WEST AND EAST.
When Vincent went along the next morning to the office of the _Western
Scotsman_, he was at once shown into the editorial room, and there he
found before him a short, thick-set man with a leonine profusion of
light chestnut hair thrown back from a lofty forehead, somewhat
irregular features, and clear blue eyes that had at present something of
a cold scrutiny in them. To any one else, the editor of the _Western
Scotsman_ might have appeared a somewhat commonplace-looking person; but
to Vincent he was far from commonplace. Here was one who had befriended
the two world-wanderers; who had known them in the bygone years; perhaps
Maisrie herself had sat, in this very room, patiently waiting, while the
two men talked. And yet when he asked for news of old George Bethune
and his granddaughter, Mr. Anstruther's manner was unaccountably
reserved.
"No," said he, "I know nothing of them, nothing whatever; but I can well
understand that George Bethune might be in New York, or might have
passed through New York, without calling on me."
"Why?" said Vincent in surprise.
"Oh, well," said the Editor, with some touch of asperity and even of
indignation, "I should like to believe the best of an old friend; and
certainly George Bethune always seemed to me a loyal Scot--proud of his
country--proud of the name he bears, as well he might; but when you find
him trying to filch the idea of a book--from a fellow-countryman,
too--and making use of the letter of introduction I gave him to Lord
Musselburgh to get money----"
"But that can all be explained," said Vincent, eagerly--and he even
forgot his immediate disappointment in his desire to clear away those
imputations from Maisrie's grandfather. "The money was repaid to Lord
Musselburgh as soon as it was found that the American book was coming
out; I know it was--I am certain of it; and when the volume did come
out, no one was so anxious to welcome it, and give it a helping hand, as
Mr. Bethune himself. He wrote the review in the _Edinburgh
Chronicle_----"
"Oh, did he?" said the Editor, with some slight alteration in his tone.
"I am glad of that. I could see it was written by some one with ample
knowledge: in fact, I quoted the article in the _Scotsman_, it seemed to
me so well done. Yes, I am glad of that," Mr. Anstruther repeated.
"And then," continued Vincent, "the old man may easily have persuaded
himself that, being familiar with the subject, he was entitled to
publish a volume on the other side of the water. But I know this, that
what he desired above all was that honour should be done to those
Scotchmen who had written about their affection for their native country
while living in other lands, and that the people at home should know
those widely-scattered poets; and when he found that this work had
already been undertaken, and was actually coming out, there was no
jealousy in his mind--not the slightest--he was only anxious that the
book should be known everywhere, but especially in Scotland."
"I can assure you I am very glad to hear it," said Mr. Anstruther, who
was clearly much mollified by this vague but earnest vindication. "And
I may say that when some one came here making inquiries about George
Bethune, I did not put matters in their worst light----"
"Oh, some one has been here making inquiries?" said Vincent, quickly.
"About a month ago, or more."
"Who was it?"
"I forget the name," the Editor replied. "In fact, I was rather vexed
at the time about my friend Ross's book--and Mr. Bethune getting money
from Lord Musselburgh; and I did not say very much. I am glad there is
some explanation; one likes to think the best of a brother Scot. But
you--you are not a Scot?" he demanded with a swift glance of inquiry.
"No, I am not," said Vincent, "but I am very much interested in Mr.
Bethune and his granddaughter; and as they quite suddenly disappeared
from London, I thought it very likely they had returned to the United
States; and also, if they had come to New York, I imagined you would be
sure to know."
"One thing is pretty certain," said Mr. Anstruther. "If George Bethune
is in this city, he will be heard of to-morrow evening."
"To-morrow evening?" Vincent repeated, vaguely.
"The twenty-fifth!" exclaimed the Editor, with an astonished stare.
And yet the young man seemed none the wiser.
"It is evident you are no Scotchman," Mr. Anstruther said at length, and
with good humour. "You don't remember that 'a blast o' Janwar win' blew
hansel in on Robin'? The twenty-fifth of January--the birthday of
Robert Burns!"
"Oh, yes--oh, certainly," said Vincent, with guilty haste.
"There will be a rare gathering of the clans to-morrow night," the
Editor continued; "and if George Bethune is on this side the water,
he'll either show up himself or somebody will have heard of him."
"I think he must be over here," Vincent said. "At first I imagined he
might have gone to Scotland: he was thinking of a topographical and
antiquarian book on the various places mentioned in the Scotch
songs--and he had often spoken of making a pilgrimage through the
country for that purpose. So I went down to Scotland for a few days,
but I could hear nothing of him."
"What do you say--that you have been quite recently in Scotland?" Mr.
Anstruther said, with a sudden accession of interest.
"About three weeks ago," was the answer.
"Well, well, well!" the Editor exclaimed, and he regarded the young man
with quite a kindly curiosity. "Do ye tell me that! In Scotland--not
more than three weeks since! And whereabouts--whereabouts?"
"I was in Edinburgh most of the time," Vincent said.
"In Edinburgh?--did ye see the Corstorphine Hills?" was the next eager
question; and the man's eyes were no longer coldly scrutinising, but
full of a lively interest and friendliness. "Ay, the Corstorphine
Hills: ye would see them if ye went up to the top of Nelson's Monument,
and looked away across the town--away along Princes Street--that
wonderful view!--wonderful!--when I think of it, I seem to see it all a
silver-white--and Scott's Monument towering high in the middle, like
some splendid fountain turned to stone. Ay, ay, and ye were walking
along Princes Street not more than three weeks ago; and I suppose ye
were thinking of old Christopher, and the Ettrick Shepherd, and Sir
Walter, and Jeffrey, and the rest of them? Dear me, it's a kind of
strange thing! Did ye go out to Holyrood? Did ye climb up Arthur's
Seat? Did ye see Portobello, and Inch Keith, and the Berwick Law----"
"'The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,'" Vincent quoted, with a smile.
The other's eyes flashed recognition; and he laughed aloud.
"Ay, ay, that was a great favourite with the old man. Many's the time
he has announced himself coming up these very stairs with that."
"Did Maisrie ever come with him?" Vincent asked--with his heart going a
bit quicker.
"His granddaughter? Oh, yes, to be sure--sometimes. He was fond of
coming down the night before we went to press, and looking over the
columns of Scotch news, and having a chat. You see we have to boil down
the smaller Scotch papers for local news--news that the bigger papers
don't touch; and very often you notice a name that is familiar to you,
or something of that kind. Well, now, I wish the old man was here this
very minute! I do indeed--most heartily. We'd let bygones be
bygones--no doubt I was mistaken--I'll back George Bethune for a true
and loyal Scot. Ah say, man," continued Mr. Anstruther, pulling out his
big silver watch--and now all his assumption of the reserved American
manner was gone, and he was talking with enthusiastic emphasis--"There's
a countryman of mine--a most worthy fellow--close by here, who would be
glad to see any friend of old George Bethune's. It's just about his
lunch time; and he'll no grudge ye a farl of oatcake and a bit of Dunlop
cheese; in fact nothing pleases him better than keeping open house for
his cronies. A man of sterling worth; and a man of substance, too:
sooner or later, I expect, he'll be going away back to the old country
and buying a bit place for himself in his native county of Aberdeen.
Well, well," said the Editor, as he locked his desk, and put on his hat,
and opened the door for his visitor, "and to think it was but the other
day ye were walking along Princes Street in Edinburgh! Did ye go out at
night, when the old town was lit up?--a grand sight, wasn't it--nothing
like it in the world! Ye must tell honest John--John MacVittie, that
is--that ye've just come straight from the 'land of brown heath and
shaggy wood,' and ye'll no want for a welcome!"
And indeed it was a very frank and friendly welcome he received when
they at length reached Mr. MacVittie's place of business, and were shown
into the merchant's private room. Here they found himself and his two
partners (all Scotchmen) about to sit down at table; and places were
immediately prepared for the new-comers. The meal was a much more
varied affair than the Editor had foreshadowed: its remarkable feature
being, as Vincent was informed, that nearly everything placed on the
board had been sent over from Scotland. Mr. MacVittie made a little
apology.
"It's a kind of hobby of mine," said he; "and even with perishable
things it's not so difficult nowadays, the ice-houses of the big
steamers being so convenient. What would you like to drink, sir? I can
give ye a choice of Talisker, Glenlivet, Long John, and Lagavulin; but
perhaps ye would prefer something lighter in the middle of the day. I
hope you don't object to the smell of the peats; we Scotch folk are
rather fond of it; I think our good friend here, Anstruther, would
rather have a sniff of the peat than the smell of the best canvas-back
duck that was ever carried through a kitchen. I get those peats sent
over from Islay: you see, I try to have Scotland--or some fragments of
it--brought to me, since I cannot go to it."
"But why don't you go to Scotland, sir?" said Vincent--knowing he was
speaking to a man of wealth.
"At my time of life," Mr. MacVittie answered, "one falls into certain
ways and grooves, and it's an ill job getting out of them. No, I do not
think I shall ever be in Scotland again, until I'm taken there--in a
box. I shall have to be like the lady in 'The Gay Goss-hawk'--
'An asking, an asking, my father dear,
An asking grant ye me!
That if I die in merry England,
In Scotland you'll bury me.'"
"Oh, nonsense, John!" one of his partners cried. "Nonsense, man! We'll
have you building a castle up somewhere about Kincardine O'Neil; and
every autumn we'll go over and shoot your grouse and kill your salmon
for you. That's liker it!"
Now here were three sharp and shrewd business men met together in the
very heart of one of the great commercial cities of the world; and the
fourth was a purveyor of news (Vincent did not count: he was so
wonderstruck at meeting people who had known George Bethune and Maisrie
in former days, and so astonished and fascinated by any chance reference
to them that he did not care to propound any opinions of his own: he was
well content to listen) and it might naturally have been supposed that
their talk would have been of the public topics of the hour--politics
home and foreign, the fluctuations of trade, dealings with that
portentous surplus that is always getting in the way, and so forth. But
it was nothing of the kind. It was all about the dinner of the Burns'
Society of New York, to be given at Sutherland's in Liberty-street the
following evening, in celebration of the birthday of the Scotch poet;
and Tom MacVittie--a huge man with a reddish-brown beard and a bald
head--in the enthusiasm of the moment was declaring that again and
again, on coming across a song, by some one of the minor Scotch poets,
that was particularly fine, he wished he had the power to steal it and
hand it over to the Ayrshire bard--no doubt on the principle that,
'whosoever hath, to him shall be given.' Then there was a comparison of
this gem and that; favourites were mentioned and extolled; the air was
thick with Willie Laidlaw, Allan Cunningham, Nicol, Hogg, Motherwell,
Tannahill, and the rest; while the big Tom MacVittie, returning to his
original thesis, maintained that it would be only fair punishment if
John Mayne were mulcted of his 'Logan Braes,' because of his cruel
maltreatment of 'Helen of Kirkconnell.'
"Yes, I will say," he continued--and his fist was ready to come down on
the table if needs were. "Robbie himself might well be proud of 'Logan
Braes;' and John Mayne deserves to have something done to him for trying
to spoil so fine a thing as 'Helen of Kirkconnell.' I cannot forgive
that. I cannot forgive that at all. No excuse. Do ye think the man
that wrote the 'Siller Gun' did not know he was making the fine old
ballad into a fashionable rigmarole? Confound him, I would take 'Logan
Braes' from him in a minute, if I could, and hand it over to Robbie----"
"Did you ever notice," interposed the editor of the Scotch paper, "the
clever little trick of repetition in the middle of every alternate
verse----
'By Logan's streams that rin so deep,
Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep;
Herded sheep, or gathered slaes,
Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes.
But wae's my heart, thae days are gane,
And I wi' grief may herd alane;
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.'
I do not remember Burns using that device, though it was familiar in
Scotch song--you recollect 'Annie Laurie'---'her waist ye weel might
span.' And Landor used it in 'Rose Aylmer'--
'Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes--'"
"I would like now," continued Tom MacVittie, with a certain impatience
over the introduction of a glaiket Englisher, "to hand over to Robbie
'There's nae luck about the house.' The authorship is disputed anyhow;
though I tell you that if William Julius Mickle ever wrote those verses
I'll just eat my hat--and coat, too! It was Jean Adams wrote that song;
I say it was none other than Jean Adams. Mickle--and his Portuguese
stuff----"
"God bless me, Tom, do you forget 'Cumnor Hall'?" his brother exclaimed.
"'Cumnor Hall?' I do not forget 'Cumnor Hall?'" Tom MacVittie rejoined,
with a certain disdain. "'Cumnor Hall!'--a wretched piece of fustian,
that no one would have thought of twice, only that Walter Scott's ear
was taken with the first verse. Proud minions--simple nymphs--Philomel
on yonder thorn: do ye mean that a man who wrote stuff like that could
write like this--
'Rise up and mak' a clean fireside,
Put on the mickle pot;
Gie little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his Sunday's coat;
And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,
Their stockins' white as snaw;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman--
He likes to see them braw.'
That's human nature, man; there you've the good-wife, and the goodman,
and the bairns; none o' your Philomels, and nymphs, and swains! That
bletherin' idiot, Dr. Beattie, wrote additional verses--well, he might
almost be forgiven for the last couplet,
'The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.'----"
"That was a favourite quotation of old George Bethune's," said the elder
MacVittie, with a smile, to Vincent.
The young man was startled out of a reverie. It was so strange for him
to sit and hear conversation like this, and to imagine that George
Bethune had joined in it, and no doubt led it, in former days, and that
perhaps Maisrie had been permitted to listen.
"Yes," he made answer, modestly; "and no man ever carried the spirit of
it more completely into his daily life."
"What makes ye think he is in New York, or in the United States, at
least?" was the next question.
"I can hardly say," said Vincent, "except that I knew he had many
friends here."
"If George Bethune is in New York," Tom MacVittie interposed, in his
decisive way, "I'll wager he'll show up at Sutherland's to-morrow
night--I'll wager my coat and hat!"
And then the Editor put in a word.
"If I thought that," said he, "I would go along to the Secretary, and
see if I could have a ticket reserved for him. I'm going to ask Mr.
Harris here to be my guest; for if he isn't a Scotchman, at least he has
been in Scotland since any of us were there."
"And I hope you don't need to be a Scotchman in order to have an
admiration for Robert Burns," said Vincent; and with that appropriate
remark the symposium broke up; for if MacVittie, MacVittie, and Hogg
chose to enliven their brief mid-day meal with reminiscences of their
native land and her poets, they were not in the habit of wasting much
time or neglecting their business.
A good part of the next day Vincent spent in the society of Hugh
Anstruther; for in the stir and ferment then prevailing among the Scotch
circles in New York, it was possible that George Bethune might be heard
of at any moment; and, indeed, they paid one or two visits to
Nassau-street, to ask of the Secretary of the Burns Society whether Mr.
Bethune had not turned up in the company of some friend applying for an
additional ticket. And in the meantime Vincent had frankly confessed to
this new acquaintance what had brought him over to the United States.
"Man, do ye think I could not guess that!" Hugh Anstruther exclaimed: he
was having luncheon with Vincent at the latter's hotel. "Here are you,
a fresh-elected member of Parliament--and I dare say as proud as Punch
in consequence; and within a measurable distance of your taking your
place in the House, you leave England, and come away over to America to
hunt up an old man and a young girl. Do I wonder?--I do not wonder. A
bonnier lassie, a gentler creature, does not step the ground anywhere;
ay, and of good birth and blood, too; though there may be something in
that to account for George Bethune's disappearance. A proud old deevil,
ye see; and wilful; and always with those wild dreams of his of getting
a great property----"
"Well, but is there the slightest possibility of their ever getting that
property?" Vincent interposed.
"There is a possibility of my becoming the President of the United
States of America," was the rather contemptuous (and in point of fact,
inaccurate) answer. "The courts have decided: you can't go and disturb
people who have been in possession for generations--at least, I should
think not! As for the chapter of accidents: no doubt the estates might
come to them for want of a more direct heir; such things certainly do
happen; but how often? However, the old man is opinionated."
"Not as much as he was," Vincent said. "Not on that point, at least.
He does not talk as much about it as he used--so Maisrie says."
"Oh, Maisrie? I was not sure. A pretty name. Well, I congratulate you;
and when, in the ordinary course of things, it falls upon you to provide
her with a home, I hope she will lead a more settled, a happier life,
than I fancy she could have led in that wandering way."
Vincent was silent. There were certain things about which he could not
talk to this new acquaintance, even though he now seemed so well
disposed towards old George Bethune and that solitary girl. There were
matters about which he had given up questioning himself: mysteries that
appeared incapable of explanation. In the meantime his hopes and
speculations were narrowed down to this one point: would Maisrie's
grandfather--from whichsoever part of the world he might hail--suddenly
make his appearance at this celebration to-night? For in that case she
herself could not be far off.
And wildly enthusiastic this gathering proved to be, even from the
outset. Telegrams were flying this way and that (for in the old country
the ceremonies had begun some hours previously); there was no
distinction between members and friends; and as Scot encountered Scot,
each vied with the other in recalling the phrases and intonation of
their younger years. In the midst of this turmoil of arrival and joyous
greeting, Vincent's gaze was fixed on the door; at any moment there
might appear there a proud-featured old man, white-haired, keen-eyed, of
distinguished bearing--a striking figure--and not more picturesque than
welcome! For would not Maisrie, later on in the evening, be still
waiting up for him? And if, at the end of the proceedings, one were to
walk home with the old man, and have a chance of saying five words to
Maisrie herself, by way of good-night? No, he would not reproach her!
He would only take her hand, and say, 'To-morrow--to-morrow, Maisrie, I
am coming to scold you!'
Thin Scot, burly Scot, red-headed Scot, black-a-vised Scot, Lowlander
and Highlander--all came trooping in, eager, talkative, delighted to
meet friends and acquaintances; but there was no George Bethune. And
when they had settled down in their places, and when dinner had begun,
Hugh Anstruther, who was 'Croupier' on this occasion, turned to his
guest and said:--
"You must not be disappointed. I hardly expected him; I could not hear
of any one who had invited him. But it is quite likely he may turn up
latter on--very likely, indeed, if he is anywhere within travelling
distance of New York. George Bethune is not the one to forget the
twenty-fifth of January; and of course he must know that many of his
friends are assembled here."
Then presently the Croupier turned to his guest and said in an
undertone--
"There's a toast that's not down in the list; and I'm going to ask ye to
drink it; we'll drink it between ourselves. Fill your glass, man--bless
me, what's the use of water!--see, here's some hock--Sutherland's famous
for his hock--and now this is the toast. 'Here's to Scotch lassies,
wherever they may be!'"
"Yes--'wherever they may be,'" Vincent repeated, absently.
"Oh, don't be downhearted!" his lion-maned friend said, with cheerful
good humour. "If that self-willed old deevil has taken away the lassie,
thinking to make some grand heiress of her, he'll find it's easier to
talk about royal blood than to keep a comfortable house over her head;
and some day he may be glad enough to bring her back and see her safely
provided with a husband well-to-do and able to take care of her. Royal
blood?--I'm not sure that I haven't heard him maintain that the Bethunes
were a more ancient race than the Stewarts. I shouldn't wonder if he
claimed to be descended from Macbeth, King of Scotland. Oh, he holds
his head high, the old scoundrel that has 'stole bonny Glenlyon away.'
But you'll be even with him yet; you'll be even with him yet. Why, if
he comes in to-night, and finds ye sitting here, he'll be as astonished
as Maclean of Duart was at Inverary, when he looked up from the banquet
and saw his wife at the door."
So Vincent had perforce to wait in vague expectancy; but nevertheless
the proceedings of the evening interested him not a little, and all the
more that he happened to know two of the principal speakers. For to Mr.
Tom MacVittie was entrusted the toast of the evening--"The Immortal
Memory of Robert Burns"--and very eloquently indeed did the big merchant
deal with that well-worn theme. What the subject lacked in novelty was
amply made up by the splendid enthusiasm of his audience: the most
familiar quotations--rolled out with MacVittie's breadth of accent and
strong north-country burr--were welcome as the songs of Zion sung in a
strange land; this was the magic speech that could stir their hearts,
and raise visions of their far-off and beloved native home. Nor were
they at all _laudatores temporis acti_--these perfervid and kindly
Scots. When the Croupier rose to propose the toast that had been
allotted to him--"The Living Bards of Scotland"--cheer after cheer
greeted names of which Vincent, in his southern ignorance, had never
even heard. Indeed, to this stranger, it seemed as if the Scotland of
our own day must be simply alive with poets; and not of the kind that
proclaimed at Paisley "They sterve us while we're leevin, and raise
moniments to us when we're deed;" but of a quiet and modest character,
their subjects chiefly domestic, occasionally humorous, more frequently
exhibiting a sincere and effective pathos. For, of course, the Croupier
justified himself with numerous excerpts; and there was no stint to the
applause of this warm-blooded audience; insomuch that Vincent's idle
fancies went wandering away to those (to him) little known minstrels in
the old land, with a kind of wish that they could be made aware how they
were regarded by their countrymen across the sea. Nay, when the
Croupier concluded his speech, "coupling with this toast" a whole string
of names, the young man, carried away by the prevailing ardour, said--
"Mr. Anstruther, surely nothing will do justice to this toast but a drop
of whiskey!"
--and the Croupier, passing him the decanter, said in reply----
"Surely--surely--on an evening like this; and yet I'm bound to say that
if it had not been for the whiskey, my list of living Scotch poets would
have been longer."
The evening passed; and Vincent's hopes, that had been too lightly and
easily raised, were slowly dwindling. Had George Bethune been in New
York, or within any reasonable distance of it, he would almost certainly
have come to this celebration, at which several of his old friends were
assembled. As Vincent walked home that night to his hotel, the world
seemed dark and wide; and he felt strangely alone. He knew not which
way to turn now. For one thing, he was not at all convinced, as Hugh
Anstruther appeared to be, that it was Mr. Bethune who had taken his
granddaughter away, and that, sooner or later, he would turn up at one
or other of those trans-Atlantic gatherings of his Scotch friends.
Vincent could not forget Maisrie's last farewell; and if this separation
were of her planning and executing, then there was far less chance of
his encountering them in any such haphazard fashion. 'It is good-bye
for ever between you and me,' she had written. And of what avail now
were her wild words, 'Vincent, I love you!--I love you!--you are my
dearest in all the world! You will remember, always and always, whenever
you think of me, that that is so: you will not forget: remember that I
love you always, and am thinking of you!' Idle phrases, that the winds
had blown away! Of what use were they now? Nay, why should he believe
them, any more than the pretty professions that Mrs. de Lara had made on
board the steamer? Were they not both women, those two? And then he
drew back with scorn of himself; and rebuked the lying Satan that seemed
to walk by his side. Solitariness--wounded
pride--disappointment--almost despair--might drive him to say or imagine
mad things at the moment; but never--never once--in his heart of hearts
had he really doubted Maisrie's faith and honour. All other things
might be; not that.
He resolved to leave New York and go out west; it was just possible that
Maisrie had taken some fancy for revisiting the place of her birth; he
guessed they might have certain friends there also. Hugh Anstruther came
to the railway station to see him off.
"Yes," he said, "you may hear something about them in Omaha; but it is
hardly probable; for those western cities grow at a prodigious pace, and
the traces of people who leave them get very soon obliterated. Besides,
the population is more or less shifting; there are ups and downs; and
you must remember it is a considerable time since Mr. Bethune and his
granddaughter left Omaha. However, in case you don't learn anything of
them there, I have brought you a letter of introduction to Daniel
Thompson of Toronto--the well-known banker--you may have heard of
him--and he is as likely as any one to know anything that can be known
of George Bethune. They are old friends."
Vincent was very grateful.
"And I suppose," he said, as he was getting his smaller belongings into
the car, "I shan't hear anything further of that fellow de Lara?"
"Not a bit--not a bit!" the good-natured Scotch Editor made answer.
"You took the right way with him at the beginning. He'll probably call
you a scoundrel and a blackguard in one or two obscure papers; but that
won't break bones."
"I have a stout oak cudgel that can, though," said Vincent, "if there
should be need."
It was a long and a lonely journey; Vincent was in no mood for making
acquaintances; and doubtless his fellow-passengers considered him an
excellent specimen of the proud and taciturn travelling Englishman. But
at last he came in sight of the wide valley of the Missouri, with its
long mud-banks and yellow water-channels; and beyond that again the flat
plain of the city, dominated by the twin-spired High School perched on a
distant height. And he could see how Omaha had grown even within the
short time that had elapsed since his last visit; where he could
remember one-storeyed tenements stuck at haphazard amongst trees and
waste bits of green there were now streets with tram-cars and important
public buildings; the city had extended in every direction; it was a
vast wilderness of houses that he beheld beyond the wide river. Perhaps
Maisrie had been surprised too--on coming back to her old home? Alas!
it seemed so big a place in which to search for any one; and he knew of
no kindly Scotch Editor who might help.
And very soon he got to recognise that Hugh Anstruther's warnings had
been well founded. Omaha seemed to have no past, nor any remembrance of
bygone things; the city was too busy pushing ahead to think of those who
had gone under, or left. It is true that at the offices of the Union
Pacific Railway, he managed to get some scant information about the
young engineer with whom fortune had dealt so hardly; but these were not
personal reminiscences; there were new men everywhere, and Maisrie's
father had not been known to any of them. As for the child-orphan and
the old man who had come to adopt her, who was likely to remember them?
They were not important enough; Omaha had its 'manifest destiny' to
think of; besides, they were now gone some years--and some years in a
western city is a century.
This was not a wholesome life that Vincent was leading--so quite alone
was he--and anxious--and despairing. He could not sleep very well. At
intervals during the night he would start up, making sure that he heard
the sound of a violin; and sometimes the distant and almost inaudible
notes seemed to have a suggestion of Maisrie's voice in them--'_I daurna
tryst wi' you, Willie ... I daurna tryst ye here ... But we'll hold our
tryst in heaven, Willie ... In the spring-time o' the year_'--and then
he would listen more and more intently, and convince himself it was only
the moaning of the wind down the empty street. He neglected his meals.
When he took up a newspaper, the printed words conveyed no meaning to
him. And then he would go away out wandering again, through those
thoroughfares that had hardly any interest for him now; while he was
becoming more and more hopeless as the long hours went by, and feeling
himself baffled at every point.
But before turning his face eastward again, he had written to Mr. Daniel
Thompson of Toronto, mentioning that he had a letter of introduction
from Hugh Anstruther, and stating what had brought him out here to the
west. Then he went on:
"Mr. Bethune was never very communicative about money-matters--at least,
to me; indeed, he seemed to consider such things too trivial for talking
about. At the same time I understood from him that when his son, Miss
Bethune's father, died, there was either some remnant of his shattered
fortunes--or perhaps it was some fund subscribed by sympathising
friends--I never could make out which, and was not curious enough to
inquire--that produced a certain small annual income. Now I thought
that if I could discover the trustees who paid over this income, they
would certainly know where Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter were now
living; or, on the other hand, supposing the fund was derived from some
investment, if I could find out the bank which held the securities, they
also might be able to tell me. But all my inquiries have been in vain.
I am a stranger; people don't want to be bothered; sometimes I can see
they are suspicious. However, it has occurred to me that you, as an old
friend of Mr. Bethune, might chance to know who they are who have this
fund in trust; and if you could tell me, you would put me under a
life-long debt of gratitude. If you were aware of all the
circumstances, you would be convinced that no ill-use is likely to be
made of the information. When I first became acquainted with Mr. Bethune
and his granddaughter, they seemed to me to be living a very happy and
simple and contented life in London; and I am afraid I am in some
measure responsible for their having suddenly resolved to leave these
quiet circumstances, and take to that wandering life of which Miss
Bethune seemed so sadly tired. If I can get no news of them here, I
propose returning home by Toronto and Montreal, and I shall then give
myself the pleasure of calling upon you, when I may be able to assure
you that, if you should hear anything of Mr. Bethune and Miss Bethune,
you would be doing no injury to them, or to any one, in letting me
know."
Then came the answer--from a cautious Scot.
"Dear Sir,--As you rightly observe, my old friend George Bethune was
never very communicative about money matters; and perhaps he was even
less so with me than with others--fearing that any such disclosures
might be misconstrued into an appeal for help. I was vaguely aware,
like yourself, that he had some small annual income--for the maintenance
of his granddaughter, as I understood; but from whence it was derived I
had, and have, no knowledge whatever; so that I regret I cannot give you
the information you seek. I shall be pleased to see you on your way
through Toronto; and still further pleased to give you any assistance
that may lie in my power."
There was not much encouragement in this letter; but after these weary
and lonely days in this hopeless city, he was glad to welcome any
friendly hand held out to him. And he grew to think that he would be
more likely to hear of Maisrie in Toronto or Montreal than in this big
town on the banks of the Missouri. Canada had been far longer her home.
She used to talk of Toronto or Montreal--more rarely of Quebec--as if
she were familiar with every feature of them; whereas she hardly ever
mentioned Omaha. He remembered her telling him how she used to climb up
to the top of the tower of Toronto College, to look away across the wide
landscape to the lofty column of soft white smoke that rose from Niagara
Falls into the blue of the summer sky. He recalled her description of
the small verandahed villa in which they lived, out amongst the sandy
roads and trees and gardens of the suburbs. Why, it was the _Toronto
Globe_ or the _Toronto Mail_ that old George Bethune was reading, when
first he had dared to address them in Hyde Park. Then Montreal: he
recollected so well her talking of the Grey Nunnery, of Notre Dame, of
Bonsecours Market, of the ice palaces, and toboggan slides, and similar
amusements of the hard northern winter. But a trivial little incident
that befell him on his arrival in Toronto persuaded him, more than any
of these reminiscences, that in coming to Canada he was getting nearer
to Maisrie--that at any moment he might be within immediate touch of
her.
It was rather late in the evening when he reached his hotel; he was
tired; and he thought he would go soon to bed. His room looked out into
a side street that was pretty sure to be deserted at this hour; so that,
just as he was turning off the light, he was a trifle surprised to hear
a slight and distant sound as of singing; and from idle curiosity he
went to the window. There was a full moon; the opposite pavement and
the fronts of the houses were white in the cold and clear radiance;
silence reigned save for this chance sound he had heard. At the same
moment he descried the source of it. There were two young girls coming
along the pavement opposite--hurrying home, apparently,
arm-in-arm--while they amused themselves by singing a little in an
underhand way, one of them even attempting a second from time to time.
And how could he mistake the air?--it was the _Claire Fontaine_! The
girls were singing in no sad fashion; but idly and carelessly to amuse
themselves on their homeward way; and indeed so quietly that even in
this prevailing silence he could only guess at the words--
J'ai perdu ma maitresse
Sans l'avoir merite,
Pour un bouquet de roses
Que je lui refusai.
* * * * *
Je voudrais que la rose
Fut encore au rosier,
Et moi et ma maitresse
Dans les mems amities.
And then the two slight, dark figures went by in the white moonlight;
and eventually the sound ceased in the distance. But he had been
greatly cheered and comforted. This was a friendly and familiar air.
He had reached Maisrie's home at last; _la Claire Fontaine_ proclaimed
it. And if, when he neared the realms of sleep, his heart was full of
the old refrain--
Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,
Jamais je ne t'oublierai,
there was something of hopefulness there as well: he had left the
despair of Omaha behind him.