CHAPTER VII.NEW WAYS OF LIFE.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 veryperemptory! 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 faciaswould 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 aboutClaire Fontaine.CHAPTER VIII.IN A NORTHERN VILLAGE.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 thedomus 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 thedomus exilis Plutoniahad 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."
CHAPTER VII.
NEW WAYS OF LIFE.
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 veryperemptory! 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 faciaswould 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 aboutClaire Fontaine.
CHAPTER VIII.
IN A NORTHERN VILLAGE.
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!"
He turned his face unto the wa',And death was with him dealing;"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a'—Be kind to Barbara Allen!"
He turned his face unto the wa',
And death was with him dealing;
And death was with him dealing;
"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a'—
Be kind to Barbara Allen!"
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 thedomus 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 thedomus exilis Plutoniahad 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."