburgh
on this same occasion, "what Vin is going
to do about the taxation of ground rents.  I think
that is about the hardest luck I ever heard of.
Here is a young man, who no sooner gets into
Parliament than he is challenged to say whether he
will support the taxation of ground rents; and lo
and behold! every penny of his own fortune is
invested in ground rents!  Isn't that hard?  Other
things don't touch him.  Welsh Disestablishment
will neither put a penny in his pocket nor take one
out; while he can make promises by the dozen
about the abolition of the tea duty, extension of
Factory Acts, triennial Parliaments, and all the rest
of it.  Besides, it isn't only a question of money.
He knows he has no more right to tax ground rents
than to pillage a baker's shop; he knows he
oughtn't to give the name of patriot to people who
merely want to steal what doesn't belong to them;
and I suppose he has his own ideas about contracts
guaranteed by law, and the danger of introducing
the legislation of plunder.  But what is he going to
do?  What are you going to do, Marcus Curtius?
Jump in, and sacrifice yourself, money and principles
and all?"

"You are not one of my constituents," said
Vincent, "and I decline to answer."

Day after day went by, and week after week;
but no tidings came of the two fugitives.  In such
moments of interval as he could snatch from his
various pursuits (for he was writing for an evening
paper now, and that occupied a good deal of his
time) his imagination would go wandering away
over the surface of the globe, endeavouring to
picture them here or there.  He had remembered
Maisrie's injunction; he could not forget that; but
of what avail was it now?  Busy as he was, he led
a solitary kind of life; much thinking, especially
during the long hours of the night, was eating
into his spirit; in vain did Mrs. Ellison scheme
and plan all kinds of little festivities and
engagements in order to get him interested in
Louie Drexel.  But he was grateful to the girl, in
a sort of way; when they had to go two and two
(which Mrs. Ellison endeavoured to manage
whenever there was a chance) she did all the talking;
she did not seem to expect attention; she was
light-hearted and amusing enough.  He bought her
music; sent her flowers; and so forth; and no
doubt Mrs. Ellison thought that all was going well;
but it is to be presumed that Miss Drexel herself
was under no misapprehension, for she was an
observant and shrewd-witted lass.  Once, indeed,
as they were walking up Regent-street, she
ventured to hint, in a sisterly sort of fashion, that
he might be a little more confidential with her;
but he did not respond to this invitation; and she
did not pursue the subject further.

Then the momentous wedding-day drew near;
and it was with curious feelings that Vincent found
himself on the way to Brighton again.  But he was
not alone.  The two Drexel girls and Lord
Musselburgh were with him, in this afternoon Pullman;
and Miss Louie was chattering away like twenty
magpies.  Always, too, in an oddly personal way.
You—the person she was addressing—you were
responsible for everything that had happened to
her, or might happen to her, in this country; you
were responsible for the vagaries of the weather, for
the condition of the cab that brought her, for the
delay in getting tickets.

"Why," she said to Vincent, "you know perfectly
well that all that your English poets have written
about your English spring is a pure imposture.
Who would go a-Maying when you can't be sure of
the weather for ten minutes at a time?  'Hail,
smiling morn!'—just you venture to say that, on
the finest day you ever saw in an English spring;
the chances are your prayer will be answered,
and the chances are that the morn does begin to
hail, like the very mischief.  You know perfectly
well that Herrick is a fraud.  There never were
such people as Corydon and Phyllis—with ribbons
at their knees and in their caps.  The farm-servants
of Herrick's time were no better off than the
farm-servants of this present time—stupid, ignorant louts,
not thinking of poetry at all, but living the most
dull and miserable of lives, with an occasional
guzzle.  But in this country, you believe anything
that is told you.  One of your great men says that
machine-made things are bad; and so you go and
print your books on hand-made paper—and worry
yourselves to death before you can get the edges
out.  I call the man who multiplies either useful or
pretty things by machinery a true philanthropist;
he is working for the mass of the people; and it's
about time they were being considered.  In former
days——"

"Don't you want to hire a hall, Louie?" said her
sister Anna.

"Oh, I've no patience with sham talk of that
kind!" continued Miss Drexel, not heeding the
interruption.  "As I say, in former days no one
was supposed to have anything fine or beautiful in
their house, except princes and nobles.  The goldsmiths,
and the lapidaries, and the portrait-painters—and
the poor wretches who made Venetian lace—they
all worked for the princes and nobles; and the
common people were not supposed to have anything
to do with art or ornament; they could herd like
pigs.  Well, I'm for machinery.  I'm for
chromolithography, when it can give the labourer a very
fair imitation of a Landseer or a Millais to hang up
in his cottage; I'm for the sewing-machine that can
give the £150-a-year people a very good substitute
for Syrian embroidery to put in their drawing-room.
You've been so long used to princes and nobles
having everything and the poor people nothing——"

"But we're learning the error of our ways,"
said Vincent, interposing.  "My father is a
Socialist."

"A Socialist," observed Lord Musselburgh, "who
broke the moulds of a dessert-service lest anybody
else should have plates of the same pattern!"

"Who has been telling tales out of school?"
Vincent asked; but the discussion had to end here,
for they were now slowing into the station.

Nor did Mrs. Ellison's plans for throwing those two
young people continuously and obviously together
work any better in Brighton; for Vincent had no
sooner got down than he went away by himself,
seeking out the haunts he had known when Maisrie and
her grandfather had been there.  Wretchedness,
loneliness, was destroying the nerve of this young man.
He had black moods of despair; and not only of
despair, but of remorse; he tortured himself with
vain regrets, as one does when thinking of the dead.
If only he could have all those opportunities over
again, he would not misunderstand or mistrust!
If only he could have them both here!—the
resolute, brave-hearted old man who disregarded
all mean and petty troubles while he could march
along, with head erect, repeating to himself a verse
of the Psalms of David, or perhaps in his careless
gaiety singing a farewell to Bonny Mary and the
pier o' Leith.  And Maisrie?—but Maisrie had
gone away, proud, and wounded, and indignant.
She had found him unworthy of the love she had
offered him.  He had not risen to her height.  She
would seek some other, no doubt, better fitted to
win her maiden trust.  He thought of 'Urania'—

   |  'Yet show her once, ye heavenly Powers,
   |  One of some worthier race than ours!
   |  One for whose sake she once might prove
   |  How deeply she who scorns can love.'

And that other one, that worthier one, she would
welcome—

   |  'And she to him will reach her hand,
   |  And gazing in his eyes will stand,
   |  And know her friend, and weep for glee,
   |  And cry: *Long, long I've looked for thee*.'

Then again his mood would change.  If Maisrie
were only here—if but for a second or so he could
look into her clear, pensive, true eyes, surely he
could convince her of one thing—that even when
his father had offered him chapter and verse to
prove that she was nothing but the accomplice of
a common swindler, his faith in her had never
wavered, never for an instant.  And would she not
forgive his blindness in not understanding so
complex a character as that of her grandfather?
He had not told her of his half-suspicions; nay,
he had treated those charges with an open
contempt.  And if her quick eyes had perceived that
behind those professions there lingered some
unconfessed doubt, would she not be generous and
willing to pardon?  It was in her nature to be
generous.  And he had borne some things for her
sake that he had never revealed to any mortal.

He ought to have been attending to his groomsman's
duties, and acting as escort to the young
ladies who had gone down; but instead of that he
paid a visit to German-place, to look at the house
in which the two Bethunes had lodged; and he
slowly passed up and down the Kemp-Town breakwater,
striving to picture to himself the look in
Maisrie's eyes when her soul made confession; and
he went to the end of the Chain Pier, to recall the
tempestuous morning on which Maisrie, with her
wet hair blown about by the winds, and her lips
salt with the sea-spray, had asked him to kiss her,
as a last farewell.  And his promise?—"Promise
me, Vincent, that you will never doubt that you are
my dearest in all the world; promise me that you
will say to yourself always and always, 'Wherever
Maisrie is at this moment, she loves me—she is
thinking of me.'"  He had made light of her wild
words; he could not believe in any farewell; and
now—now all the wide, unknown world lay between
him and her, and there was nothing for him but
the memory of her broken accents, her sobs, her
distracted, appealing eyes.

Mrs. Ellison affected not to notice his remissness;
nay, she went on the other tack.

"Don't you think it is a pity, Vin," she said
on one occasion when she found him alone—and
there was a demure little smile on her very
pretty and expressive face: "Don't you think it
is a pity the two marriages couldn't be on the
same day?"

"What two marriages?" he demanded, with a stare.

"Oh, yes, we are so discreet!" she said,
mockingly.  "We wouldn't mention anything for worlds.
But other people aren't quite blind, young gentleman.
And I do think it would have been so nice
if the four of us could have gone off on this trip
together; Louie despises conventions—she wouldn't
mind.  Many's the time I've thought of it; four
make such a nice number for driving along the
Riviera; and four who all know each other so well
would be quite delightful.  If it came to that, I
dare say it could be arranged yet: I'm sure I
should be willing to have our marriage postponed
for a month, and I have no doubt I could persuade
Hubert to agree: then the two weddings on the
same day would be jolly—"

"What are you talking about, aunt!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, well," she said, with a wise and amiable
discretion, "I don't want to hurry on anything,
or even to interfere.  But of course we all expect
that the attentions you have been paying to Louie
Drexel will lead to something—and it would have
been very nice if the two weddings could have been
together."

He was still staring at her.

"Mind you," she went on, "I wish you distinctly
to understand that Louie has not spoken a single
word to me on the subject—"

"Well, I should hope not!" said Vincent, with
quick indignation.

"Oh, don't be angry!  Do you think a girl
doesn't interpret things?" continued Mrs. Ellison.
"She has her own pride, of course; she wouldn't
speak until she is spoken to.  But *I* can speak; and
surely you know that it is only your interests I have
at heart.  And that is why we have been so glad to
see this affair coming along—"

"Who have been glad to see it?" he asked again.

"Well, Hubert, for one.  And I should think
your father.  Of course they must see how admirable
a wife she would make you, now you are really
embarked in public life.  Clever, bright, amusing;
of a good family; with a comfortable dowry, no
doubt—but that would be of little consequence, so
long as your father was pleased with the match:
you will have plenty.  And this is my offer, a very
handsome one, I consider it: even now, at the last
moment, I will try to get Hubert to postpone our
marriage, if you and Louie will have your wedding
on the same day with us.  I have thought of it
again and again; but somehow I didn't like to
speak.  I was waiting for you to tell me that there
was a definite understanding between you and
Louie Drexel——"

"Well, there is not," he said calmly.  "Nor is
there ever likely to be."

"Oh, come, come," she said insidiously, "don't
make any rash resolve, simply because I may have
interfered a little too soon.  Consider the
circumstances.  Did you ever hear of any young man
getting into Parliament with fairer prospects than
you?  Your friendship with —— is of itself enough
to attract attention to you.  You have hardly
opened your mouth in the House yet; all the same
I can see a disposition on the part of the newspapers
to pet you——"

"What has that got to do with Louie Drexel?"
Vincent asked bluntly.

"Everything," was the prompt reply.  "You
must have social position.  You must begin and
entertain—and make your own circle of friends and
allies.  Then I shall want you to come to Musselburgh
House—you and your wife—so that my
dinner parties shan't be smothered up with elderly
people and political bores.  You can't begin too
early to form your own set; and not only that, but
with a proper establishment and a wife at the head
of it, you can pay compliments to all kinds of
people, even amongst those who are not of your own
set.  Why shouldn't you ask Mr. Ogden to dinner,
for example?—there's many a good turn he might
do you in time to come.  Wait till you see how I
mean to manage at Musselburgh House—if only
Hubert would be a little more serious, and profess
political beliefs even if he hasn't any.  For I want
you to succeed, Vincent.  You are my boy.  And you
don't know how a woman who can't herself do
anything distinguished is proud to look on and admire
one of her own family distinguishing himself, and
would like to have all the world admiring him too.
I tell you you are losing time; you are losing your
opportunities.  What is the use—what on earth
can be the use," continued this zealous and surely
disinterested councillor, "of your writing for
newspapers?  If the articles were signed, then I could
understand their doing you some good; or if you
were the editor of an important journal, that would
give you a position.  But here you are slaving
away—for what?  Is it the money they give you?
It would be odd if the son of Harland Harris had
to make that a consideration.  What otherwise,
then?  Do you think half-a-dozen people know that
you write in the —— ——."

"My dear aunt," he answered her, "all that you
say is very wise and very kind; but you must not
bother about me when your own affairs are so much
more important.  If I have been too attentive to
Miss Drexel—I'm sure I wasn't aware of it, but I
may have been—I will alter that——"

"Oh, Vin, don't be mean!" Mrs. Ellison cried.
"Don't do anything shabby.  You won't go and
quarrel with the girl simply because I ventured to
hope something from your manner towards her—you
wouldn't do such a thing as that——"

"Certainly not," said he, in a half-amused way.
"Miss Drexel and I are excellent friends——"

"And you will continue to be so!" said Mrs. Ellison,
imploringly.  "Now, Vincent, promise me!
You know there are crises in a woman's life when
she expects a little consideration—when she expects
to be petted—and have things a little her own way:
well, promise me now you will be very kind to
Louie—kinder than ever—why, what an omen at a
wedding it would be if my chief attendant and the
groomsman were to fall out——"

"Oh, we shan't fall out, aunt, be sure of that," he
said good-naturedly.

"Ah, but I want more," she persisted.  "I shall
consider myself a horrid mischief-maker if I don't
see that you are more attentive and kind to Louie
Drexel than ever.  It's your duty.  It's your place
as groomsman.  You'll have to propose their health
at the wedding-breakfast; and of course you'll say
something nice about American girls—could you
say anything too nice, I wonder?—and you'll have
to say it with an air of conviction.  For they'll
expect you to speak well, of course: you, a young
member of Parliament; and where could you find
a more welcome toast, at a wedding-breakfast, than
the toast of the unmarried young ladies?  Yes, yes;
you'll have plenty of opportunity of lecturing a
sleepy House of Commons about Leasehold Enfranchisement
and things of that kind; but this is quite
another sort of chance; and I'm looking forward to
my nephew distinguishing himself—as he ought to
do, when he will have Louie and Anna Drexel
listening."  And here this astute and insidious adviser
ceased, for her future husband came into the room,
to pay his last afternoon call.

Whether Vincent spoke well or ill on that
auspicious occasion does not concern us here: it
only needs to be said that the ceremony, and the
quiet little festivities following, all passed off very
satisfactorily; and that bride and bridegroom (the
former being no novice) drove away radiant and
happy, amid the usual symbolic showers.  It was
understood they were to break their journey
southward at Paris for a few days; and Vincent—who
had meanwhile slipped along to his hotel to change
his attire—went up to the railway station to see
them off.  He was surprised to find both the Drexel
girls there.

"Now, look here, Vin," said the charming, tall,
pretty-eyed, and not inexperienced bride, "I want
you to do me a favour.  If a woman isn't to be
humoured and petted on her wedding day—when,
then?  Well, Louie and Anna don't return to town
till to-morrow morning; and what are they to do in
that empty house with old Mrs. Smythe?  I want
you to take them in hand for the afternoon—to
please me.  Leave that wretched House of Commons
for one more evening: in any case you couldn't go
up now before the five o'clock express."

And then she turned to the two young ladies.
"Louie, Vincent has promised to look after you
two girls; and he'll see you safely into your train
to-morrow morning.  So you must do your best to
entertain him in the meanwhile; the afternoon will
be the dullest—you must find something to amuse
yourselves with——"

Miss Drexel seemed a little self-conscious, and
also inclined to laugh.

"If he will trust himself entirely to us," said she,
with covertly merry eyes fixed on the bride, "Anna
and I will do our best.  But he must put himself
entirely in our charge.  He must be ruled and
governed.  He must do everything we ask——"

"Training him for a husband's duties," said Lord
Musselburgh, without any evil intention whatever;
for indeed he was more anxious about getting a
supply of foot-warmers into the carriage that had
been reserved for him.

Then the kissing had to be gone through; there
were final farewells and good wishes; away went the
train; there was a fluttering of handkerchiefs; and
here was Vincent Harris, a captive in the hands of
those two young American damsels—who, at first,
did not seem to know what to do with him.

But very soon their shyness wore off; and it must
be freely conceded that they treated him well.  To
begin with, they took him down into the town, and
led him to a little table at a confectioner's, and
ordered two ices for themselves and for him a glass
of sherry and a biscuit.  When that fluid was placed
before him, he made no remark: his face was
perfectly grave.

"What's the matter now?" Louie Drexel asked,
looking at him.

"I said nothing," he answered.

"What are you thinking, then?"

"Nothing—nothing."

"But I insist on knowing."

"Oh, very well," he said.  "But it isn't my fault.
I promised to obey.  If you ask me to drink a glass
of confectioner's sherry I will do so—though it
seems a pity to die so young."

"What would you rather have then—tea or an ice?"

She got an ice for him; and duly paid for the
three—much to his consternation, but he had
undertaken to be quite submissive.  Then they took him
for a walk and showed him the beauties of the
place, making believe to recognise the chief features
and public buildings of New York.  Then they
carried him with them to Mrs. Ellison's house, and
ascended into the drawing room there, chatting,
laughing, nonsense-making, in a very frank and
engaging manner.  Finally, towards six o'clock,
Miss Drexel rang the bell, and ordered the
carriage.

"Oh, I say, don't do that," Vincent interposed,
grown serious for a moment.  "People don't like
tricks being played with their horses.  You may do
anything else in a house but that."

"And pray who asked you to interfere?" she
retorted, in a very imperious manner; so there was
nothing for it but acquiescence and resignation.

And very soon—in a few minutes, indeed—the
carriage was beneath the windows: coachman on
the box, footman at the door, maidservant descending
the steps with rugs, all in order.  It did not
occur to Vincent to ask how those horses came to be
harnessed in so miraculously brief a space of time;
he accepted anything that might befall; he was as
clay in the hands of the potter.  And really the
two girls did their best to make things lively—as
they drove away he knew not, and cared not,
whither.  The younger sister was rather more
subdued, perhaps; but the elder fairly went daft, as
the saying is; and her gaiety was catching.  Not
but that she could be dexterous in the midst of her
madness.  For example, she was making merry
over the general inaptitude of Englishmen for
speech-making; and was describing scenes she had
herself witnessed in both Houses of Parliament, when
she suddenly checked herself.

"At all events," she said, "I will say this for
your House of Commons, that there are a number
of very good-looking men in it.  No one can deny
that.  But the House of Lords—whew!  You know,
my contention is that my pedigree is just as long as
that of any of your lords; but I've got to admit that,
some of them more nearly resemble their
ancestors—I mean their quadrumanous ancestors—"

"Louie!" said the sister, reprovingly.

And she was going on to say some very nice
things about the House of Commons (as contrasted
with the Upper Chamber) when Vincent happened
to look out into the now gathering dusk.

"Why," said he, "we're at Rottingdean; and
we're at the foot of an awfully steep hill; I must
get out and walk up."

"No, no, no," said Miss Drexel, impatiently.
"The horses have done nothing all day but hang
about the church door.  You English are so absurdly
careful of your horses: more careful of them than
of yourselves—as I've noticed myself at country
houses in wet weather.  I wonder, when I get back
home, if the people will believe me when I tell
them that I've actually seen horses in England with
leather shoes over their feet to keep the poor things
warm and comfortable.  Yes, in this very town of
Brighton—"

But here Miss Louie had the laugh turned
against her, when he had gravely to inform her
that horses in England wore over-shoes of leather,
not to keep their feet warm, but to prevent their
cutting the turf when hauling a lawn-roller.

"But where are we going?" said he again.

"Oh, never mind," she answered, pertly.

"All right—all right," he said, and he proceeded
to ensconce himself still more snugly in the back
seat.  "Well, now, since you've told us of all the
absurd and ludicrous things you've seen in England,
won't you tell us of some of the things you have
admired?  We can't be insane on every point,
surely."

"I know what you think I am," she said of a
sudden.  "A comparison-monger."

"You were born in America," he observed.

"And you despise people who haven't the
self-sufficiency, the stolid satisfaction, of the
English."

"We don't like people who are too eager to assert
themselves—who are always beating drums and
tom-toms—quiet folk would rather turn aside, and
give them the highway."

"But all the same, you know," Miss Drexel
proceeded, "some of your countrymen have been
very complimentary when they were over with us:
of course you've heard of the one who said that the
biggest things he had seen in America were the
eyes of the women?"

"What else could he say?—an Englishman prides
himself on speaking the truth," he made answer,
very properly.

By this time, however, he was beginning seriously
to ask himself whither those two young minxes
meant to take him—a runaway expedition carried
out with somebody else's horses!  At all events
they were going to have a fine night for it.  For by
now it ought to have been quite dark; but it was
not dark: the long-rolling downs, the wide strip of
turf along the top of the cliffs, and the far plain of
the sea were all spectrally visible in a sort of grey
uncertainty; and he judged that the moon was rising,
or had risen in the east.  What did Charles and
Thomas, seated on the box, think of this pretty
escapade?  In any case, his own part and lot in the
matter had already been decided: unquestioning
obedience was what had been demanded of him.  It
could not be that Gretna Green was the objective
point?—this was hardly the way.

At last they descended from those grey moonlit
solitudes, and got down into a dusky valley, where
there were scattered yellow lights—lamp lights and
lights of windows.  "This is Newhaven," he thought
to himself; but he did not say anything; for Miss
Drexel was telling of a wild midnight frolic she and
some of her friends had had on Lake Champlain.
Presently the footfalls of the horses sounded hollow;
they were going over a wooden bridge.  Then they
proceeded cautiously for a space, and there was
a jerk or two; they were crossing a railway line.
And now Vincent seemed to understand what those
mad young wretches were after.  They were going
down to the Newhaven Pier Hotel.  To dine there?
Very well; but he would insist on being host.  It
was novel, and odd, and in a certain way fascinating,
for him to sit in a restaurant and find himself
entertained by two young ladies—-find them pressing
another biscuit on him, and then paying the bill;
but, of course, the serious business of dinner
demanded the intervention of a man.

What followed speedily drove these considerations
out of his head.  The enterprising young damsels
having told the coachman when to return with the
carriage, conducted their guest to the hotel, and
asked for the coffee-room.  A waiter opened the
door for them.  The next thing that Vincent saw
was that, right up at the end of the long room,
Lord Musselburgh and his bride were seated at a
side table, and that they were regarding the new
comers—especially himself—with some little
amusement.  They themselves were in no wise
disconcerted, as they ought to have been.

"Come along!" the bridegroom said, rather
impatiently.  "You're nearly half-an-hour late, and
we're famishing.  Here, waiter, dinner at once,
please!  Vin, my boy, you sit next Miss
Drexel—that's all right!"

At this side-table, covers were already laid for
five.  As Vincent took his place, he said:—

"Well, this is better than being had up before
a magistrate for stealing a carriage and a pair of
horses!"

"Sure they didn't let on?" the bride demanded,
with a glance at the two girls.

"Not a word!" he protested.  "I had not the
remotest idea where or what we were bound for.
Looked more like Gretna Green than anything else."

"The nearest way to Gretna Green," said she,
regarding Vincent with significant eyes, "is through
Paris—to the British Embassy."

Now although this remark (which Miss Drexel
affected not to hear—she was so busy taking off
her gloves) seemed a quite haphazard and casual
thing, it very soon appeared, during the progress of
this exceedingly merry dinner, that Lady Musselburgh,
as she now was, had been wondering whether
they might not carry the frolic a bit further;
whether, in short, this little party of five might not
go on to Paris together by the eleven o'clock boat
that same night.

"Why, Louie, you despise conventionalities," she
exclaimed.  "Well, now is your chance!"

Miss Louie pretended to be much frightened.

"Oh, but I couldn't do that!" she cried.  "Neither
Nan nor I have any things with us."

"The idea of American girls talking of taking
things with them to Paris!" the bride said, with
a laugh.  "That is the very reason you should go
to Paris—to get the things."

"Do you really mean to cross to-night?" Vincent
asked, turning to Musselburgh.

"Oh, yes, certainly.  The fixed service—eleven
o'clock—so there's no hurry, whatever you decide on."

For he, too, seemed rather taken with this
audacious project; said he thought it would be
good fun; pleasant company, and all that; also
he darkly hinted—perhaps for the benefit of the
American young ladies—that Paris had been
altogether too pallid of late, and wanted a little
crimson added to its complexion.  And indeed as
the little banquet proceeded, these intrepid schemes
widened out, in a half-jocular way.  Why should
the runaway party stop at Paris?  Why should
they not all go on to the Mediterranean together,
to breathe the sweet airs blown in from the sea, and
watch the Spring emptying her lavish lap-full of
flowers over the land?  Alas! it fell to Vincent's
lot to demolish these fairy-like dreams.  He said
he would willingly wait to see the recruited party
off by that night's steamer; and would send any
telegrams for them, or deliver any messages; but
he had to return to London the next morning,
without fail.  And then Miss Louie Drexel said it
was a pity to spoil a pleasant evening by talking of
impossibilities; and that they had already
sufficiently outraged conventionalities by running away
with a carriage and pair and breaking in upon a
wedding tour.  So the complaisant young bride had
for the moment to abandon her half-serious,
half-whimsical designs; and perhaps she even hoped
that Miss Drexel had not overheard her suggested
comparison between the British Embassy at Paris
and Gretna Green.

At nine o'clock the carriage came round, and
at nine o'clock the younger people, having got
their good-byes said all over again, set out for home.

"I suppose we ought to keep this little expedition
a secret," said Vincent, as they were climbing up
from the dusky valley to the moonlight above,
which was now very clear and white.

"Why?" said Miss Louie.

"Rather unusual—isn't it?" he asked, doubtfully,
for he knew little of such matters.

"That's what made it so nice," she answered,
promptly.  "Don't you think they were charmed?
Fancy their being quite alone in that big hotel,
waiting for a steamer!  We had it all planned out
days ago.  Didn't you suspect in the least—when
you knew they were going by Newhaven and
Dieppe, and that they would have to wait till
eleven to-night?  I'm sure they would have been
delighted if we had gone over to Paris with them,
and down to the Mediterranean: but I suppose that
would have been a little too much—just a little too
much!"

And if Miss Drexel was vivacious and talkative
or her way out, she was equally so on the way
back; so that Vincent, in such cheerful company,
had little reason to regret their having captured
and run away with him.  Then again the night was
surpassingly beautiful—the moonlight grey on the
land and white on the sea; the heavens cloudless;
the world everywhere apparently silent and asleep.
Not that they were to get all the way home without
a little bit of an adventure, however.  When they
reached the top of the height just west of
Rottingdean, Louie Drexel proposed that they should get
out and walk along the cliff for a while, leaving the
carriage to go slowly on by road.  This they
accordingly did; and very soon the carriage was out of
sight; for at this point the highway is formed by a
deep cutting in the chalk.  It was pleasant to be by
themselves on such a night—high up on this lofty
cliff, overlooking the wide, far-shimmering, silver sea.

Presently there came into the stillness a sound
of distant voices; and shortly afterwards, at the
crest of the hill, a band of strayed revellers
appeared in sight, swaying much in their walk, and
singing diverse choruses with energy rather than
with skill.  They were in high good humour, all
of them.  As they drew near, Vincent perceived
that one of them was a soldier; and he seemed the
centre of attraction; this one and that clung to his
arm, until their legs, becoming involved, carried
them wide away, when two other members of the
group would occupy the twin places of honour.  The
soldier was drunk, too; but he had the honour of
the flag to maintain; and made some heroic effort
to march straight.

Now what with their insensate howling and
staggering, they were almost on Vincent and his two
companions before they were aware; but instantly
there was a profusion of offers of hospitality.  The
gentleman must drink with them, at the Royal Oak.
The gentleman declined to drink, and civilly bade
them good-night.  At the same moment another
member of the jovial crew appeared to have
discovered that there were also two young ladies here;
most probably he had a dim suspicion there might
only be one; however, it was this one, the one
nearest, he insisted should also go down and have
a glass at the Royal Oak.  It was all done in good
fellowship, with no harm meant; but when at the
same time this particular roysterer declared he
would have his sweetheart come along o' him, and
caught Miss Louie by the arm, he had distinctly
overstept the bounds of prudence.

"Hands off!" said Vincent; and he slung the
fellow a clip on the ear that sent him staggering,
until his legs got mixed up somehow, and away he
went headlong on to the grass.

Then he said in a rapid undertone to the two girls—

"Off you go to the carriage—quick!"

He turned to the now murmuring group.

"What do you want?" he said.  "I can't fight
all of you: I'll fight the soldier—make a ring, to
see fair play——"

He glanced over his shoulder: the two girls had
disappeared: now he breathed freely.

"But, look here," said he in a most amicable
tone, "you've had a glass—any one can see that—and
it's no use a man trying to fight if he's a bit
unsteady on his pins; you know that quite well.
And I don't want to fight any of you.  If you ask
me in a friendly way, I'll go down to the Royal Oak
and have something with you; or I'll treat you, if
you like that better.  I call that fair."

And they seemed to think it fair, too; so they
picked up their companion (who looked drowsy) and
helped him along.  But they hadn't gone half-a-dozen
yards when two dark figures appeared at the
top of the chalk cutting; and these, when they
came quickly up, Vincent to his surprise discovered
to be the coachman and footman.

"Where are the young ladies?" he demanded,
instantly and angrily.

"Miss Drexel is on the box, sir—she sent us to
you," said the coachman—staring with amazement
at the revellers, and no doubt wondering when the
fighting was about to begin.

"Oh, go away back!" said he.  "Get the ladies
into the carriage and drive them home!  I'm going
to have a drink with these good fellows—I'll follow
on foot!"

"I'm quite sure, sir, Miss Drexel won't go," said
the coachman.

But here the soldier stepped forward.  He had
arrived at some nebulous perception of the predicament;
and he constituted himself spokesman of the
party.  They had no wish to inconvenience the
gentleman.  He hoped some other night—proud to
see such a gentleman—wouldn't interfere with
ladies—not interfere with anybody—all gentlemen
and good friends—no use in animosity—no offence
I meant—no offence taken——

This harangue might have gone on all night had
not Vincent cut it short by requesting to be allowed
to hand his friends five shillings to drink his health
withal; and away the jocund brethren went to
obtain more liquor—if haply they could induce the
landlord of the Royal Oak to serve them.

And here, sure enough, was Miss Louie Drexel
seated sedately on the box, whip and reins in hand;
and there was Miss Anna, in the white moonlight,
at the horses' heads.  When Vincent and his two
companions were in the carriage again, he said to
the elder of them—

"Why didn't you drive away home?"

"Drive away home?" said she, with some touch
of vibrant indignation in her voice.  "And leave
you there?  I was just as near as possible going
back myself, with the whip in my hand.  Do you
think I couldn't have lashed my way through those
drunken fools?"





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.. _`A SPLIT AT LAST`:

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   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium

   A SPLIT AT LAST.

.. vspace:: 2

The renovation of Musselburgh House took more
time than had been hoped; bride and bridegroom
remained abroad, basking in the sweet airs and
sunlight of the Mediterranean spring; and it was not
until well on in the month of May that they returned
to London.  Immediately after their arrival Vincent
called on them—one afternoon on his way down
to St. Stephen's.  He stayed only a few minutes;
and had little to say.  But the moment he had left
Lady Musselburgh turned to her husband.

"Oh, Hubert, isn't it dreadful!  Did you ever
see such a change in any human being?  And no
one to tell us of it—not even his own father—nor
a word from Louie Drexel, though she wrote often
enough about him and what he was doing in the
House——"

"Yes, he does look ill," said Lord Musselburgh,
with a seriousness not usual with him.  "Very ill,
indeed.  Yet he doesn't seem to know it—declares
there is nothing the matter with him—shows a little
impatience, even, when you begin to ask questions.
I suppose he has been working too hard; too eager
and anxious all the way round; too ambitious—not
like most young men.  He'd better give up that
newspaper-nonsense, for one thing."

"Oh, it isn't that, Hubert; it isn't that!" she
exclaimed, in rather piteous accents; and she walked
away to the window (this was the very room in
which Vincent had first set eyes on Maisrie Bethune
and her grandfather).

She stood there, alone, for a time.  Then her
husband went and joined her, and linked his arm
within hers.  She was crying a little.

"I did it for the best, Hubert," she sobbed.

"Did what for the best?"

"Getting that girl away.  I never thought it
would come to this."

"Now, now, Madge," said he, in a very affectionate
fashion, "don't you worry about nothing—or rather,
it isn't nothing, for Vin does look pretty seedy; but
you mustn't assume that you are in any way
responsible.  People don't die nowadays of separation
and a broken heart—not nowadays.  He is fagged;
he is not used to the late hours of the House of
Commons; then there's that newspaper work——"

"But his manner, Hubert, his manner!" she
exclaimed.  "He seemed as if he no longer cared
for anything in life; he hardly listened when I told
him where we had been; he appeared to be thinking
of something quite different—as if he were looking
at ghosts."

"And perhaps he was looking at ghosts," said her
husband.  "For it was by that table there he first
saw those two people who have made all this
trouble.  But why should you consider yourself
responsible, Madge?  It wasn't your money that
sent them out of the country.  It wasn't you who
found out what they really were."

She passed her handkerchief across her eyes.

"I was quite sure," she went on—not heeding this
consolation—"that as soon as she was got away—as
soon as he was removed from the fascination of her
actual presence—he would begin to see things in
their true light.  And then, thrown into the society
of a charming and clever girl like Louie Drexel, I
hoped everything for him.  And is this all that has
come of it, that he looks as if he were at death's
door?  It isn't the House of Commons, Hubert;
and it isn't the newspaper-work: it is simply that
he still believes in that girl, and that he is eating
his heart out about her absence, and has no one
to confide in.  For that is the worst of it all: it is
all a sealed book now, as between him and us.  He
was for leaving my house in Brighton—oh, the rage
he was in with me about her!—and it would have
been for the last time too, I know; only that I
promised never again to mention the subject to him,
and on that condition we have got on fairly well
since.  But how am I to keep silence any longer?
I cannot see my boy like that.  I must speak to
him; I must ask him if he is still so mad as to
believe in the honesty of those two people; and
then, if I find that his infatuation still exists, even
after all this time, then I must simply tell him that
they took money to go away.  How can he get over
that?  How can he get over that, Hubert?"

In her despair, this was almost a challenge as well
as an appeal.  But her husband was doubtful.

"When a man is in love with a woman," said he,
"he can forgive a good lot—confound it, he can
forgive everything, or nearly everything, so long as
she can persuade him she loves him in return——"

"But not this, Hubert, not this!" the young
wife exclaimed.  "Even if he could forgive her
being a thief and the accomplice of an old charlatan
and swindler—and what an 'if!—imagine that
of Vincent—of Vincent, who is as proud as Lucifer—imagine
that of him!—but even if he were willing
to forgive all that, how could he forgive her being
bought over, her taking money to remain away from
him?  No, no, Hubert: surely there is a limit, even
to a young man's folly!"

"Of course you know best," her husband said, in
a dubious kind of way.  "I've seen some queer
things in my time, with young men.  And Vin is
an obstinate devil, and tenacious: he sticks to
anything he takes up: look at him and that wretched
newspaper-work, for example.  If he has persuaded
himself of the innocence and honour of this girl, it
may be hard to move him.  And I remember there
was something very winning and attractive about
her—something that bespoke favour——"

"That was what made her so useful to that old
impostor!" Lady Musselburgh said, vindictively.

"Of course," he admitted, "as you say, here is
the undoubted fact of their taking the money.  If
Vin is to be convinced at all, it is possible that may
convince him."

"Very well, then," said she, with decision, "he
must and shall be convinced; and that no further
off than to-morrow morning.  I'll tell Harland I'm
coming along to lunch; so that he may be in the
house, to give me any papers I may want.  And
surely, surely, when Vincent perceives what these
people are, and what an escape he has had, he will
cease to mope and fret: at his time of life there
ought to be other things to think of than a girl who
has deceived him all the way through, and ended by
taking money to leave the country!"

But notwithstanding all this brave confidence,
Lady Musselburgh felt very nervous and anxious
as she went down next morning to Grosvenor Place.
She was alone—her husband was coming along
later, for lunch; and she went on foot, to give her
a little more time to arrange her plan of procedure.
For this was her last bolt, and she knew it.  If his
fatal obstinacy withstood this final assault, then
there was no hope for him, or for her far-reaching
schemes with regard to him.

She went into the drawing-room; and he came
as soon as he was sent for.  These two were now
alone.

"Do you know, Vin," she began at once, "Hubert
and I have been much concerned about you; for
though you won't admit there is anything the
matter, the change in your appearance struck us
yesterday the moment you came in: indeed, it
made me quite anxious; and after you were gone,
Hubert and I talked a little about you and your
affairs—you may be sure with only the one wish in
our minds.  Hubert thinks you are over-fagged;
that you are too close in your attendance at the
House; and that you should give up your
newspaper-writing for a time.  I wish it were no more
than that.  But I suspect there is something
else——"

"Aunt," said he, interrupting her—and yet with
something of a tired air, "do you think there is
any use in talking, and inquiring, and suggesting?
What has happened, has happened.  It is something
you don't understand; and something you couldn't
put right—with all your good wishes."

"Yes, yes," she said eagerly, for she was rejoiced
to find that he took her interference so amiably:
"that is quite right; and mind you, I don't forget
the agreement we came to at Brighton, that a
certain subject should never be referred to by either
of us.  I quite remember that; and you know I
have never sought to return to it again in any way
whatever.  But your looks yesterday, Vin, frightened
me; and at this moment—why, you are not like my
dear boy at all.  I wish in all seriousness you had
come over to Paris with us—you and Louie—and
gone with us to the Mediterranean; we should not
have allowed you to fall into this condition—"

"Oh, I'm well enough, aunt!" said he.

"You are not well!" she insisted.  "And why?
Because your mind is ill at ease—"

"And very little comfort I have to hope for from
you," said he, remembering former conversations:
but there was no bitterness in his tone—only a sort
of resigned hopelessness.

"Now, that is not fair, Vin!" she protested.
"If I said things to you you did not like, what
motive had I but your happiness?  And now at
this moment, if I re-open that subject, it is not the
kind of comfort you apparently hope for that I am
prepared to bring you, but something quite different.
I should like to heal your mental ailment, once and
for all, by convincing you of the truth."

"Yes, I think we have heard something of that
sort on previous occasions," he said, rather
scornfully.  "The truth as it is in George Morris!  Well,
I will tell you what would be more useful, more
to the point, and more becoming.  Before saying
anything further about that old man and his
granddaughter, I think you ought to go and seek them
out, and go down on your knees to them, and ask
their pardon—"

"For what?"

"For what you have already said of them—and suspected."

"Really you try my patience too much!" she
exclaimed, with some show of temper.  "What
have I said or suspected of them that was not amply
justified by the account of them that your father
offered to show you?  Of course you wouldn't look
at it.  Certainly not!  Facts are inconvenient
things, most uncomfortable things, where one's
prepossessions are involved.  But I had no objection
to looking at it—"

"I suppose not!" said he.

"And my eyes were not blinded: I could accept
evidence when it was put before me."

"Evidence!" he repeated.  "You forget that I
have been across the Atlantic since that precious
document was compiled.  I heard how that evidence
had been got: I could see how it could be perverted
to suit the malignant theories of a pack of detectives.
And if I came back with any settled conviction, it
was that you and one or two others—myself, too, in
a way—could do no better than go and humble
ourselves before that old man and that girl, and beg
for their forgiveness, and their forgetfulness of the
wrongs and insults we have put upon them."

"Oh, this is beyond anything!" she cried—rather
losing command of herself.  "You drive me
to speak plain.  Everything your father and I could
think of was tried to cure you of this mad
infatuation—the most patient inquiry—expenditure of
money—representations that would have convinced
any sane person.  Nothing was of any use.  What
was to be done next?  Well, we could only buy up
those honourable persons—who were not adventurers
in any kind of way—oh, certainly not!—but all the
same they were willing to be bought; and so, on
payment of a substantial consideration, they agreed
to pack up their traps and be off.  What do you
think of that?  What do you say to that?  Where
was the old gentleman's indomitable pride?—where
was the girl's pretended affection for you?—when
they consented to take a good round sum of money
and be off?  How can you explain that away?"

She regarded him with a certain defiance—for
she was moved to anger by his obduracy.  But if
she expected him to wince under this sudden stab
she was mistaken.

"How do I know that this is true?" he said, calmly.

"I am not in the habit of speaking untruths,"
she said, slightly drawing herself up.

"Oh, of course not," he answered.  "But all
through this matter there has been a good deal of
twisting about and misrepresentation.  I should
like to know from whom Mr. Bethune got this
money—and in what form."

Well, she was prepared.

"I suppose you would be convinced," said she,
"if I showed you the receipt—a receipt for
£5,000—which he signed and gave to George Morris?"

"Where is that receipt?" he asked.

"In this house.  I will go to your father, and get
it.  Shall I ask him at the same time for those
other documents which you would not read?  Perhaps
all taken together they might enable you to
realise the truth at last."

"No, thank you," said he, coldly.  "I know how
those other documents were procured.  I shall be
glad to see the receipt."

She hurried away, anxious to strike while the
iron was hot, and certain she had already made a
profound impression.  And so she had, in one way,
all unknowing.  When she left the room, he
remained standing, gazing blankly at the sides of
the books on the table: outwardly impassive, but
with his brain working rapidly enough.  He made
no manner of doubt that she could produce this
receipt.  He took it for granted that George
Bethune had accepted the money.  Of course,
Maisrie had nothing to do with it; her grandfather
kept her in ignorance of his pecuniary affairs; and
it would be enough for him to say that she must go
away with him from England—she was obedient in
all things.  And no doubt the old man had been
cajoled and flattered into believing he was acting
justly and in the best interests of every one
concerned; there could have been little difficulty about
that; he was quick to persuade himself of
anything that happened to fall in with the needs of
the moment.  All this Vincent understood at once.
But when he came to consider that it was his own
relatives who had brought upon him all the long
torture and suffering of these bygone months—and
not only that: for what was he or his hidden pain?—but
also that they had once more driven forth
those two tired wanderers—the old man who had
some wistful notion of ending his days in his own
country, the young girl whose maiden eyes had just
made confession of her love-secret—then his heart
grew hot within him.  It was too cruel.  When
Lady Musselburgh returned with the receipt in
her hand, he took the paper, and merely glanced
at it.

"And whose clever and original idea was this?"
he demanded—with what she took to be indifference.

"But Vincent—are you convinced at last!" she
exclaimed.  "Surely you must see for yourself
now.  You will give up thinking of them—thinking
of that girl especially when you see what she is——"

"Whose idea was it to get them sent away?" he
repeated.

"Well, it was my idea," she said; "but your
father paid the money."

He was silent for a second or two, and then he
said slowly——

"And you are my nearest relatives; and this is
what you have done, not to me only, but to one
who is dearer to me than life.  So be it.  But you
cannot expect me to remain longer under this roof,
or to sit down at table, anywhere, with my cruellest
enemies——"

She turned very pale.

"Vincent!" she exclaimed.

"It is a question of taking sides," he went on,
with perfect composure; "and I go over to the
other side.  They most need help: they are poor
and friendless.  I hope the mischief you have done
is not irreparable; I cannot tell; but I dare say
when you and I meet again time will have shown."

She was thunderstruck and stupefied; she did
not even seek to detain him as he left the room.
For there was a curious air of self-possession, of
resolution, about his manner: this was no pique of
disappointed passion, nor any freak of temper.
And she could not but ask herself, in a breathless
sort of way, whether after all he might not be in
the right about those people; and, in that case,
what was this that she had brought about?  She
was frightened—too frightened to reason with
herself, perhaps: she only saw Vincent leaving his
father's roof—cutting himself off from his own
family—and she had a dumb consciousness that it
was her work, through some fatal error of judgment.
And she seemed to know instinctively that this
step that he had taken was irrevocable—and that
she was in some dim way responsible for all that
had occurred.

When Lord Musselburgh arrived, he and Harland
Harris came upstairs together; and almost directly
afterwards luncheon was announced.  As they were
about to go down to the dining-room the great
Communist-capitalist looked round with a little air
of impatience and said—

"But where is Vin?"

"He was here a short time ago," said Lady
Musselburgh: she dared not say more.

Mr. Harris, from below, sent a message to his
son's room: the answer—which Lady Musselburgh
heard in silence—was that they were not to wait
luncheon for him.

"Too busy with his reply to the *Sentinel*,"
Musselburgh suggested.  "Sharp cuts and thrusts
going.  I wonder that celestial minds should grow
so acrid over such a subject as the nationalisation of
tithe."

There was some scuffle on the stairs outside, to
which nobody (except Lady Musselburgh, whose
ears were painfully on the alert) paid any attention;
but when a hansom was called up to the front door,
Harland Harris happened to look out.

"What, is he going off somewhere?  I never
knew any creature so careless about his meals.  I
presume his indifference means a good digestion."

"Oh, Vin's digestion is all right," Lord Musselburgh
said.  "I hear he dines every night at the
House of Commons—and yet he is alive——"

"But there are his portmanteaus!" Mr. Harris
exclaimed, and he even rose and went to the
window for a second.  Well, he was just in time
to see Vincent step into the cab, and drive off; and
therewith he returned to his place at table, and
proceeded, in his usual bland and somewhat patronising
manner, to tell Lord Musselburgh of certain
experiments he was having made in copper-lustre.  He
was not in the least concerned about that departing
cab; nor did he know that that was the last glimpse
of his son he was to have for many and many a day.

And meanwhile Lady Musselburgh sate there
frightened, and guilty, and silent.  And that
without reason; for what she had done she had done with
the full concurrence and approval of her brother-in-law
and her *fiancé* (as he then was).  Yet somehow
she seemed to feel herself entirely answerable
for all that had happened—for the failure of all her
schemes—for the catastrophe that had resulted.
And the moment she got outside her brother-in-law's
house, she began and confessed the whole
truth to her husband.

"But why didn't you tell Harris?" said he,
pausing as if even now he would go back.

"Oh, I couldn't, Hubert; I daren't!" she said,
evidently in great distress.  "I was so confident
everything would come right—I advised him—I
persuaded him to pay the £5,000——"

"Oh, nonsense!" was the impatient reply.  "A
man doesn't hand over £5,000 unless he is himself
convinced that it is worth while.  And he got what
he bargained for.  Those people have gone away;
they don't interfere any more——"

"Ah, but that is not all," Lady Musselburgh put
in, rather sadly.  "I made so sure that Vin would
forget—that as soon as the hallucination had worn
off a little, he would see what those people really
were, and turn his eyes elsewhere: yet apparently
he believes in their honesty more firmly than
ever—talks of my going and asking their pardon—and
the like; and now he has wholly broken away from
us—declares he will never be under the same roof
with us, or sit down at the same table with us.  He
has gone over to the other side, he says, because they
are poor and friendless.  Poor and friendless!" she
repeated, with a snap of anger—"living on the fat
of the land through their thieving!  And yet——"

And here again she paused, as if recalling
something to herself: "Do you know, Hubert, I was
startled and frightened by Vin's manner to-day; for
I had suddenly to ask myself whether after all it
was possible he might be in the right, and we
altogether wrong.  In all other things he shows himself
so clear-headed and able and shrewd; and then he
has seen the world; you would not take him to be
one who could be easily deceived.  Sometimes I
hardly know what to think.  But at all events, this
is what you must do now, Hubert: you must get
hold of him, and persuade him to go back home,
before Harland knows anything of what had been
intended.  He can invent some excuse about the
portmanteaus.  You can go down to the House
to-night, and see him there; and if you persuade
him to return to Grosvenor Place, that will be so
much of the mischief set straight.  That is the first
thing to be done; but afterwards——"

It was quite clear that she knew not what to
think, for she went on again, almost as if talking to
herself—

"Of course, if the girl were a perfectly good and
honest girl, and above suspicion of every kind, Vin's
constancy and devotion to her would be a very fine
and noble thing; and I for one should be proud of
him for it.  But as things are, it is a monomania—nothing
else than a monomania!  He must see that
she is in league with that old man to get money on
false pretences."

"He sees nothing of the kind," said her husband
bluntly.  "She may or she may not be; I know
little or nothing about her; but if she is, Vin doesn't
see it: you may make up your mind about that."

"And yet he seems sharp-sighted in other things,"
said Lady Musselburgh in a pensive sort of way;
and then she added: "However, the first step to be
taken is to get him back to his own family; and
none can do that so well as you, Hubert; you are
his old friend; and you stand between us, as it
were.  And there's one thing about Vin: he can't
disappear out of the way; you can always get hold
of him—at the House of Commons."

Lord Musselburgh had not been long married;
he did as he was bid.  And very eagerly did
Vincent welcome this ambassador, when he
encountered him in the Lobby.

"Come out on to the Terrace.  I was just going
to write to you: I want you to do me the greatest
service you can imagine!"

"Here I am, ready to do anybody any number of
services," said Lord Musselburgh, as they proceeded
to stroll up and down this dark space, with the wide
river flowing silently by, and the innumerable small
beads of gold showing where London lay in the
dusk.  "Only too happy.  And I am in the best
position for being mediator, for I have nothing to
gain from either side—except, of course that I
should be extremely sorry to see you quarrelling
with your relations.  This is always a mistake, Vin,
my boy: bad for you, bad for them.  And I hope
you will let me go back with the important part of
my commission done—that is to say, I was to
persuade you to return to Grosvenor Place, just as if
nothing had happened.  My wife is awfully upset
about it—thinks it is entirely owing to her; whereas
I don't see that it is at all.  She has been trying to
do her best for everybody—for your father as well
as for yourself.  And the notion that you should
cut yourself off from your family naturally seems
very dreadful to her; and if I can take her the
assurance that you don't mean anything of the
kind—very well!"

"Oh, but look here, Musselburgh," said Vincent,
"you entirely mistake.  It was not about that I
wished to see you: not at all: on that point it is
useless saying anything.  You must assure Lady
Musselburgh that this is no piece of temper on my
part—nothing to be smoothed over, and hushed up.
I have seen all along that it was inevitable.  From
the moment that my aunt and my father took up
that position against—against Maisrie Bethune and
her grandfather—I foresaw that sooner or later this
must come.  I have tried to reason with them; I
have assured them that their suspicions and their
definite charges were as cruel as they were false;
and all to no purpose.  And this last thing: this
bribing of an old man, who can be too easily
persuaded, to take his granddaughter away with
him and subject her to the homeless life she had led
for so many years—perhaps there are some other
considerations I need not mention—this is too much.
But I knew that sooner or later a severance would
come between them and me; and I am not unprepared.
You wondered at my drudging away at
that newspaper work, when my father was allowing
me a handsome income.  Now do you see the use
of it?  I am independent.  I can do as I please.  I
can't make a fortune; but I can earn enough to
live—and something more.  Let them go their way, as
I go mine: it has not been all my doing."

Lord Musselburgh was disconcerted; but he was
a dutiful husband; he went on to argue.  He found
he might as well attempt to argue with a milestone.
Nothing could shake this young man's determination.

"I told Lady Musselburgh I had gone over to
the other side, this time for good," said he.  "We
are in opposite camps now.  We have been so all
along—but not openly.  This piece of treachery
has been too much for me: we are better apart: I
could not sit down at table with people who had
acted like that—whatever their motives were.  But
you, Musselburgh, you were not concerned in that
wretched piece of scheming; and as I tell you, you
can do me the greatest possible service.  Will you
do it?  Or will you rather cast in your lot with
them?"

"Oh, well," said Musselburgh, rather
disappointedly, "I don't see why I should be
compelled to take sides.  I want to do my best for
everybody concerned.  I've just come into the
family, as you might say; and it seems a pity there
should be any quarrel or break up.  I had a kind
of notion that we should all of us—but particularly
my wife and myself and you and—and—your
wife—I thought our little party of four might have a
very pleasant time together, both at home and
abroad.  My wife and I have often talked of it, and
amused ourselves with sketching out plans.  Seems
such a pity——"

"Yes," said Vincent, abruptly, "but there are
other things in life besides going to Monte Carlo
and staking five-franc pieces."

"What is this that you want me to do?" his
friend asked next—seeing that those inducements
did not avail.

"Well," said Vincent, "I suppose you know that
Lady Musselburgh showed me this morning the
receipt Mr. Bethune gave George Morris for the
£5,000.  It was a simple receipt: nothing more.
But everybody knows George Morris is not the man
to part with money unconditionally; there must
have been arrangements and pledges; and I want
to discover what Mr. Bethune undertook to do,
where he undertook to go.  Morris won't tell me,
that is certain enough: but he would probably tell you."

Lord Musselburgh hesitated.

"Why," said he, "you know why that money
was paid.  It was paid for the express purpose of
getting them away—so that you should not know
where they are——"

"Precisely so," said Vincent.  "And you would
therefore be undoing a part of the wrong that has
been done them, by your wife and my father."

"Oh, I don't call it doing a wrong to a man to
give him £5,000," said Lord Musselburgh, with a
touch of resentment.  "He needn't have taken the
money unless he liked."

"Do you know what representations were made
to him to induce him to take it?" Vincent said.

"Well, I don't," was the reply.  "They settled
all that amongst themselves; and I was merely
made acquainted with the results.  It would hardly
have been my place to interfere, you see; it was
before my marriage, remember; in any case, I
don't know that I should have wanted to have any
say in the matter.  However, the actual outcome
we all of us know; and you must confess, Vin,
whatever persuasions were used, it looks a rather
shady transaction."

"Yes—on the part of those who induced him to
accept the bribe!" Vincent said, boldly.

"Oh, come, come," Lord Musselburgh interposed,
rather testily, "don't be so bigoted.  It isn't only
your considering that girl to be everything that is
fine and wonderful—I can understand that—the
glamour of love can do anything; but you go too
far in professing the greatest admiration and respect
for this old man.  Leave us some chance of agreeing
with you, of believing you sane.  For you can't
deny that he took the money: there is the plain
and simple fact staring you in the face.  More than
that, his taking it was the justification of those
who offered it: it proved to them that he was not
the kind of person with whom you should be
connected by marriage.  I say nothing about the
young lady; I don't know her; perhaps her
association all these years with this old—well, I won't
call him names—has not affected her in any way;
perhaps she believes in him as implicitly as you
appear to do.  But as for him: well, take any
unprejudiced outsider, like myself; what am I to
think when I find him accepting this money from
strangers?"

"Yes," said Vincent, a little absently, "I
suppose, to an outsider, that would look bad.  But
it is because you don't know him, Musselburgh; or
the story of his life; or his circumstances.  I
confess that at one time there were things that
disquieted me; I rather shut my eyes to them;
but now that I understand what this man is, and
what he has gone through, and how he bears
himself, it isn't only pity I feel for him, it is
respect, and more than respect.  But it's a long
story; and it would have to be told to sympathetic
ears; it would be little use telling it to my father
or to my aunt—they have the detectives' version
before them—they have the detectives' reading of
the case."

"Well, tell me, at least," said his friend.  "I
want to get at the truth.  I have no prejudice or
prepossession one way or the other.  For another
thing, I like to hear the best of everybody—and to
believe it, if I can; it makes life pleasanter; and I
can't forget, either, that it was through me you got
to know George Bethune."

It was a long story, as Vincent had said; and it
was a difficult one to set in order and in a proper
light: but it was chiefly based on what had been
told him by the Toronto banker; and Mr. Thompson's
generous interpretation of it ran through it
all.  Lord Musselburgh listened with the greatest
interest and attention.  What seemed mostly to
strike him was the banker's phrase—'Call George
Bethune an impostor, if you like; but the man he
has imposed on, his whole life through, has
been—George Bethune.'

"Well, it's all very extraordinary," he said, when
Vincent had finished.  "I wish I had taken the
trouble to become a little better acquainted with
him; one is so apt to judge by the outside; I
thought he was merely a picturesque old fellow
with a mad enthusiasm about Scotland.  And
yet I don't know what to say even now.  All that
you have told me sounds very plausible and
possible—if you take that way of looking at it;
and the whole thing seems so pitiable, especially
for the girl: he has his delusions and
self-confidence—she has only her loneliness.  But at the
same time, Vin, you must admit that these little
weaknesses of his might easily be misconstrued——"

"Certainly," said Vincent, with promptitude.
"It is just as Mr. Thompson said: if you choose
to look at George Bethune through blue spectacles,
his way of life must appear very doubtful: if you
choose to look at him through pink spectacles,
there is something almost heroic about him.  And
I think, Musselburgh, if you knew the lion-hearted
old man a little better, you wouldn't shrink from
acknowledging that there was something fine and
even grand in his character.  As for Maisrie—as
for Miss Bethune—she asks for no generous
consideration, or forbearance, or anything of the kind;
she asks for no leniency of judgment, and needs
none; she is beyond and above all that.  I know
her—none better than I; and she has only to
remain what she is—'dass Gott sie erhalte, so schön
und rein und hold'!"

There was a break in his voice as he spoke.  Lord
Musselburgh was silent for a moment—he felt like
an intruder upon something too sacred.  And yet
he had his mission; so presently he forced himself
to resume:

"Well, after all, Vin, I think you must grant
that there is something to be said for your relatives,
even if they have been mistaken.  They could not
know all that you know—all that you learned in
Canada as well; they could only judge from
the outside; they could only believe what they
heard——"

"Why did they interfere at all?" Vincent
demanded, in his turn.  "Why had they
Mr. Bethune's steps dogged by detectives?"

"You should be the last to protest.  It was
entirely for your sake that it was done."

"Yes," said Vincent, with a certain scorn.  "It
was for my sake they were so ready to suspect—it
was for my sake they were so eager to regard
everything from the attorney's point of view!
They would not take my word for anything; they
would rather trust to their private enquiry offices.
I was supposed to be so easily blinded; the
swindlers had such a willing dupe; no reliance was
to be placed but on the testimony of spies.  What
childish rubbish!  Why, I introduced my aunt to
Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter: she could not
find a word to say against them—but her suspicions
remained all the same!  And then apparently she
went and consulted with my father.  It was so
dreadful that I was being cheated by those two
dangerous characters!  Couldn't the lawyers and
their private inquiry agents—couldn't they make
out some story that would appal me?  Couldn't
they make up some bogey—straw, and an old
coat—that would terrify me out of my wits?  And then
when I wasn't appalled by their idle trash of
stories—oh, for goodness sake, get those desperate
creatures smuggled away out of the country!  No
safety unless they were hidden away somewhere!
And then they went to the old man; and I can
imagine how they persuaded him.  The greatest
kindness to every one concerned if only he would
fall in with their views; he would save his
granddaughter from entering a family who had mistaken,
but undoubted, prejudices against her; and of course
they couldn't allow him to put himself so much
about without endeavouring to pay part of the cost.
It was no solatium to the young lady—oh, no,
certainly not!—probably she was destined for much
higher things; and it was no gift to himself; it
was merely that the relatives of that hot-headed
young man were desirous of pleasing themselves
by showing how much they appreciated his, Mr. Bethune's,
generosity in making this little sacrifice.
Well, they succeeded: but they little knew—and
they little know—what they have done!"

Perhaps there was something in the proud and
withal disdainful tones of the young man's voice
that was quite as convincing as his words; at all
events, his friend said—

"Well, I sympathise with you, Vin, I do really.
But you see how I am situated.  I am an
emissary—an intermediary—I want peace——"

"It is no use saying peace where there is no
peace," Vincent broke in.  "Nor need there be war.
Silence is best.  Let what has been done go; it
cannot be undone now."

"Vincent—if you would only think how fond
your aunt is of you—if you would think of her
distress——"

"It was she who ought to have considered first,"
was the rejoinder.  "Do you imagine I have
suffered nothing, before I went to America, and
then, and since?  But that is of little account.  I
could forgive whatever has happened to myself.  It
is when I think of some one else—sent adrift upon
the world again—but it is better not to talk!"

"Well, yes," persisted Lord Musselburgh, who
was in a sad quandary; for the passionate
indignation of this young man seemed so much stronger
than any persuasive argument that could be brought
against it, "I can perfectly understand how you
may consider yourself wronged and injured; and
how much more you feel what you consider wrong
and injury done to others; but you ought to be a
little generous, and take motives into account.
Supposing your father and your aunt were mistaken
in acting as they did, it was not through any selfishness
on their part.  It was for your welfare, as they
thought.  Surely you must grant that to them."

"I will grant anything to them, in the way of
justification," said Vincent, "if they will only take
the first step to make atonement for the mischief
they have wrought.  And that they can do through
you.  They can tell you on what conditions
Mr. Bethune was persuaded to take the money; so
that I may go to him, and bring him back—and her."

"But probably they don't know where he is!" his
friend exclaimed, in perfect honesty.  "My
impression was that Mr. Bethune agreed to leave this
country for a certain time; but of course no one
would think of banishing him to any particular spot."

"And so they themselves don't know where
Mr. Bethune has gone?" said Vincent, slowly.

"I believe not.  I am almost certain they don't.
But I will make inquiries, if you like.  In the
meantime," said Musselburgh, returning to his
original prayer, "do consider, Vin, and be
reasonable, and go back to your father's house to-night.
Don't make a split in the family.  Give them credit
for wishing you well.  Let me take that message
from you to my wife—that you will go home to
Grosvenor Place to-night."

"Oh, no," said Vincent, with an air of quiet
resolve.  "No, no.  This is no quarrel.  This is no
piece of temper.  It is far more serious than that;
and, as I say, I have seen all along that it was
inevitable.  After what I have told you, you must
recognise for yourself what the situation is.  I have
spoken to you very freely and frankly; because I
know you wish to be friendly; and because I think
you want to see the whole case clearly and honestly.
But how could I talk to them, or try to explain?
Do you think I would insult Miss Bethune by
offering them one word of excuse, either on her
behalf or on that of her grandfather?  No, and it
would be no use besides.  They are mad with
prejudice.  No doubt they say I am mad with
prepossession.  Very well; let it stand so."

Lord Musselburgh at length perceived that his
task was absolutely futile.  His only chance now
was to bring Vincent into a more placable
disposition by getting him the information he sought;
but he had not much hope on that score; for people
do not pay £5,000 and then at once render up all
the advantages they fancy they have purchased.  So
here was a deadlock—he moodily said to himself,
as he walked away home to Piccadilly.

And as for Vincent?  Well, as it chanced, on the
next morning—it was a Wednesday morning—when
he went across from the Westminster Palace Hotel
to the House of Commons, and got his usual little
bundle of letters, the very first one that caught his
eye bore the Toronto post-mark.  How anxiously
he had looked for it from day to day—wondering
why Mr. Thompson had heard no news—and
becoming more and more heart-sick and hopeless
as the weary time went by without a sign—and
behold! here it was at last.





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.. _`NEW WAYS OF LIFE`:

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   CHAPTER VII.


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   NEW WAYS OF LIFE.

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But no sooner had he torn open the envelope than
his heart seemed to stand still—with a sort of fear
and amazement.  For this was Maisrie's own
handwriting that he beheld—as startling a thing as if
she herself had suddenly appeared before him, after
these long, voiceless months.  Be sure the worthy
banker's accompanying letter did not win much
regard: it was this sheet of thin blue paper that he
quickly unfolded, his eye catching a sentence here
and there, and eager to grasp all that she had to
say at once.  Alas! there was no need for any such
haste: when he came to read the message that she
had sent to Toronto, it had little to tell him of
that which he most wanted to know.  And yet it
was a marvellous thing—to hear her speak, as it
were!  There was no date nor place mentioned in
the letter; but none the less had this actual thing
come all the way from her; her fingers had penned
those lines; she had folded up this sheet of paper
that now lay in his hands.  It appeared to have
been written on board ship: further than that all
was uncertain and unknown.

He went into the Library, and sought out a quiet
corner; there was something in the strange reticence
of this communication that he wished to study with
care.  And yet there was an apparent simplicity,
too.  She began by telling Mr. Thompson that her
grandfather had asked her to write to him, merely
to recall both of them to his memory; and she went
on to say that they often talked of him, and thought
of him, and of bygone days in Toronto.  "Whether
we shall ever surprise you by an unexpected visit
in Yonge-street," she proceeded, "I cannot tell; for
grandfather's plans seem to be very vague at
present, and, in fact, I do not think he likes to be
questioned.  But as far as I can judge be does not
enjoy travelling as much as he used; it appears to
fatigue him more than formerly; and from my
heart I wish he would settle down in some quiet
place, and let me care for him better than I can
do in long voyages and railway-journeys.  You
know what a brave face he puts on everything—and,
indeed, becomes a little impatient if you show
anxiety on his behalf; still, I can see he is not
what he was; and I think he should rest now.
Why not in his own country?—that has been his
talk for many a day; but I suppose he considers
me quite a child yet, and won't confide in me; so
that when I try to persuade him that we should go
to Scotland, and settle down to a quiet life in some
place familiar to him, he grows quite angry, and
tells me I don't understand such things.  But I
know his own fancy goes that way.  The other
morning I was reading to him on deck, and somehow
I got to think he was not listening; so I raised my
head; and I saw there were tears running down his
cheeks—he did not seem to know I was there at
all—and I heard him say to himself—'The beech-woods
of Balloray—one look at them—before I
die!'  And now I never read to him any of the
Scotch songs that mention places—such as Yarrow,
or Craigieburn, or Logan Braes—he becomes so
strangely agitated; for some time afterwards he
walks up and down, by himself, repeating the name,
as if he saw the place before him; and I know that
he is constantly thinking about Scotland, but won't
acknowledge it to me or to any one.

"Then here is another piece of news, which is all
the news one can send from on board a ship; and
it is that poor dear grandfather has grown very
*peremptory*!  Can you believe it?  Can you
imagine him irritable and impatient?  You know how
he has always scorned to be vexed about trifles;
how he could always escape from everyday
annoyances and exasperations into his own dream-world;
but of late it has been quite different; and as I am
constantly with him, I am the chief sufferer.  Of
course I don't mind it, not in the least; if I minded
it I wouldn't mention it, you may be sure; I know
what his heart really feels towards me.  Indeed, it
amuses me a little; it is as if I had grown a child
again, it is 'Do this' and 'Do that'—and no reason
given.  Ah, well, there is not much amusement for
either of us two: it is something."  And here she
went on to speak of certain common friends in
Toronto, to whom she wished to be remembered;
finally winding up with a very pretty message
from "Yours affectionately, Margaret Bethune."

Then Vincent bethought him of the banker; what
comments had he to make?

"Dear sir, I enclose you a letter, received to-day,
from the pernicious little Omahussy, who says
neither where she is nor where she is going, gives
no date nor the name of the ship from which she
writes, and is altogether a vexatious young witch.
But I imagine this may be the old gentleman's
doing; he may have been 'peremptory' in his
instructions; otherwise I cannot understand why
she should conceal anything from me.  And why
should he?  There also I am in the dark; unless,
indeed (supposing him to have some wish to keep
their whereabouts unknown to you) he may have
seen an announcement in the papers to the effect
that you were going to the United States and
Canada, in which case he may have guessed that
you would probably call on one whose name they
had mentioned to you as a friend of theirs.  And
not a bad guess either: George Bethune is
long-headed—when he comes down from the clouds;
though why he should take such elaborate
precautions to keep away from you, I cannot surmise."

Vincent knew only too well!  The banker proceeded:—

"I confess I am disappointed—for the moment.
I took it for granted you would have no difficulty
in discovering where they were; but, of course,
if friend George is not going to give his address
to anybody, for fear of their communicating with
you, some time may elapse before you hear
anything definite.  I forgot to mention that the
postmark on the envelope was Port Said——"

Port Said!  Had Maisrie been at Port Said—and
not so long ago either?  Instantly there sprang
into the young man's mind a vision of the place
as he remembered it—a poor enough place, no doubt,
but now all lit up by this new and vivid interest:
he could see before him the rectangular streets of
pink and white shanties, the sandy roads and arid
squares, the swarthy Arabs and yellow Greeks and
Italians, the busy quays and repairing-yards and
docks, the green water and the swarming boats.
And did Maisrie and her grandfather—while the
great vessel was getting in her coals, and the air
was being filled with an almost imperceptible black
dust—did they escape down the gangway, and go
ashore, and wander about, looking at the strange
costumes, and the sun-blinds, and the half-burnt
tropical vegetation?  Mr. Thompson went on to
say that he himself had never been to Port Said;
but that he guessed it was more a calling-place for
steamers than a pleasure or health resort; and no
doubt the Bethunes had merely posted their letters
there en route.  But were they bound East or West?
There was no answer to this question—for they had
not given the name of the ship.

So the wild hopes that had arisen in Vincent's
breast when he caught sight of Maisrie's
handwriting had all subsided again; and the world was
as vague and empty as before.  Sometimes he tried
to imagine that the big steamer which he pictured
to himself as lying in the harbour at Port Said was
homeward-bound; and that, consequently, even
now old George Bethune and his granddaughter
might have returned to their own country; and
then again something told him that it was
useless to search papers for lists of passengers—that
the unknown ship had gone away down the
Red Sea and out to Australia or New Zealand,
or perhaps had struck north towards Canton or
Shanghai.  He could only wait and watch—and he
had a sandal-wood necklace when he wished to
dream.

But the truth is he had very little time for
dreaming; for Vin Harris was now become one of
the very busiest of the millions of busy creatures
crowding this London town.  He knew his best
distraction lay that way; but there were other reasons
urging him on.  As it chanced, the great statesman
who had always been Vincent's especial friend and
patron, finding that his private secretary wished to
leave him, decided to put the office in commission;
that is to say, he proposed to have two private
secretaries, the one to look after his own immediate
affairs and correspondence, the other to serve as his
'devil,' so to speak, in political matters; and the
latter post he offered to Vincent, he having the
exceptional qualification of being a member of
the House.  It is not to be supposed that the
ex-Minister was influenced in his choice by the fact
that the young man was now on the staff of two
important papers, one a daily journal, the other a
weekly; for such mundane considerations do not
enter the sublime sphere of politics; nor, on the
other hand, is it to be imagined that Vincent
accepted the offer with all the more alacrity that
his hold on those two papers might probably be
strengthened by his confidential relations with the
great man.  Surmises and conjectures in such a
case are futile—the mere playthings of one's
enemies.  It needs only to be stated that he
accepted the office with every expectation of hard
work; and that he got it.  Such hunting up of
authorities; such verification of quotations; such
boiling-down of blue-books; such constant
attendance at the House of Commons: it was all hardly
earned at a salary of £400 a year.  But very well
he knew that there were many young men in this
country who would have rejoiced to accept that
position at nothing a year; for it is quite wonderful
how private secretaries of Parliamentary chiefs
manage, subsequently, to tumble in for good things.

Then it is probable that his journalistic
enterprises—which necessarily became somewhat more
intermittent after his acceptance of the
secretaryship—brought him in, on the average, another
£400 a year.  On this income he set seriously to
work to make himself a miser.  His tastes had
always been simple—and excellent health may
have been at once the cause and the effect of his
abstemiousness; but now the meagre fare he
allowed himself, and his rigidly economical habits
in every way, had a very definite aim in view.  He
was saving money; he was building up a miniature
fortune—by half-crowns and pence.  Food and
drink cost him next to nothing; if he smoked at
all, it was a pipe the last thing in the morning
before going to bed.  Omnibusses served his turn
unless some urgent business on behalf of his chief
demanded a hansom.  He could not give up his
club; for that was in a way a political institution;
and oftentimes he had to rush up thither to find
someone who was not in the precincts of
St. Stephen's; but then, on the other hand, in a good
club things are much cheaper than in any restaurant
or in the members' dining-room of the House of
Commons.  It was remarkable how the little
fortune accumulated; and it was a kind of
amusement in a fashion.  He pinched himself—and
laughed.  He debated moral questions—for
example as to whether it was lawful to use
club-stationery in writing articles for newspapers; but
he knew something of the ways of Government
offices, and perhaps his conscience was salved by
evil example.  What the manager of the
Westminster Palace Hotel thought of his manner of
living can be imagined—if so august an official
cared to enquire into such details.  His solitary
room, breakfast, and washing: no more: those were
small bills that he called for week by week.  And
so his little hoard of capital gradually augmented—very
gradually, it is true, but surely, as the rate of
interest on deposits rose and fell.

In the meanwhile Lord Musselburgh had not been
very successful in his endeavours to bring about a
reconciliation between Vin Harris and his family;
nor had he been able to obtain the information that
Vincent demanded.

"You see, Vin," he said (they were again walking
up and down the lamp-lit Terrace, by the side of
the deep-flowing river), "my wife is awfully upset
over this affair.  She thinks it is entirely owing to
her mismanagement.  She would never have told
you about the £5,000 if she had not been certain
that that would be conclusive proof to you of the
character of those two people; and now that she
sees what has come of her telling you so much, she
is afraid to tell you any more.  Not that I suppose
there is much to tell.  Mr. Bethune and Miss
Bethune are no longer in this country; but I doubt
whether any one can say precisely where they are——"

"Nonsense!" Vincent broke in, impatiently.
"They're humbugging you, Musselburgh.
Consider this for a moment.  Do you imagine that
George Morris handed over that £5,000, as a lump
sum, without making stipulations, and very definite
stipulations?  Do you imagine he would be
content to take the word of a man whom he considered
a thief?  It is absurd to think so.  *Do ut facias*
would be his motto; and he would take precious
good care to keep control over the money in case of
non-fulfilment——"

"But there is the receipt!" put in Lord Musselburgh.

"A receipt—for theatrical purposes!" said
Vincent, with something of contempt.  "You may
depend on it the money was not handed over
in that unconditional fashion: that is not the way
in which George Morris would do business.  He
has got some hold over Mr. Bethune; and he must
know well enough where he is.  Supposing
Mr. Bethune had that money in his pocket, what is to
prevent his returning to this country to-morrow?
Where would be the penalty for his breaking his
covenant?  You don't trust a man whom you
consider a swindler; you must have some guarantee;
and the guarantee means that you must be able to
get at him when you choose.  It stands to reason!"

"Yes, I suppose so—it would seem so," said Lord
Musselburgh, rather doubtfully; "but at all events
it isn't George Morris who is going to open his
mouth.  I've been to him; he declines; refers me
to your family.  And then, you see, Vin, I'm rather
in an awkward position.  I don't want to take sides;
I don't want to be a partisan; I would rather act as
the friend of all of you; but the moment I try to
do anything I am met by a challenge—and a
particularly inconvenient challenge it is.  Do I
believe with them, or do I believe with you?  I
told your aunt what you said about Mr. Bethune—how
you described his character, and all that; but
I didn't do it as well as you; for she remains
unconvinced.  As you told the story, it seemed
natural and plausible; but as I told it—and I was
conscious of it at the time—it was less satisfactory.
And mind you, if you stick to hard facts, and don't
allow for any interpretation——"

"If you look through the blue spectacles, in short——"

"Precisely.  Well, then, you are confronted with
some extremely awkward things.  I don't wonder
that your aunt asks pertinently why, if you are to
begin and extend this liberal construction of
conduct—this allowing for motives—this convenient
doctrine of forgiving everything to self-deception—I
don't wonder that she asks why anybody should
be sent to prison at all."

"Oh, as for that," said Vincent, frankly, "I don't
say it would be good for the commonwealth if all
of us were George Bethunes.  Far from it.  I look
upon him as a sort of magnificent lusus naturæ; and
I would not have him other than he is—not in any
one particular.  But a nation of George Bethunes?—it
would soon strike its head against the stars."

"Very well, then," said his friend, "you are not
contending for any general principle.  I don't see
why you and your family shouldn't be prepared to
agree.  You may both of you be right.  You don't
insist upon having the justifications you extend to
Mr. Bethune extended to everyone else, or to any
one else; you make him the exception; and you
needn't quarrel with those who take a more literal
view of his character."

"Literal?" said Vincent, with a certain coldness.
"Blindness—want of consideration—want of
understanding—is that to be literal?  Perhaps it is.  But
I thought you said something just now about Mr. Bethune
and a prison: will you tell me of any one
action of his that would suggest imprisonment?"

"Your aunt was merely talking of theories," said
Musselburgh, rather uneasily, for he had not
intended to use the phrase.  "What I urge is
this—why shouldn't both of you admit that there may
be something in the other's view of Mr. Bethune,
and agree to differ?  I stand between you: I can
see how much can be advanced on both sides."

"And so you would patch up a truce," said
Vincent.  "How long would it last?  Of course I
do not know for what period of banishment my kind
relatives stipulated; £5,000 is a considerable sum
to pay; I suppose they bargained that Mr. Bethune
and his granddaughter should remain away from
England for some time.  But not for ever?  Even
then, is it to be imagined that they cannot be found?
Either in this country or abroad, Miss Bethune and
I meet face to face again; and she becomes my
wife—I hope.  It is what I live for.  And then?  Where
will your patched-up truce be then?  Besides, I
don't want any sham friendships with people who
have acted as they have done——"

"It was in your interest, Vin," his friend again
urged.  "Why not give them a little of the
lenient judgment you so freely extend to those
others——"

"To those others?" replied Vincent, firing up
hotly.  "To whom?"

"To Mr. Bethune, then," was the pacific reply.

"I don't think Mr. Bethune ever consciously
wronged any human being.  But they—were they
not aware what they were doing when they played
this underhand trick?—sending that girl out into
the world again, through her devotion to her
grandfather?  I have told you before: there is no use
crying peace, peace, when there is no peace.  Let
them undo some of the mischief they have done,
first: then we will see.  And look at this silly
affectation of secrecy!  They told me too much
when they told me they had paid money to get
George Bethune out of the country: then I
understood why Maisrie went: then I knew I must have
patience until she came back—in the same mind
as when she left, that I know well.  I was puzzled
before, and sometimes anxious; but now I
understand; now I am content to wait.  And I have
plenty to do in the meantime.  I have to gain a
proper foothold—and make some provision for the
future as well: already I am independent of
anybody and everybody.  And perhaps, in time to
come, when it is all over, when all these things have
been set right, I may be able to forgive; but I
shall not be able to forget."

This was all the message that Lord Musselburgh
had to take home with him, to his wife's profound
distress.  For she was very fond of her nephew, and
very proud of him, too, and of the position he had
already won for himself; and what she had done
she had done with the best intentions towards him.
Once, indeed, she confessed to her husband that in
spite of herself she had a sort of sneaking
admiration for Vincent's obdurate consistency and faith;
insomuch (she said) that—if only the old man and
all his chicaneries were out of the way—she could
almost find it in her heart to try to like the girl, for
Vincent's sake.

"The real question," she continued, "the thing
that concerns me most of all to think of is this: can
a girl who has been so dragged through the mire
have retained her purity of mind and her proper
self-respect?  Surely she must have known that
her grandfather was wheedling people out of money
right and left—and that he took her about with
him to enlist sympathy?  Do you suppose she was
not perfectly aware that Vincent invariably paid
the bills at those restaurants?  When tradespeople
were pressing for money, do you fancy she was in
ignorance all the time?  Very well: what a life
for any one to lead!  How could she hold up her
head amongst ordinarily honest and solvent people?
Even supposing that she herself was all she ought
to be, the humiliation must have sunk deep.  And
even if one were to try to like her, there would
always be that consciousness between her and you.
You might be sorry for her, in a kind of way; but
you would be still sorrier for Vincent; and that
would be dreadful."

"My dear Madge," her husband said—in his
character of mediator and peacemaker, "you are
arguing on a series of assumptions and prejudices.
If Vin does hold on to his faith in those two—and
if he does in the end marry Miss Bethune—I shall
comfort myself with the conviction that he was
likely to know more about them than anybody else.
He and they have been on terms of closest intimacy,
and for a long time; and you may be pretty sure
that the girl Vin wants to marry is no tarnished
kind of a person—in his eyes."

"Ah, yes—in his eyes!" said Lady Musselburgh,
rather sadly.

"Well, his eyes are as clear as most folks'—at
least, I've generally found them so," her husband
said—trying what a little vague optimism would do.

One afternoon Vincent was walking along Piccadilly—and
walking rapidly, as was his wont, for the
twin purposes of exercise and economy—when he
saw, some way ahead of him, Lady Musselburgh
crossing the pavement to her carriage.  She saw
him, too, and stopped—colour mounting to her face.
When he came up he merely lifted his hat, and
would have kept on his way but that she addressed
him.

"Vincent!" she said, in an appealing,
half-reproachful fashion.

And then she said—

"I want you to come into the house for a few
minutes—I must speak with you."

"Is there any use?" he asked, rather coldly.

However, she was very much embarrassed, as her
heightened colour showed; and he could not keep
her standing here in Piccadilly; he said 'Very
well,' and followed her up the steps and into the
house.  When they had got into the drawing-room
she shut the door behind them, and began at
once—with not a little piteous agitation in her
manner.

"Vin, this is too dreadful!  Can nothing be
done?  Why are you so implacable?  I suppose
you don't understand what you have been to me,
always, and how I have looked to your future as
something almost belonging to me, something that
I was to be proud of; and now that it is all likely
to come true, you go and make a stranger of
yourself!  When I see your name in the papers, or hear
you spoken of at a dinner-table—it is someone who
is distant from me, as if I had no concern with him
any longer.  People come up to me and say 'Oh,
I heard your nephew speak at the Mansion House
the other afternoon,' or 'I met your nephew at the
Foreign Office last night;' and I cannot say 'Don't
you know; he has gone and made himself a stranger
to us—?'"

"I wonder who it was who made a stranger of
me!" he interposed—but quite impassively.

"I can only say, again and again, that it was
done for the best, Vin!" she answered him.  "The
mistake I made was in letting you know.  But I
took it for granted that as soon as you were told
that those people had accepted money from us to go
away—"

"Those people?  What people?" he demanded,
with a sterner air.

"Oh, I meant only Mr. Bethune himself," said
she, hastily.  "Oh, yes, certainly, only him; there
were no negotiations with any one else."

"Negotiations!" he said, with a touch of scorn.
"Well, perhaps you can tell me what those
negotiations were?  How long did Mr. Bethune undertake
to remain out of this country?"

"Three years, Vin," said she, timidly regarding him.

"Three years?" he repeated, in an absent way.

"But there is no reason," she added quickly,
"why he should not return at any moment if he
wishes: so I understand: of course, I did not make
the arrangement—but I believe that is so."

"Return at any moment?" he said, slowly.
"Do you mean to tell me that you put £5,000
into that old man's hands, on condition he should
leave the country for three years, and that all the
same you left him free to return at any moment?"

"Of course he would forfeit the money," said she,
rather nervously.

"But how could he forfeit the money if he
already has it?  He has got the money: you
showed me the receipt.  Come, aunt," said he, in
quite a different tone, "Let us be a little more
honest and above-board.  Shall I tell you how I
read the whole situation?  You can contradict me
if I am wrong.  But that receipt you showed me:
wasn't it produced for merely theatrical purposes?
Wasn't it meant to crush and overwhelm me as a
piece of evidence?  The money wasn't handed over
like that, was it?  Supposing I were to conjecture
that somebody representing you or representing my
father has still got control over that money; and
that it is to be paid in instalments as it is
earned—by absence?  Well isn't that so?"

He fixed his eyes on her; she hesitated—and was
a little confused.

"I tell you, Vin," she said, "I had personally
nothing to do with making the arrangement; all
that was left in George Morris's hands; and of
course he would take whatever precautions he
thought necessary.  And why should you talk
about theatrical purposes?  I really did think that
when I could show you Mr. Bethune was ready to
take money from strangers to go away from England
you would change your opinion of him.  But
apparently, in your eyes, he can do no wrong.  He
is not to be judged by ordinary rules and standards.
Everything is to be twisted about on his behalf, and
forgiven, or even admired.  Nobody else is allowed
such latitude of construction; and everything is
granted to him—because he is George Bethune.
But I don't think it is quite fair: or that you
should take sides against your own family."

This was an adroit stroke, following upon a very
clever attempt to extricate herself from an
embarrassing position; but his thoughts were
otherwise occupied.

"I should like you to tell me," said he, "if you
can, what moral wrong was involved in Mr. Bethune
consenting to accept that money.  Where was the
harm—or the ignominy?  Do you think I cannot
guess at the representations and inducements put
before him, to get him to stay abroad for three
years?  Why, I could almost tell you, word for
word, what was said to him!  Here was an arrangement
that would be of incalculable benefit to everybody
concerned.  He would be healing up family
dissensions.  He would be guarding his
granddaughter from a marriage that could only bring her
disappointment and humiliation.  Three years of
absence and forgetfulness would put an end to all
those projects.  And then, of course, you could not
ask him to throw up his literary engagements and
incur the expense of travel, without some compensation.
Here is a sum of £5,000, which will afford
him some kind of security, in view of this disturbance
of his engagements.  A receipt? oh, yes, a
receipt, if necessary!  But then, again, on second
thoughts, wouldn't it only be prudent to lodge this
£5,000 with some third person, some man of position
whom all could trust, and who would send it in
instalments, to avoid the risk of carrying so large
a sum about with one?  There might be a little
harmless condition or two attached, moreover.  You
undertake, for example, that the young people shall
not have communication with each other; you say
your granddaughter will do as you wish in all
things.  Very well, take her away: disappear, both
of you; you are doing us an immense kindness, and
you are acting in the best interests of all concerned.
Never mind a little misery here or there, or the risk
of a broken heart; we can afford to pay for such
things; we can afford to have the moulds of a
dessert service destroyed—and a little matter of
£5,000 is not much, when we have plans....  And
so those two go out into the world again."  He
paused for a second.  "Well, aunt, you've had your
way; and there's no more to be said, except this,
perhaps, that you don't seem to realise the greatest
of all the mistakes you have made.  Your three
years, even if they should be three years of absence,
will not be years of forgetfulness on either Maisrie
Bethune's part or mine.  Oh, no; nothing of the
kind; don't cherish any illusions on that score.
It happened curiously that just before they left
Brighton she and I had a little talk over one or two
things; and she asked me for a promise, which I
gave her, and which I mean to keep."

Well, the handsome lad now standing before her
had a great hold on her affection; and she even
admired, in a covert way, this very bigotry of
constancy and unswerving faith of his, so that for
an instant her head swam, and she was on the
point of crying out 'Vincent—Vincent—go and
bring her to me—and I will take her to my
heart—for your sake!'  But the next moment she had
recovered from that mad impulse: she saw that
what had been done was not to be undone in that
happy-go-lucky fashion, even if it could be undone
at all; and she was silent and embarrassed.  It was
he who spoke.

"Well, you must excuse me, aunt; I've to be
down at the House by question time."

"You're not going like that, Vin!" she exclaimed.

"What do you want of me?" he asked in a coldly
civil way.

"I—I—want you to be as you once were, to all
of us," she cried, rather incoherently.  "I want you
to go back to Grosvenor Place; and to accept the
allowance your father has made you ever since you
came of age; and to resume the old bygone relations
with us.  Surely it might be possible, with a little
consideration on both sides.  What we have done
was done entirely out of thoughtfulness for you;
and if we have made a mistake—we are only human
beings!  And remember, it is quite possible that
you may be mistaken too, Vin; you may be
mistaken just as much as we—and—and—"

"What you propose, aunt," said he (for time was
precious with him) "even if it were practicable,
would only be temporary.  I am looking forward to
marrying Maisrie Bethune—in spite of your three
years of forgetfulness!—and when that happens,
your patched-up state of affairs would all come to
bits again.  So what is the use of professing a sort
of sham reconciliation?  I have no wish to return
to Grosvenor Place.  I have taken some rooms at
the foot of Buckingham-street; and I have a key
that lets me through by the Embankment Gardens
into Villiers-street; it will be convenient for getting
to the House.  And I can tide along pretty well
without any allowance from my father; in fact, I'm
saving a little money in a quiet way—"

"But at what a cost, Vincent—at what a cost!"
she protested.  "I wish you could see how worn and
ill you are looking—

"Well, I've had some things to think of lately—thanks
to my kind relatives!" said he.  "But really
I must be off—"

"Vincent," she said, making one last despairing
effort to bring things back to their former footing,
"when are you going to ask Louie Drexel and me
to dine with you at the House?"

"I'm so busy, aunt, just now," said he, as he
opened the door for her.  Then he saw her into her
carriage; and she drove away—a most perplexed
and unhappy woman.

These rooms that Vincent had taken at the foot
of Buckingham-street were right up at the top of
the building; and commanded a spacious prospect
of the river, the Embankment gardens, the bridges,
the great dusky world of London lying all around,
and the dome of St. Paul's rising dim and
phantasmal in the east.  They were bachelor chambers,
that had doubtless seen many tenants (the name of
one, George Brand, was still over the door, and
Vincent did not think it worth while to change it),
but the young man had no sooner entered into
possession than he began a series of alterations and
improvements that bachelor chambers did not seem
to demand.  Not in any hurry, however; nor
perhaps with any fixed intent; it was a kind of
amusement for this or that odd half-hour he could snatch
from his multifarious duties.  To begin with, he
had the woodwork painted a deep Indian red, and
the walls a pearly-blue grey: while the former
colour was repeated in the Japanese window-curtains,
and the latter by the great world outside,
on the lambent moonlight nights, or sometimes in
the awakening of the dawn, as he lay in a low
easy-chair, and watched the vast, silent city coming out
of its sleep.  This top-floor was a very still place,
except for the early chattering of the tree-sparrows,
into whose nests, swaying on the branches just
beneath him, he could have tossed a biscuit.  And
then his peregrinations through London, rapid
though they were as a rule, occasionally brought
him face-to-face with a bric-a-brac shop; and from
time to time he picked up one thing or another, just
as it happened to strike his fancy.  Perhaps these
modest purchases were just a trifle too elegant for
a bachelor's apartments; the sitting-room away up
in that lofty situation came to look rather like a
boudoir; for example, there was a music-stand in
rosewood and ormulu—a tall stand it was, as if
for a violin player—which he himself never used.
Pictures he could not afford; but books he could;
and the volumes which were one by one added to
those shelves were of a more graceful and literary
stamp than you would have expected to find in the
library of a young and busy member of Parliament.
It was not a lordly palace of art, this humble suite
of apartments in the neighbourhood of the Strand;
but there was a prevailing air of selection and good
taste; perhaps, one ought to say, of expectancy,
also, in the presence of things not yet in use.  Then
the two large and low windows of the sitting-room
were all surrounded with ivy, of long training; but
besides that, there were flower-boxes; and at a
moment's notice, and at small expense, these could
be filled with potted geraniums, if one wished to be
gay.  And always outside was the varied panorama
of the mighty city; the wide river and the bridges,
the spires and the towers, the far masses of buildings
becoming more and more spectral as they receded
into the grey and wavering mist.  Sometimes the
rose and saffron of the dawn were there, ascending
with a soft suffusion behind the purple dome of
St. Paul's; sometimes there were blown and breezy
days, with flying showers and watery gleams of
sunlight; and sometimes the night lay blue and still
and clear, the Surrey side in black and mysterious
shadow, the white moon high in the south.  These
silent altitudes were a fine place for dreaming, after
all the toil and moil of the working-hours were
over; and a fine place for listening, too; sometimes,
towards the morning, just as the leaves began to
stir, you could fancy the wind was bringing a
message with it—it seemed, coming from far away,
to say something about *Claire Fontaine*.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`IN A NORTHERN VILLAGE`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium

   IN A NORTHERN VILLAGE.

.. vspace:: 2

But there were to be no three years of absence,
still less of forgetfulness.  One afternoon, on
Vincent's going down to the House, he found a
telegram along with his letters.  He opened it
mechanically, little thinking; but the next moment
his eyes were staring with amazement.  For these
were the words he saw before him:—"*Grandfather
very ill; would like to see you.  Maisrie Bethune,
Crossmains, by Cupar*."  Then through his
bewilderment there flashed the sudden thought: why, the
lands of Balloray were up in that Fifeshire
region!—had, then, the old man, tired of his
world-wanderings, and feeling this illness coming upon him,
had he at length crept home to die, perhaps as a
final protest?  And Maisrie was alone there, among
strangers, with this weight of trouble fallen upon
her.  Why could not these intervening hours, and
the long night, and the great distance, be at once
annihilated?—he saw Maisrie waiting for him, with
piteous eyes and outstretched hands.

He never could afterwards recall with any
accuracy how he passed those hours: it all seemed
a dream.  And a dream it seemed next day, when
he found himself in a dogcart, driving through a
placid and smiling country, with the sweet summer
air blowing all around him.  He talked to the
driver, to free his mind from anxious and futile
forecasts.  Crossmains, he was informed, was a
small place.  There was but the one inn in it—the
Balloray Arms.  Most likely, if two strangers were
to arrive on a visit, they would put up at the inn;
but very few people did go through—perhaps an
occasional commercial traveller.

"And where is Balloray House—or Balloray
Castle?" was the next question.

"Just in there, sir," said the man, with a jerk of
his whip towards the woods past which they were
driving.

And of course it was with a great interest and
curiosity that Vincent looked out for this place of
which he had heard so much.  At present nothing
could be seen but the high stone wall that surrounds
so many Scotch estates; and, branching over that,
a magnificent row of beeches; but by and bye they
came to a clearing in the "policies"; and all at
once the Castle appeared in sight—a tall,
rectangular building, with a battlemented parapet and
corner turrets, perched on a spacious and lofty
plateau.  It looked more modern than he had
imagined to himself; but perhaps it had been
recently renovated.  From the flag-staff overtopping
the highest of the turrets a flag idly dropped and
swung in the blue of the summer sky: no doubt
the proprietor was at home—in proud possession;
while the old man who considered himself the
rightful owner of the place was lying, perhaps
stricken unto death, in some adjacent cottage or
village inn.  Then the woods closed round again;
and the mansion of Balloray was lost from view.

Vincent was not in search of the picturesque, or
he might have been disappointed with this village
of Crossmains—which consisted of but one long and
wide thoroughfare, bordered on each hand with a
row of bare and mean-looking cottages and
insignificant houses.  When they drove up to the inn,
he did not notice that it was a small, two-storied,
drab-hued building of the most common-place
appearance; that was not what he was thinking of
at all; his heart was beating high with emotion—what
wonder might not meet his eager gaze at any
instant?  And indeed he had hardly entered the
little stone passage when Maisrie appeared before
him; she had heard the vehicle arrive, and had
quickly come down-stairs; and now she stood quite
speechless—her trembling, warm hands clasped in
his, her face upturned to him, her beautiful sad eyes
all dimmed with tears, and yet having a kind of joy
in them, too, and pride.  She could not say a single
word: he would have to understand that she was
grateful to him for his instant response to her
appeal.  And perhaps there was more than
gratitude; she seemed to hunger to look at him—for
she had not seen him for so long a while: perhaps
she had never thought to see him again.

"Have you any better news, Maisrie?" said he.

She turned and led the way into a little parlour.

"Yes," said she (and the sound of her voice
startled him: the Maisrie of his many dreams,
sleeping and waking, had been all so silent!).
"Grandfather is rather better.  I think he is asleep
now—or almost asleep.  It is a fever—a nervous
fever—and he has been so exhausted—and often
delirious; but he is quieter now—rest is
everything—"

"Maisrie," he said again (in his bewilderment)
"it is a wonderful thing to hear you speak!  I can
hardly believe it.  Where have you been all this
while?  Why did you go away from me?"

"I went because grandfather wished it," said she.
"I will tell you some other time.  He is anxious to
see you.  He has been fretting about so many things;
and he will not confide in me—not entirely—I
can see that there is concealment.  And Vincent,"
she went on, with her appealing eyes fixed on
him, "don't speak to him about Craig-Royston!—and
don't let him speak about it.  When he got
ill in Cairo, it was more home-sickness than
anything else, as I think; and he said he wanted to
go and die in his own country and among his own
people; and so we began to come to Scotland by
slow stages.  And now that we are here, there is no
one whom he knows; he is quite as much alone
here as he was in Egypt; far more alone than we
used to be in Canada.  I fancy he expects that a
message may come for me from Balloray—that I
am to go there and be received; and of course that
is quite impossible; I do not know them, they do
not know me; I don't suppose they are even aware
that we are living in this place.  But if he is
disappointed in that, it is Craig-Royston he will think
of next—he will want to go there to seek out
relatives on my account.  Well, Vincent, about
Craig-Royston——"

She hesitated; and the pale and beautiful face
became suffused with a sort of piteous embarrassment.

"But I understand, Maisrie, quite well!" said
he, boldly.  "Why should you be troubled about
that?  You have found out there is no such
place?—but I could have told you so long ago!  There
was a district so-named at one time; and that is
quite enough for your grandfather; a picturesque
name takes his fancy, and he brings it into his own
life.  Where is the harm of that?  There may
have been Grants living there at one time—and
they may have intermarried with the Bethunes:
anyhow your grandfather has talked himself into
believing there was such a relationship; and even
if it is a delusion, what injury does it do to any
human creature?  Why," he went on, quite cheerfully,
to reassure her and give her comfort, "I am
perfectly aware that no Scotch family ever had
'Stand Fast, Craig-Royston!' as its motto.  But
if the phrase caught your grandfather's ear, why
should not he choose it for his motto?  Every
motto has been chosen by some one at some one
time.  And then, if he thereafter came to persuade
himself that this motto had been worn by his
family, or by some branch of his family, what harm
is there in that?  It is only a fancy—it is an innocent
delusion—it injures no one——"

"Yes, but, Vincent," she said—for these heroic
excuses did not touch the immediate point—"grandfather
is quite convinced about the Grants of
Craig-Royston; and he will be going away in search
of them, so that I may find relatives and shelter.
And the disappointment will be terrible.  For he
has got into a habit of fretting that never was usual
with him.  He has fits of distrusting himself, too,
and begins to worry about having done this or done
that; and you know how unlike that is to his old
courage, when he never doubted for a moment but
that everything he had done was done for the
best.  And to think that he should vex himself by
imagining he had not acted well by me—when he
has given his whole life to me, as long as I can
remember——"

"Maisrie," said he, "when your grandfather gets
well, and able to leave this place, where are you
going?"

"How can I say?" she made answer, wistfully enough.

"For I do not mean to let you disappear again.
No, no.  I shall not let you out of my sight again.
Do you know that I have a house waiting for you,
Maisrie?"

"For me?" she said, looking up surprised.

"For whom else, do you imagine?  And rather
pretty the rooms are, I think.  I have got a stand
for your music, Maisrie: that will be handier for
you than putting it on the table before you."

She shook her head, sadly.

"My place is with my grandfather, Vincent," she
said.  "And now I will go and see how he is.
He wished to know as soon as possible of your
arrival."

She left the room and was absent only for a
couple of minutes.

"Yes; will you come upstairs, Vincent?" she
said on her return.  "I'm afraid you will find him
much changed.  And sometimes he wanders a little
in his talking; you must try to keep him as quiet
as may be."

As they entered the room, an elderly
Scotchwoman—most probably the landlady—who had
been sitting there, rose and came out.  Vincent
went forward.  Despite Maisrie's warning he was
startled to notice the ravages the fever had wrought;
but if the proud and fine features were pinched and
worn, the eyes were singularly bright—bright and
furtive at the same time.  And at sight of his
visitor, old George Bethune made a desperate effort
to assume his usual gallant air.

"Ha?" said he—though his laboured breathing
made this affectation of gaiety a somewhat pitiable
thing—"the young legislator—fresh from the
senate—the listening senate, the applause of
multitudes——"

He turned his restless eyes on Maisrie; and said
in quite an altered tone——

"Go away, girl, go away!"

Well, Maisrie's nerves were all unstrung by
anxiety and watching; and here was her lover just
arrived, to listen to her being so cruelly and sharply
rebuked; and so, after a moment of indecision, she
lost her self-control, she flung herself on her knees
by the side of the bed, and burst out crying.

"Don't speak to me like that, grandfather," she
sobbed, "don't speak to me like that!"

"Well, well, well," said he, in an altered tone,
"I did not mean to hurt you.  No, no, Maisrie;
you're a good lass—a good lass—none better in
the whole kingdom of Scotland.  I was not thinking—I
beg your pardon, my dear—I beg your pardon."

She rose, and kissed his hand, and left the room.
Then old George Bethune turned to his visitor, and
began to talk to him in a curiously rapid way—rapid
and disconnected and confused—while the
brilliant eyes were all the time fixed anxiously on
the young man.

"Yes, I am glad you have come—I have been
sorely perplexed," he said, in his husky and
hurried fashion; "—perhaps, when one is ill,
confidence in one's own judgment gives way a
little—and it is not—every one whom you can consult.
But that is not the main thing—not the main thing
at all—a question of money is a minor thing—but
yesterday—I think it was yesterday—my voice
seemed to be going from me—and I thought—I
would leave you a message.  The book there—bring
it—"

He looked towards a red volume that was lying
on the window-sill.  Vincent went and fetched it;
though even as he did so, he thought it strange
that a man who was perhaps lying on his deathbed
should bother about a book of ballads.  But when,
he might have asked himself, had George Bethune
ever seemed to realise the relative importance of
the things around him?  To him a harebell brought
from the Braes of Gleniffer was of more value than
a king's crown.

"Open at the mark," said the sick man, eagerly.
"See if you understand—without much said—to
her, I mean.  Poor lass—poor lass—I caught her
crying once or twice—while we were away—and I
have been asking myself whether—whether it was
all done for the best."  Then he seemed to pull
himself together a little.  "Yes, yes, it was done
for the best—what appeared best for every one;
but now—well, now it may be judged differently—I
am not what I was—I hope I—have done no wrong."

Vincent turned to the marked page; and there
he found a verse of one of the ballads pencilled
round, with the last line underscored.  This is what
he read:

   |  He turned his face unto the wa',
   |    And death was with him dealing;
   |  "Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a'—
   |    *Be kind to Barbara Allen!*"
   |

The old man was watching him anxiously and intently.

"Yes, I understand," Vincent said.  "And I think
you may depend on me."

"Then there is another thing," the old man
continued—his mind leaping from one point to another
with marvellous quickness, though he himself
seemed so languid and frail.  "I—I wish to have
all things left in order.  If the summons—comes—I
must be able to meet it—with head up—fear
never possessed me during life.  But who has not
made mistakes—who has not made mistakes?—not
understood at the time.  And yet perhaps it was
not a mistake—I am not the man I was—I have
doubts—I thought I was doing well by all—but
now—I am uneasy—questions come to me in
the night-time—and I have not my old strength—I
cannot cast them behind me as in better days."

He glanced towards the door.

"Keep Maisrie out," said he.  "Poor lass—poor
lass—I thought I was doing well for her—but when
I found her crying—  Take care she does not come
back for a minute or two——"

"She won't come until you send for her," Vincent
interposed.

"Then I must make haste—and you must listen.
The money—that I was persuaded to take from your
family—that must be paid back—to the last
farthing; and it will not be difficult—oh, no, not
difficult—not much of it has been used—Bevan
and Morris will tell you—Bevan and Morris, Pall
Mall, London.  And indeed I meant to do what I
promised—when I went away—but when I got ill—I
could not bear the idea of being buried out of
Scotland—I was like the Swiss soldier—in the
trenches—who heard the Alphorn—something arose
in my breast—and Maisrie, she was always a
biddable lass—she was just as willing to come away.
But the money—well, is there one who knows me
who does not know how I have scorned that—that
delight of the ignoble and base-born?—and yet
this is different—this must be paid back—for
Maisrie's sake—every farthing—to your family.
She must be no beggar—in their eyes.  And you
must not tell her anything—I trust you—if I can
trust you to take care of her I can trust you in
smaller things—so take a pencil now—quick—when
I remember it—and write down his address—Daniel
Thompson——"

"Of Toronto?" said Vincent.  "I know him."

At this moment George Bethune turned his head
a little on one side, and wearily closed his eyes.
Vincent, assuming that he now wished for rest—that
perhaps he might even have sunk into sleep, which
was the all-important thing for him—thought it an
opportune moment to retire; and on tiptoe made
for the door.  But even that noiseless movement
was sufficient to arouse those abnormally sensitive
faculties; those restless eyes held him again.

"No—no—do not go," the old man said, in the
same half-incoherent, eager fashion.  "I must have
all put in order—Daniel Thompson—banker—Toronto—he
will make all that straight with your
family.  For Maisrie's sake—and more than that he
would do for her—and be proud and glad to do it
too.  He will be her friend—and you—well, I leave
her to you—you must provide a house for her."

"It is ready," said Vincent.

"She will make a good wife—she will stand firm
by the man she marries—she has courage—and a
loyal heart.  Perhaps—perhaps I should have seen
to it before—perhaps you should have had your
way at Brighton—and she—well, she was so willing
to go—that deceived me.  And there must be
laughing now for her—it is natural for a young lass
to be glad and merry—not any more weeping—she
is in her own land.  Why," said he, and his eyes
burned still more brightly, and his speech became
more inconsecutive, though always hurried and
panting.  "I remember a story—a story that a
servant lass used to tell me when I was a child—I
used to go into the kitchen—when she was making
the bread—it was a story about a fine young man
called Eagle—he had been carried away to an
eagle's nest when he was an infant—and his
sweetheart was called Angel.  Well, I do not remember
all the adventures—I have been thinking
sometimes that they must have been of Eastern
origin—Eastern origin—yes—the baker who tried to burn
him in an oven—the Arabian Nights—but no
matter—at the end he found his sweetheart—and
there was a splendid wedding.  And just as they
were married, a white dove flew right down the
middle of the church, and called aloud '*Kurroo,
kurroo; Eagle has got his Angel now!*'  I used to
imagine I could see them at the altar—and the
white dove flying down the church——

"Don't you think you should try to get a little
rest now?" Vincent said, persuasively.  "You have
arranged everything—all is put in order.  But
what we want is for you to get rest and quiet, until
this illness leaves you, and you grow strong and
well again."

"Yes, yes," said the old man, quickly, "that is
quite right—that is so—for I must pay off
Thompson, you know, I must pay off Thompson.
Thompson is a good fellow—and an honest Scot—but he
used to talk a little.  Let him do this—for Maisrie's
sake—afterwards—afterwards—when I am well and
strong again—I will square up accounts with him.
Oh, yes, very easily," he continued; and now he
began to whisper in a mysterious manner.  "Listen,
now—I have a little scheme in mind—not a word
to anybody—there might be some one quick to
snatch it up.  It is a volume I have in mind—a
volume on the living poets of Scotland—think of
that, now—a splendid subject, surely!—the voice
of the people—everyday sorrows and joys—the
minstrelsy of a whole race.  There was the American
book—but something went wrong—I did not blame
any one—and I was glad it was published—Carmichael
let me review it—yes, yes, there may be
a chance for me yet—I may do something yet—for
auld Scotland's sake!  I have been looking into
the *domus exilis Plutonia*—the doors have been
wide open—but still there may be a chance—there
is some fire still burning within.  But my memory
is not what it was," he went on, in a confused,
perplexed way.  "I once had a good memory—an
excellent memory—but now things escape me.
Yesterday—I think it was yesterday—I could not
tell whether Bob Tennant was still with us—and
his verses to Allander Water have all gone from
me—all but a phrase—'How sweet to roam by
Allander'—'How sweet to roam by Allander'—no,
my head is not so clear as it ought to be——"

"No, of course not," said Vincent, in a soothing
sort of way.  "How could you expect it, with this
illness?  But these things will all come back.  And
I'm going to help you as much as I can.  When
I was in New York I heard your friend, Hugh
Anstruther, deliver a speech about those living
Scotch poets, and he seemed to be well acquainted
with them; I will write to him for any information
you may want.  So now—now that is all settled;
and I would try to rest for a while, if I were you:
that is the main thing—the immediate thing."

But the old man went on without heeding him,
muttering to himself, as it were:

"Chambers's Journal—perhaps as far back as
thirty years since—there's one verse has rung in
my ears all this time—but the rest is all blank—and
the name of the writer forgotten, if it ever was
published ... ''Tis by Westray that she wanders
... 'Tis by Westray that she strays ... O waft me,
Heavens, to Westray ... in the spring of the young
days!' ... No, no, it cannot be Westray—Westray
is too far north—Westray?—Yet it sounds right
... ''Tis by Westray that she wanders ... 'tis by
Westray that she strays—'"

There was a tap at the door, and the doctor
appeared: a little, old, white-haired man, of sharp
and punctilious demeanour.  Behind him was the
landlady, hanging back somewhat as if it were for
further instructions; so, she being there to help,
Vincent thought he would go downstairs and seek
out Maisrie.  He found her in the little
parlour—awaiting him.

"What do you think, Vincent?" she said, quickly.

"I haven't spoken to the doctor yet," he made
answer.  "Of course, everyone can see that your
grandfather is very ill; but if courage will serve,
who could have a better chance?  And I will tell
you this, Maisrie, he is likely to have more peace of
mind now.  He has been vexing himself about many
things, as you guessed; and although he was
wandering a good deal while I was with him—perhaps
all the time—I could not quite make sure—still, it
is wonderful how he has argued these matters out,
and how clearly you can follow his meaning.  It
was about you and your future he was most
troubled—in the event of anything happening to him; and
he has not been afraid to look all possibilities in the
face; he told me the doors of the *domus exilis
Plutonia* had stood wide open before him, and I
know he was not the one to be alarmed, for himself.
But about you, Maisrie: do you know that he has
given you over to me—if the worst comes to the
worst?  He asked me to provide a home for you: I
told him it was already there, awaiting you.  You
see I have not forgotten what you said to me at
Brighton; and I knew that some day you and I
should find ourselves, as we now find ourselves, face
to face—perhaps in sad circumstances, but all the
more dependent on each other——"

"Do you think he is so very ill, Vincent?" she
said: she seemed to have no thought of herself—only
of her grandfather.

"You must see he is very ill, Maisrie—very," he
answered her.  "But, as I say, if splendid courage
will serve, then you may hope for the best.  And
he ought to be quieter in mind now.  We will hear
what the doctor has to say——"

But at this moment there was an unwonted
sound without in the still little village—the sound
of carriage-wheels on the stony street; and presently
some vehicle, itself unseen, was heard to stop in
front of the inn.  In another second or so, a servant-girl
opened the door of the parlour and timidly said
to Maisrie—

"Miss Bethune, Miss."

"Miss Bethune?" Maisrie repeated, wondering.

"From the Castle, Miss," the girl said, in awe-stricken tones.

And it was curious that at such a crisis Maisrie's
eyes should turn instinctively to Vincent—as if to
appeal for advice.  Of course his decision was taken
on the instant.

"Ask Miss Bethune to step this way, then," he
said to the girl.

Maisrie rose—pale a little, but absolutely
self-possessed.  She did not know who this might
be—perhaps the bearer of grave and harassing tidings
for her grandfather; for she had grown to fear
Balloray, and all its associations and belongings.
As it turned out she had not much to fear from this
emissary.  There came into the room a tall and
elegant lady of about thirty, not very pretty, but
very gentle-looking, with kind grey eyes.  For a
brief second she seemed embarrassed on finding a
third person present; but that passed directly; she
went up to Maisrie, and took her hand and held it,
and said, in a voice so sweet and winning that it
went straight to the heart—

"Dr. Lenzie has told me of your trouble.  I'm
very, very sorry.  Will you let me help you in any
way that is possible?  May I send to Edinburgh
for a trained nurse to give you assistance; and in
the meantime, if you wished it, I could send
along my maid to do anything you wanted—"

Maisrie pressed her to be seated, and tried, in
rather uncertain accents, to thank her for her
exceeding kindness.  For this stranger, with the
greatest tact, made no apology for her intrusion; it
was no case of the castle coming to the cottage,
with acts of officious benevolence; it was simply
one woman appealing to another woman to be
allowed to help her in dire straits.  Whether she
knew that the old man upstairs claimed to be the
rightful owner of Balloray, whether she knew that
the beautiful pensive-eyed girl who was speaking to
her had indirectly suffered through that legal
decision of generations ago, Vincent could not at
the moment guess: what was obvious was merely
this womanly act of sympathy and charity, for
which Maisrie Bethune showed herself abundantly
grateful.  When the doctor came down, this visitor
with the friendly eyes and the soft voice explained
that, just in case the patient should need brandy to
keep up his strength, she had taken the liberty of
bringing some with her—of good quality: the
resources of the Balloray Arms being limited in
that respect.  As she said this she hesitatingly
blushed a little; and Vincent thought she looked
really beautiful.  He recalled to himself his aunt,
Lady Musselburgh; and wondered whether she,
with all her fine presence and eloquent eyes, could
look as nobly beautiful as this poor woman, who
was rather plain.

The doctor's report was on the whole encouraging;
the temperature of the patient was the least
thing lower, and he was more equable in mind.

"He appears to have been greatly pleased by
your visit, sir," the little doctor said, in a strong
east-country accent, to the young man.  "Very
pleased indeed.  And it is just wonderful how he
can reason and explain; though I'm not so sure
he'll be able to remember all he's been saying.
But now, he tells me, all his dispositions are made;
he is content; there is nothing more on his
mind—except, as I gather, about some book."

"I know all about that," said Maisrie.  "I can
pacify him about that; and I'm going upstairs directly."

Of course she had to wait and see Miss Bethune
and the doctor leave; then she turned to Vincent.

"Will you go out for a walk, Vincent?  I have
asked Mrs. MacGill to let you have some dinner at
seven."

"Oh, don't you bother about me, Maisrie!"
he said.  "Can't I be of any use to you upstairs?"

"Not unless grandfather asks for you again—then
I will send for you," she answered.

She was going away when he interrupted her for a moment.

"I will come up whenever you want me," he
said; and then he added: "But—but—you know
him so much better than I do, Maisrie.  Do you
think we should tell him of Miss Bethune having
been here?"

"Oh, no, no, Vincent!" she said, in earnest
remonstrance.  "Nothing would excite him more
terribly.  You know he has already been talking of
some message coming from Balloray to me—of the
possibility of it—and this would set his brain
working in a hundred different directions.  He
might think they were coming to take me away
from him—perhaps to do me some harm—or he
might imagine that I had humbled myself before
them, to make friends with them, and that would
trouble him more than anything else: you cannot
tell what wild fancies might not get into his head.
So there must not be a word said about Miss
Bethune, Vincent."

"Of course you know best, Maisrie," said he.
And still he did not let her go.  What was he to
say next, to detain her?  It was so long since he
had heard her voice!  "When you go upstairs,
Maisrie, I wish you would look at the book of
ballads that is lying on the table.  There are some
lines marked—you will see a bit of paper to tell
you the page.  Do you know what that means?
Your grandfather thought that he might not have
strength enough left to speak to me when I came;
and so this was to be a last message for me.  Isn't
it strange that in the face of so serious an illness he
should be thinking about a ballad; but you know
better than anyone that ballads are as real to your
grandfather as the actual things around him.  And
I want you to look at that message.  I have told
your grandfather that he may depend on me."

She went upstairs; he passed out into the golden
glow of the afternoon.  It was not a beautiful
village, this: plain, unlovely, melancholy in the
last degree; moreover, his own mind was filled with
dim and dark forebodings; so that a sort of gloom
of death and separation seemed to hang over those
houses.  Nor was there anything to look at, for the
distraction of thought.  An English village would
have had a picturesque old church and a pretty
churchyard; here there was nothing but a small
mission-house of the most dull and forbidding
exterior, while, just beyond the last of the hovels,
there was a cemetery—a mound enclosed by a stone
wall.  He went to the gate, and stood there a long
time, with some curious fancies and imaginings
coming into his head.  He seemed to see an open
grave there, and a small knot of people, himself the
chief mourner.  And then, after the simple and
solemn ceremony, he saw himself leave the sad
enclosure and go away back through the unlovely
street, rather fearing what lay before him.  For how
was he to attempt to console the solitary girl
awaiting him there in her despair and her tears?  But
behold now, if there were any charity and commiseration
left in the world—if one, hitherto obdurate,
would but consent to bury her enmity in that open
grave they had left—as well she might, for there
was no one to offend her now—and if she were to
reach out a woman's hand to this lonely girl, and
take her with her, and shelter her, until the time of
her sorrow was over?  This was a bleak, plain,
commonplace sort of a burial ground into which he
was gazing: but none the less had human hearts
come away from it heavy and remorseful—remorseful
when it was too late.  And if some little atonement
were to be offered in the way he had imagined—if
it were the only thing now left?  This girl,
sitting alone there in her desperate grief—without
kindred—without friends—without any home or
habitation to turn her face to: surely her situation
was of all things possible most forlorn—surely no
woman's heart could resist that mute appeal for
sympathy and association?

As he walked slowly and aimlessly back to the
inn, he began to think he had been a little too hard
on those relatives of his.  Death, or even the
menace of death, was a solvent of many things: it
made all antagonisms, animosities, indignations
appear so trivial and unworthy.  He could not but
remember that it was not through any selfishness
those relatives of his had acted (unless some small
trace of family ambition were a minor motive):
what they had done they had done, as they
imagined, to serve him; there might have been
errors of judgment, but no ill-will on their part.
And now, in this terrible crisis, if he were to write
to Lady Musselburgh—write in all conciliation and
kindness—and tell her how Maisrie Bethune was
situated, would she not allow her heart to answer?
She was a woman; she professed to be a Christian.
And if the worst befel, or even if the worst were
threatened, surely she would come at once to
Scotland, and make what little amends were now
within her power?  How many homes had she—in
London, Brighton, Mendover—how many friends,
relations, well-wishers—as compared with this
tragically lonely girl, who had nothing but the
wide world around her, and no one offering her
a sympathetic hand?  He would write to his aunt
a long and urgent letter—appealing to her own
better nature—and asking to be allowed to summon
her, by telegram, if there were need.  He would
even humble and abase himself—for Maisrie's sake.

But when he got back to the inn, he found that
all these sombre prognostications were, happily, not
immediately called for.  On the contrary, Maisrie
came running down to say that her grandfather had
been asleep, or apparently asleep, and that, when he
woke up, he seemed much refreshed, with his
memory grown infinitely clearer.  He was especially
proud that he could remember the verses about
Allander Water.  He wanted Vincent to go up to
him at once.

"And you must please him, Vincent," she said,
breathlessly, "by promising to do everything to
help him with the book.  Promise whatever he
wishes.  But be sure you don't mention that Miss
Bethune was here—don't say a word about that—or
anything about Balloray."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A BABBLE O' GREEN FIELDS: THE END`:

.. class:: center large

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center medium

   A BABBLE O' GREEN FIELDS: THE END.

.. vspace:: 2

There was a wonderful vitality, especially of the
brain, in this old man; after long periods of languor
and exhaustion, with low moanings and mutterings
quite unintelligible to the patient watchers, he
would flame up into something like his former self,
and his speech would become eager and voluble,
and almost consecutive.  It was in those intervals
that he showed himself proud of his recovered
memory: again and again they could hear him
repeat the lines that for a time had baffled him—

   |  'How sweet to roam by Allander, to breathe the balmy air,
   |  When cloudless are the summer skies, and woods and fields are fair;
   |  To see the skylark soaring high, and chanting on the wing,
   |  While in yon woods near Calder Kirk the wild birds sweetly sing.'

He was busy with the new book—choosing and
arranging; and Maisrie, as his amanuensis, jotted
down memoranda as to the poets to be included, and
the pieces most characteristic of them.  For he was
not to be pacified into silence and acquiescence—in
these clearer moods.  There was hurry, he said.
Some one else might step in.  And he cross-examined
Vincent about the quotations that Hugh
Anstruther had made at the Burns' Celebration in
New York.

"I hardly remember," Vincent answered him.
"There were a good many.  But there was one piece
I thought rather pathetic—I don't recall the name
of it—but it was about a little pair of shoes—the
mother thinking of her dead child."

"What?—what?" said the old man, quickly.
"Not James Smith's?  Not 'The Wee Pair o' Shoon'?"

"Well, yes, I think that was the title," said
Vincent.

An anxious and troubled expression came into
the sick man's eyes: he was labouring with his
memory—and Maisrie saw it.

"Never mind, grandfather: never mind just now:
if you want it, I'll write to Mr. Anstruther for it.
See, I will put it down in the list; and I'll send for
it; and it will be back here in plenty of time."

"But I know it quite well!" he said, fretfully,
"The last verse anyway.  'The eastlin wind blaws
cauld, Jamie—the snaw's on hill and plain——'"  He
repeated those two lines over and over again,
with half-shut eyes; and then all at once he went
on with the remainder—

   |  "'The flowers that decked my lammie's grave
   |    Are faded noo, an' gane!
   |  O, dinna speak!  I ken she dwells
   |    In yon fair land aboon;
   |  But sair's the sicht that blin's my e'e—
   |    That wee, wee pair o' shoon.'"
   |

There was a kind of proud look in his face as he finished.

"Yes, yes; it's a fine thing to have a good
memory—and I owe that to my father—he said
there never was a minute in the day that need be
wasted—you could always repeat to yourself a verse
of the Psalms of David.  I think the first word of
approval—I ever got from him—ye see, Maisrie, we
were brought up under strict government in those
days—was when I repeated the CXIX. Psalm—the
whole twenty-two parts—with hardly a mistake.
And what a talisman to carry about with ye—on
the deck of a steamer—on Lake Ontario—in the
night—with the stars overhead—then the
XLVI. Psalm comes into your mind—you are back in
Scotland—you see the small church, and the
boxed-in pews—the men and women standing up
to sing—the men all in black—I wonder if they
have *Ballerma* in the Scotch churches now—and
*Drumclog*—and *New St. Ann's*—"

He shut his eyes—those unnaturally brilliant
eyes—for a second or so; but the next second they were
open and alert again.

"The book, Maisrie—the book—are you getting
on?—no delay—no delay—in case someone should
interfere.  Ye've got Shairp in, haven't ye?—the
burn of Quair—up yonder—above the Minch Moor—

   |      'I heard the cushies croon,
   |      Through the gowden afternoon,
   |  And Quair burn singin' doon to the vale o' Tweed.'

Well do I know the very spot where he must have
written those verses.  Yes, yes; well I remember
it," he continued, more absently.  "But I have had
my last look.  I will see it no more—no more.
You, Maisrie, you will go there—your young
husband will take you there—"

"Grandfather, we will all go there together!"
said Maisrie, piteously.

"And both of you," the old man went on, paying
no attention to her, for he was apparently gazing at
some distant thing, "both of you are young, and
light of step—and light of heart, which is still
better—well, well, my lass, perhaps not so light of
heart as might be at your years—but all that will
change for you—and I think when you are up at
the burn of Quair—you will find it—in your mind—to
cross the Minch Moor to Yarrow Water.  Newark
Castle you will see—then you will turn to go down
the Yarrow Vale—but not with any sad heart,
Maisrie—I forbid ye that—it's a beautiful place,
Yarrow, though it had its tragedies and sorrows in
the olden time—and you—you are young—you
have life before you—and I tell ye it is with a light
and glad heart you must go down the Yarrow Vale.
Why, lass, you'll come to Mount Benger—you'll
come to Dryhope Tower—you'll come to Altrive—and
St. Mary's Loch—and the Loch o' the Lows—and
Chapel-hope—but mind ye now—if it's bad
weather—ye're not to come running away, and
altogether mistaking the place—ye'll just stop
somewhere in the neighbourhood until it clears."
And then he added, in a wistful kind of way: "I once
had thoughts—of taking ye there myself, Maisrie."

"And so you will, grandfather!" she pleaded.

"No more—no more," he said, as if not heeding
her.  "And why should a young life be clouded?—the
two of them—they'll be fine company for each
other—when they're wandering—along by the side
of Yarrow Water."  But here he recalled himself;
and would have Maisrie sit down again to that list;
in order that the book might be pushed rapidly
forward.

It was on this same evening that Dr. Lenzie, on
arriving to pay his accustomed visit, went into the
little parlour and sent for Vincent.  Vincent came
downstairs.

"Do ye see that?" said he, holding out a book
that was in his hand.

Vincent took the volume from him and glanced
at the title—Recent and Living Scottish Poets, by
A. G. Murdoch.  He was not in the least astonished—but
he was angry and indignant.

"Very well," said he, "what of it?  Do you mean
to say you are going to vex an old man, who may
be on his death-bed, by bringing charges of
plagiarism against him?  I dare say Mr. Bethune never
saw the book, or, if he has seen it, he has
forgotten it."

"I perceive ye do not understand," said the little
doctor, without taking offence.  "When I came to
know what undertaking it was that Mr. Bethune
had on his mind, I made sure I had either seen or
heard of some such collection; and I sent to
Edinburgh; and here it is, just arrived.  Now the
one thing he seems anxious about, the one that
troubles him, is getting on with this work; and it
occurred to me that if I could show him there was
a similar book already published, he might cease
fretting——"

"Cease fretting!" Vincent exclaimed, with a
stare of astonishment.  And then he hesitated.
"Well, you are an older man than I, and you
have more experience in these cases; but I should
have said that a cruel disappointment such as this
is sure to cause would distress his mind beyond
measure.  He must occupy himself with something;
his brain is incessantly working; and so long as he
is talking of getting out his book, he is at least
looking forward with hope.  But if you show him
this volume, it will be a crushing blow; the very
thing he seems to live for will be taken from him;
he will feel injured by being anticipated, and brood
over it.  Of course I have no right to speak; I am
not a relative; but ask his granddaughter—she
knows him better than any one——"

"Perhaps you are right—perhaps you are right,"
said the little doctor.  "It was merely an idea of
mine—thinking it would quiet him.  But on
reflection I will not risk it; it may be better not to
risk it."

"In that case," Vincent struck in, promptly,
"will you let me tie up the book in paper, and will
you take it away with you when you go?  I mean,
that I don't wish Miss Bethune to see it.  She has
plenty to think of at present: don't worry her with
a trifling matter like this.  It is of no consequence
to her, or to any human being, how many collections
of Scotch poems may be published—the more the
merrier—so long as readers can be found for them;
but she is anxious and nervous and tired at
present—and it might surprise her, perhaps vex her, to
find that this volume had been published."

"Oh, certainly, certainly," the doctor said, taking
the failure of his ingenuous little scheme with much
equanimity.  "I will put the book into that
sideboard drawer until I come down; and then I can
take it away with me without her or any one
having seen it."

The next day brought Vincent an unexpected and
welcome surprise.  He had been out-of-doors for a
brief breathing-space, and was returning to the
inn, when he saw in the distance, coming down
the Cupar road, a waggonette and pair.  He seemed
somehow to recognise the two figures seated in the
carriage; looked again; at last made certain—they
were Lord and Lady Musselburgh.  Of course, in
such circumstances, when they drove up to the
door of the inn, there was no great joyfulness of
greeting; only a few customary questions, and
professions of hope for the best; but at the same time,
Vincent, who was touched by this friendly act, could
not help saying—

"Well, this is like you, aunt."

"Oh, your letter was too much for me, Vin," she
said, with frank good nature.  "I did not wait for
the telegram—I trust there will be no need to
telegraph for anybody.  But I don't want you to
give me any credit.  I want to appear as I am; and
I've always told you I'm a selfish woman—the
generous creature is Hubert here, who insisted on
coming all this distance with me.  And now I want
you to understand the full extent of my selfishness.
You are doing no good here—of course.  You are
probably in the way.  But all your affairs in London
will be compromised if you remain here: ——'s
private secretary cannot be absent at such a
time——"

"There's St. John!" Vincent exclaimed, referring
to his colleague in the office that had been put in
commission.

"He's not in the House," rejoined this practical
and very charming person; "and the short and the
long of it is that you must get back to London at
once.  That is part of my scheme; the other is,
that I shall take your place.  I shall be of more use.
You say there is no immediate danger.  So much
the better.  Go away back to your post.  If
anything should happen—I could be of more service
than you.  What could you do?  Miss Bethune
could not return to London with you—and go into
lodgings of your choosing.  I will look after
her—if she will allow me—if she will let bygones be
bygones.  I will ask her pardon, or do anything;
but I don't suppose she is thinking of that at present.
You go back with Hubert and leave me here.  I can
shift for myself."

"I think it is a sensible arrangement," her
husband said, idly looking around at the rather
shabby furniture.

"It is very kind of you, aunt," Vincent said—"and
very far from being selfish.  But it is
impossible.  I must remain here.  I have duties
here as well as elsewhere—perhaps more important
in my own sight.  But—but—now that you are
here—"

"Oh, yes, I'll stay," said she good-naturedly.
"Well, Hubert, it is you who are packed off: I
suppose you can return to Edinburgh to-night.
I brought a few things with me, Vincent, in case
I should be wanted: will you fetch them in from
the waggonette?  Still, I wish I could persuade
you to go back to London!"

And in this manner it was that Lady Musselburgh
became installed in the inn, making some little
excuses to Maisrie.  She and her husband had been
in the neighbourhood.  They had heard of
Mr. Bethune's serious illness, and of Vincent's having
come down from town.  Could she be of any help?
And so forth.  Maisrie thanked her, of course; but
did not take much notice of her; the girl just then
having many things in her mind.  For her grandfather's
delirium was at times more pronounced now;
and in these paroxysms she alone could soothe him.

Lady Musselburgh, indeed, rather hung back
from entering the sick-room, without stating her
reasons to anyone.  On every occasion that she
saw Maisrie she was most kind and considerate,
and solicitous about the girl herself; but she
betrayed no great concern about the old man,
further than by making the usual enquiries.
When Vincent suggested to her that, if she did
not go into the room and see Mr. Bethune, his
granddaughter might think it strange, she said
in reply—

"But he won't remember me, Vin.  We never
met but at Henley."

"He remembers everything that ever happened
to him," was the answer.  "His memory is wonderful.
And perhaps—afterwards—you may wish you had
said a civil word or two."

"Oh, very well," she said.  "Whatever you think
right.  Will you come with me now?"

She seemed a little apprehensive—she did not
say why.  They went upstairs together.  The door
of the sick-room was open.  Maisrie, when she
perceived this visitor, rose from her seat by the
bedside; but Lady Musselburgh motioned her to
keep her place, while she remained standing in the
middle of the room, waiting to see if Mr. Bethune
would take any notice of her.  But his eyes were
turned away; and he was muttering to himself
almost inaudibly—they could only catch a word
here and there—Galashiels—Torwoodlee—Selkirk—Jedburgh—no
doubt he was going over in his
own mind those scenes of his youth.  Then Maisrie
said, very gently—

"Grandfather!"

He turned his eyes, and they rested on the
stranger for a second or so, with a curiously puzzled
expression.  She went forward to the bedside.

"I'm afraid you don't remember me," said she,
diffidently.  "It was at Henley we met——"

"I remember you very well, madam, very well
indeed," said he, receiving her with a sort of
old-fashioned and ceremonious politeness—as far as
the wasted frame and poor wandering wits would
allow.  "I am sorry—to have to welcome you—to
so poor a house—these are altered conditions
truly—"  He was still looking curiously at her.
"Yes, yes, I remember you well, madam—and—and
I will not fail to send you my monograph on
the—the Beatons of the Western Isles—I will
not fail to send it—but if ye will forgive me—my
memory is so treacherous—will you forgive me,
madam, if your name has escaped me for the
moment—"

"This is Lady Musselburgh, grandfather," Maisrie
interposed, quietly.

"Musselburgh—Musselburgh," he said; and
then he went on, amid the pauses of his laborious
breathing: "Ah, yes—your husband, madam, is
a fine young man—and a good Scot—audacious,
intrepid, and gallant—perhaps a little cynical in
public affairs—great measures want earnest
convictions—it may be that his lot has fallen in
over-pleasant places—and he has chosen the easier path.
Well, why not?—why not?  There are some whose
fate it is to—to fight a hard fight; while
others—others find nothing but smoothness and peace—let
them thank Heaven for it—and enjoy it.  I hope
he will hold on his way with a noble cheerfulness—despising
the envy of enemies—a noble cheerfulness—I
hope it may be his always—indeed, I know
none deserving of better fortune."

It was now abundantly clear to Lady Musselburgh
that he did not in any way associate her with the
arrangement that had been effected by George
Morris; and she was much relieved.

"I mustn't disturb you any longer," said she.
"Indeed, I only came along to see if I could be
of any assistance to Miss Bethune.  I hear she has
been doing far too much.  Now that is very unwise;
for when you are getting better, and need constant
care, then she will find herself quite worn out."

"Yes, yes, that is right," said he, "I wish ye
would persuade her—take her in hand—make her
look after herself—but she has a will of her own,
the creature—a slim bit of a lass, ye might
think—but it's the spirit that endures—shining
clear—clearer and clearer in dark times of trouble.  And
she—she has had her own troubles—and suffering—but
never a word of complaining—obedient—willing—ready
at all times and seasons—loyal—dutiful—and
brave.  What more could I say of her?—what
more?  Sometimes I have thought to myself—there
was the—the courage of a man in that slim bit
creature—and the gentleness of all womankind as
well—"

"Grandfather," said Maisrie, "you mustn't talk
any more now—you are keeping Lady Musselburgh
waiting."

"But, madam," he continued, not heeding the
girl at all, "you must remember her descent—she
comes of an inflexible race—she is of pure blood—it
is the thoroughbred that holds on till its heart
breaks in two.  How could she help being
proud-spirited, and silent in endurance, and brave?
Perhaps you may know that it was of one of her
ancestors—as he lay in his grave—that some one
said—'There lies one who never feared the face of
man,'—a noble inscription for a tombstone—'who
never feared the face of man'—"

Maisrie leant over and said to him, quite gently—

"Grandfather, you are forgetting; it was of
John Knox that was said."

He looked at her doubtfully; and then seemed
to be puzzling with his own memory.

"Perhaps—perhaps," he said; and then he
added, quite humbly, "I beg your pardon for
misleading you, madam—I did not intend it—but I
forget things—and Maisrie is generally right.
John Knox?—perhaps—perhaps—I thought it was
a Beaton or a Bethune—but I cannot remember
which of them—perhaps she is right—"

He closed his eyes, and turned away a little, as if
to debate this question with himself—or perhaps to
seek some rest: seeing which Lady Musselburgh
and Vincent quietly withdrew, and went downstairs.
"Poor old man!" said she, when they were in
the small parlour.  "There is a great change in
him, entirely apart from his illness.  Even in
manner he is not nearly so—so grandiose as he
used to be: sometimes he was quite humble.  And
as for her—my heart bleeds for her.  I will do
anything you like, Vin—if she will accept.  What
is more, I will confess to you now that, as far as she
is concerned, I am convinced I was quite wrong.
You were right: your eyes were wide open, after all.
How can one judge of any one by an afternoon and
an evening at Henley?  That was my only chance.
Then perhaps there was a little excuse for
prejudice—there was the association—.  But we'll say no
more about that.  I confess I was wrong; you were
right.  That girl is as true as steel.  If she gives
her husband half the devotion she bestows on that
old man, he'll do very well."  She looked at her
nephew.  Then she said suddenly: "Vin, you don't
say a word.  I believe you have never forgiven me
one bit!"

"Oh, yes, I have, aunt," he made answer, uneasily.
"But there are some things that need never have
happened."

She regarded him again.

"Vin, you are too unforgiving!  But can I not
make up?  See, now!  If Miss Bethune is left
alone—I should like to call her Maisrie, if she will
let me: indeed I should: but it is so difficult to get
any nearer her—she is all wrapped up in her anxiety
about her grandfather: well, if she is left alone, I
will take her with me.  I will take her to London.
She will stay with me; there will be a home for her
there, at any rate; and we may become better friends.
Oh, I know we shall; it is only that at present she
cares for nothing, and thinks of nothing, but her
duty towards her grandfather.  I intend to be very
kind to her—I intend to win her affection if I
can—"

"And I shall be very grateful to you, aunt," said
he.  "But it is hardly time yet to speak of such a
thing: Mr. Bethune has always had a wonderful
constitution."

"Did you notice how reticent the doctor was this
morning?" she asked,—and he did not answer.

But at least one thing that Lady Musselburgh
had observed and mentioned was true: much, if not
all, of the old grandiose manner had gone away from
George Bethune.  If on rare occasions some flash of
defiance flamed up—as if he were still face to face
with adversity and disappointment, and determined
not to abate one jot of his pride and independence—he
was ordinarily quite gentle and even humble,
especially towards Maisrie.  On this same evening
he said—

"Margaret" (as he sometimes called her now,
forgetting) "will ye read to me the XLVI. Psalm?"

She went and got the book and began—

   |  "God is our refuge and our strength,
   |    In straits a present aid;
   |  Therefore, although the earth remove,
   |    We will not be afraid:
   |  Though hills amidst the sea be cast;
   |    Though waters roaring make,
   |  And troubled be; yea, though the hills
   |    By swelling seas do shake.

   |  "A river is, whose streams do glad
   |    The city of our God;
   |  The holy place, wherein the Lord
   |    Most high hath his abode.
   |  God in the midst of her doth dwell;
   |    Nothing shall her remove:
   |  The Lord to her our helper will,
   |    And that right early, prove."
   |

But when she had got so far, he said—

"Margaret—I hope ye will not take it ill—if I
interrupt ye—it is no unkindness I mean, my lass—but,
ye see, ye've got the English speech, as is
natural—and I was trying to think how my father
used to read out the Psalm at family worship—and
ye've not got the Scotch way—nor the strong
emphasis—how could ye?—how could ye?  Ye'll
not take it ill," he went on, with the most piteous
concern visible in his face—"ye'll not think it's
any unkindness——"

"No, no, no, grandfather!" she said.  "Of course
not.  Shall I ask Mrs. MacGill to come up, to read
to you in the Scotch way?"

"No, no one but you, Maisrie—no one but
you—perhaps if you take the CXXVI. Psalm—'When
Sion's bondage God turned back, as men that
dreamed were we'—I mind, they used to sing that
to the tune of *Kilmarnock*—and the young women's
voices sounded beautiful.  But you're not vexed,
Maisrie!—for I did not mean any unkindness to ye,
my dear——"

"No, no, grandfather," she said; and she turned
to this other Psalm, and read it to him; and even
after that it was some time before she could assure
him that she had not been in the least hurt.

Two more of those long and anxious days went
by; the fever waxing and waning by turns; but all
the time the strength of that once powerful frame
was slowly ebbing away.  For one thing, his mind
was well content.  He had no more anxiety about
Maisrie; he appeared to regard her future as well
assured.  He lay quietly murmuring to himself;
and they could make out, from chance sentences
here and there, that he was going over his
boyhood's days again—bird's-nesting in the spring
woods, making swaying seats out of the shelving
branches of the beeches, guddling for trout in the
small hill burns.  An old refrain seemed to haunt
him—

   |  'Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,
   |    And O to be lying beyond thee:
   |  O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep,
   |    That's laid in the bed beyond thee.'

'*Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde*': that phrase also
returned again and again.  And then he would go
back to his school-days, and tell Maisrie about a
little patch of garden that had been given all to
himself; how he had watched the yellow spears of
the crocuses pierce the dry earth, and the green
buds begin to show on the currant-bushes; how he
had planted scarlet-runners, and stuck the wands
in, and trained the young shoots; how he had
waited for the big red globes of the peonies to
unroll; how he had white monkshood, and four
distinct colours of columbine.  Then his pets; his
diversions; his terrible adventures—half drowned
in a mill-dam—lost in a snowstorm on Laidlaw
moor—the horrors of a certain churchyard which
he had sometimes to pass, alone, on the dark
winter evenings.  Maisrie did not seek to interrupt
him.  There was no agitation in these wandering
reminiscences.  Nay, they seemed to soothe him;
and sometimes he sank into an altogether dozing
state.

"Vincent," said Lady Musselburgh, when these
two happened to find themselves together, in the
room below, "have you no authority over that girl?
She is killing herself!"

"It is no use remonstrating," said he.  "She
knows what the doctor has not dared to tell her.
She sees that her grandfather is so weak he may
slip away at any moment, without a word or a sign."

But on the evening of this second day, the old
man, with such remnant of his former resolution
and defiance as still clung to him, seemed to try to
shake off this fatal lethargy—if only to say
farewell.  And in this last hour or so of his life, the
spectacle that George Bethune presented was no
unworthy one.  Death, or the approach of death,
which ennobles even the poorest and the meanest,
was now dealing with this man; and all the husks
and histrionic integuments that had obscured or
hidden his true nature seemed to fall away from
him.  He stood out himself—no pressure of poverty
distorting his mind—no hopeless regrets embittering
his soul.  It was Scotland he thought of.  In
those last minutes and moments, the deepest passion
of his heart—an intense and proud love of his
native land—burned pure and strong and clear;
and if he showed any anxiety at all, it was merely
that Maisrie, who was a kind of stranger, should
form a liking for this country to which she, too, in
a measure, belonged—that she should see it under
advantageous conditions—that she should think of
all that had been said of those hills and vales, and
endow them with that added charm.

"But I do not fear," he said (his eyes, with some
brilliancy still left in them, fixed on her, his voice
low and panting).  "You have an inheritance,
Maisrie—it is in your blood—a sympathy—an
insight—Scotland claims you—as one of her own.
I knew that when—when—you used to play the
Scotch airs for me—the trembling string, that made
the soul tremble too—'The sun shines bright in
France'—'The Lowlands o' Holland, that twined
my love and me'—it was Scotch blood that made
them thrill.  Ye'll not be disappointed,
Margaret—ye'll understand—when ye get to Yarrow—and
Ettrick Water—and the murmur of the Tweed.  I
meant—to have taken ye myself—but it was not to
be—ye'll have younger and happier guidance—as is
but natural—I—I wish ye both well.  And—and I
would like ye—to go in the spring-time, Maisrie—and—and
if ye could find out William Motherwell's
grave—I have forgotten where it is—my memory is
not what it used to be—but if ye could find out
Motherwell's grave—ye might put a handful of
primroses on it—for the sake of—of *Jeanie
Morrison*."

He relapsed into silence; his breathing grew
more laboured—and also feebler; it was evident to
those standing by that the end was not far off now.
Maisrie sate holding his hand in hers; the fountain
of her tears all dried up; her tragic grief seemed
to have turned her to stone.  Even those spring
days of which he had spoken—when she would have
her young husband by her side—they would want
something.  Her grandfather had been kind to her;
and they had been through many years together.

He lay thus for nearly half-an-hour, the tide of
life slowly receding.  He made but one final effort
to speak—nay, for a second, it seemed as if he
would raise his head to give effect to his last proud
protestation.

"Maisrie—Maisrie—they never saw me cowed—never
once!  I met—ill fortune—or good—face to
face ... I held—by the watchword—of our
house—Stand—Fast—Craig-Royston! ..."

It was his last breath.  And so, with a lie on his
lips, but with none in his heart, old George Bethune
passed away: passed away from a world that had
perhaps understood him but none too well.

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