ENLIGHTENMENT.
Next morning he was up and out betimes--wandering through this town that
somehow seemed to be pervaded by Maisrie's presence, or, at least, by
recollections of her and associations with her. He had hardly left his
hotel when he heard a telegraph-boy whistling the air of 'Isabeau s'y
promene.' He went from one street to another, recognising this and that
public building: the polished marble pillars shining in the cold, clear
sunlight. Then he walked away up College Avenue, and entered Queen's
Park; and there, after some little delay, he obtained permission to
ascend to the top of the University tower. But in vain he sought along
the southern horizon for the cloud of soft white smoke of which Maisrie
had often spoken; the distant Niagara was frozen motionless and mute.
When he returned to the more frequented thoroughfares, the business-life
of the city was now in full flow; nevertheless he kept his eyes on the
alert; even amid this hurrying crowd, the figure of George Bethune would
not readily escape recognition. But, indeed, he was only seeking to pass
the time, for he thought he ought not to call on the banker before
mid-day.
Mr. Daniel Thompson he found to be a tall, spare man, of well over
sixty, with short white whiskers, a face otherwise clean shaven, and
eyes that were shrewd and observant, but far from unkindly. He listened
to the young man's tale with evident interest.
"And so you have come all the way across the Atlantic," said he, "to
look for my old friend George Bethune and little Maggie."
"Maggie," repeated Vincent, somewhat startled. "Maisrie, you mean."
"Maisrie!" the banker said, with a certain impatience. "Does he still
keep up that nonsense? The girl's name is Margaret; Margaret
Bethune--surely a good enough name for any Christian. But his head is
just full of old ballads and stuff of that kind; any fancy that strikes
him is just as real to him as fact; I dare say he could persuade himself
that he was intimately acquainted with Sir Patrick Spens and the Scots
lords who were drinking in Dunfermline town----"
"But in any case," Vincent protested (for how could he surrender the
name that was so deeply graven on his heart)? "Maisrie is only a form
of Margaret--as Marjorie is--a pet name--"
"Maisrie!" said the banker, contemptuously. "Who ever heard of any human
creature being called Maisrie--outside of poetry-books and old ballads?
I warned the little monkey, many and many a day ago, when I first got
her to write to me, that she must sign her own name, or she would see
what I would do to her. Well, how is the little Omahussy? What does
she look like now? A sly little wretch she used to be--making people
fond of her with her earnest eyes--"
"I don't think you quite understand," said Vincent, who resented this
familiar tone, though in truth it only meant an affectionate kindliness.
"Miss Bethune is no longer the little girl you seem to imagine; she is
quite a young lady now--and taller than most."
"The little Omahussy grown up to be a tall young lady?" said he, in a
pleased fashion. "Yes, yes, I suppose so. No doubt. And tall, you
say? Even when she was here last she was getting on; but the only
photograph I have of her was done long before that--when she was hardly
more than twelve; and then I'm an old bachelor, you see; I'm not
accustomed to watch children grow up; and somehow I remember her mostly
as when I first knew her--a shy young thing, and yet something of a
little woman in her ways. Grown up good-looking, too, I suppose?--both
her father and mother were handsome."
"If you saw her now," said Vincent, "I think you would say she was
beautiful; though it might not be her beauty that would take your
attention the most."
The elderly banker regarded this young man for a second or so--and with
a favouring glance: he was clearly well impressed.
"I hope you will not consider me intrusive or impertinent if I ask you a
question," said he. "I am an old friend of George Bethune's--perhaps
the oldest alive now; and besides that I have always regarded myself as
a sort of second father to the little Margaret--though their wandering
way of life has taken her out of my care. Now--don't answer unless you
like--tell me to mind my own business--but at the same time one would
almost infer, from your coming over here in search of them, that you
have some particular interest in the young lady----"
"It is the chief interest of my life," said Vincent, with simple
frankness. "And that is why I cannot rest until I find them."
"Well, now, one question more," the banker continued. "I don't wish to
pry into any young lady's secrets--but--but perhaps there may be some
understanding between her and you?"
"I hope so," said Vincent.
"And the young wretch never wrote me a line to tell me of it!" Mr.
Thompson exclaimed--but it was very obvious that this piece of news had
caused him no chagrin. "The little Omahussy grows up to be a fine and
tall young lady; chooses her sweetheart for herself; thinks of getting
married and all the rest of it; and not a word to me! Here is filial
gratitude for you! Why, does she forget what I have promised to do for
her? Not that I ever said so to her; you don't fill a school-girl's
head full of wedding fancies; but her grandfather knew; her grandfather
must have told her when this affair was settled between you and her----"
But here Vincent had to interpose and explain that nothing was settled;
that unhappily everything was unsettled; and further he went on to tell
of all that had happened preceding the disappearance of Maisrie and her
grandfather. For this man seemed of a kindly nature; he was an old
friend of those two; then Vincent had been very much alone of
late--there was no one in Omaha in whom he could confide. Mr. Thompson
listened with close attention; and at last he said--
"I can see that you have been placed in a very peculiar position; and
that you have stood the test well. The description of my old friend
Bethune that your father put before you could be made to look very
plausible; and I imagine that most young men would have been staggered
by it. I can fancy that a good many young men would have been apt to
say 'Like grandfather, like granddaughter'--and would have declined to
have anything more to do with either. And yet I understand that,
however doubtful or puzzled you may have been, at least you never had
any suspicion of Margaret?"
"Suspicion?" said Vincent. "Of the girl whom I hope to make my wife? I
need not answer the question."
Mr. Thompson give a bit of a laugh, in a quiet, triumphant manner.
"Evidently my little Omahussy had her eyes widely and wisely open when
she made her choice," said he, apparently to himself.
"And what can I do now?" Vincent went on, in a half-despairing way.
"You say you are certain they are not in Canada or they would have come
to see you. The Scotchmen in New York told me they were positive Mr.
Bethune was not there, or he would have shown up at the Burns
Anniversary. Well, where can I go now? I must find her--I cannot rest
until I have found her--to have everything explained--and--and to find
out her reason for going away----"
"I wonder," said Mr. Thompson, slowly, "what old George had in his head
this time? To him, as I say, fancies are just as real as facts, and I
cannot but imagine that this has been his doing. She would not ask him
to break up all his arrangements and ways of living for her sake; she
was too submissive and dependent on him for that; it is she who has
conformed to some sudden whim of his. You had no quarrel with him?"
"A quarrel? Nothing of the kind--not the shadow of a quarrel!" Vincent
exclaimed.
"Did you mention to him those reports about himself?" was the next
question.
"Well, yes, I did, in a casual sort of way," the young man answered
honestly. "But it was merely to account for any possible opposition on
the part of my father; and, in fact, I wanted Mr. Bethune to consent to
an immediate marriage between Maisrie and myself."
"And what did Margaret say to that?" Mr. Thompson proceeded to ask; he
was clearly trying to puzzle out for himself the mystery of this
situation.
"You mean the last time I saw her--the very last time?" the young man
answered him. "Well, she seemed greatly troubled: as I mentioned to
you, there was some wild talk about degradation--fancy degradation
having anything to do with Maisrie Bethune!--and she said it would be
better for us to separate; and she made me promise certain things. But
I wouldn't listen to her; I was going down to Mendover; I made sure
everything would come right as soon as I could get back. And then, when
I got back, they were gone--and not a trace of them left behind."
"Had old George got any news about the Balloray estates?" the banker
asked, with a quick look.
"Not that I know of," Vincent answered. "Besides, if there had been any
news of importance, it would have been in the papers; we should all have
seen it!"
"And you and Margaret parted on good terms?"
"Good terms?" said Vincent. "That is hardly the phrase. But beyond
what I told you, I cannot say more. There are some things that are for
myself alone."
"Quite right--quite right," said Mr. Thompson, hastily, "I quite
understand."
At this moment a card was brought in.
"Tell the gentleman I will see him directly," was the reply.
Vincent, of course, rose.
"I confess," said the banker, "that the whole affair perplexes me; and I
should like a little time to think it over. Have you any engagement for
this evening?"
"No," said Vincent; "I only arrived in Toronto last night: and I don't
suppose I know any one in the town."
"Come and dine with me at my club, then, this evening, will you? Just
our two selves: the ---- club, at seven. I want to talk to you about
this matter; for I have a particular interest, as you may suppose, in
the little Maggie; and I want to know what it all means. I should like
to learn something more about you, too, in view of certain
possibilities. And perhaps I can give you a few hints about my old
friend George, for you don't quite seem to understand, even with all the
chances you have had. Yes, I can see a little doubt in your mind at
times. You would rather shut your eyes--for Margaret's sake, no doubt;
but I want to show you that there isn't much of that needed, if you only
look the right way. However, more of that when we meet. At seven,
then. Sorry to seem so rude--but this is an appointment----"
That proved to be a memorable evening. To begin with small things:
Vincent, after his late solitary wanderings in unfamiliar conditions of
life, now and suddenly found himself at home. The quiet, old-fashioned
unobtrusive comfort of this club; the air of staid respectability; the
manner of the waiters; the very cooking, and the order in which the
wines were handed--all appeared to him to be so thoroughly English; and
the members, judging by little points here and there, seemed also to be
curiously English in their habits and ways. He had received a similar
impression on his first visit to Toronto; but on this occasion it was
more marked than ever; perhaps the good-humoured friendliness of this
Scotch banker had something to do with it, and their being able to talk
about people in whom they had a common concern. However, it was after
dinner, in a snug corner of the smoking-room, that Mr. Thompson
proceeded to talk of his old friend in a fashion that considerably
astonished the young man who was his guest.
"Yes," he continued, after he had examined and cross-examined Vincent
with regard to certain occurrences, "there is no doubt at all that
George Bethune is a rank old impostor; but the person on whom he has
mostly imposed, all his life through, has been--George Bethune. I
suppose, now, every one of us has in his nature a certain amount of
self-deception; it would be a pity if it weren't so. But here is this
man who has been gifted with a quite unlimited faculty of
self-deception; and with a splendid imagination, too--the imagination of
a poet, without a poet's responsibilities; so that he lives in a world
entirely of his own creation, and sees things just as he wants to see
them. As I say, he has the imagination of a poet, and the unworldliness
of a poet, without any one calling him to do anything to prove his
powers; he is too busy constructing his own fanciful universe for
himself; and all the common things of life--debts, bills, undertakings,
and so forth--they have no existence for him. Ah, well, well," Mr.
Thompson went on, as he lay back in his chair, and watched the blue
curls of smoke from his cigar, "I don't know whether to call it a pity
or not. Sometimes one is inclined to envy him his happy temperament. I
don't know any human creature who has a braver spirit, whose conscience
is clearer to himself, who can sleep with greater equanimity and
content. Why should he mind what circumstances are around him when in a
single second he can transport himself to the Dowie Dens o' Yarrow or be
off on a raid with Kinmont Willie? And there's nothing that he will not
seize if he has a mind to it--a sounding name, a tradition, a historical
incident--why, he laid hold of the Bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie, carried
them off bodily to Balloray, and I suppose wild horses wouldn't tear
from him the admission that Balloray never had anything to do with those
mill-dams or the story of the two sisters----"
"I know," said Vincent; "Maisrie told me about that."
"Maisrie!" said Mr. Thompson, with a return of his former impatience.
"That is another of his fantasticalities. I tell you her name is
Margaret----."
"But she has been Maisrie to me, and Maisrie she will be to me always,"
Vincent made answer stoutly--for surely he had some right to speak on
this matter too. "As I said this morning, it is only a pet name for
Margaret; and if she chooses to use it, to please her grandfather, or to
please herself even----"
"Stay a moment: I want to show you something."
The banker put his hand into his breast-pocket; and pulled out an
envelope.
"Not the photograph?" said Vincent, rather breathlessly.
Mr. Thompson smiled in his quiet, sagacious way.
"When I mentioned this portrait to you to-day," said he, "I saw
something in your eyes--though you were too modest to put your request
into words. Well, I have brought it; here it is; and if you'll look at
the foot you'll see that the little Omahussy signs herself, as she ought
to sign herself, 'Margaret Bethune.'"
And what a revelation was this, of what Maisrie had been in the years
before he had known her! The quaint, prim, small miss!--he could have
laughed, with a kind of delight: only that here were those calm, grave,
earnest eyes, that seemed to know him, that seemed to speak to him.
Full of wistfulness they were, and dreams: they said to him, 'I am
looking forward; I am waiting till I meet you--my friend; life has that
in store--for you and me.'
"I thought you would be interested," said Mr. Thompson, blandly. "And I
know you would like me to give you that photograph: perhaps you think
you have some right to it, having won the young lady herself----"
"Won her?" said Vincent, still contemplating this strange, quaint
portrait that seemed to speak to him somehow. "It hardly looks like
it."
"Well, I cannot give you the photograph," the elderly Scotchman
continued, in his friendly way, "but, if you like, I will have it
copied--perhaps even enlarged, if it will stand it--and I will send you
one----"
"Will you?" said Vincent, with a flash of gratitude in his eyes. "To me
it would be simply a priceless treasure."
"I just thought it would be," Mr. Thompson said, considerately. "I've
seen something of the ways of young people in my time. Yes; I'll send
you a copy or two as soon as I can get them done."
Vincent handed back the photograph--reluctantly, and keeping his eyes on
it until it had disappeared.
"I brought it out to show you she could sign her name properly when
under proper instruction," the banker continued. "And now to return to
her grandfather, who seems to have puzzled you a little, as well might
be the case. I can see how you have been trying to blind yourself to
certain things: no doubt you looked towards Margaret, and thought she
would make up for all. But I surmise you have been a little unjust to
my old friend; notwithstanding your association with him, you have not
quite understood him; and perhaps that is hardly to be wondered at. And
certainly you would never take him to be what I consider him to be--a
very great man who has been spoiled by a fatal inheritance. I do truly
and honestly believe there were the makings of a great man in George
Bethune--a man with his indomitable pluck and self-reliance, his
imagination, his restless energy, his splendid audacity and independence
of character. Even now I see something heroic in him: he seems to me a
man of heroic build--of heroic attitude towards the rest of the world:
people may say what they like about George Bethune; but I know him
better than most, and I wholly admire him and love him. If it hadn't
been for that miserable property! I suppose, now, a large estate may
turn out a fortunate or unfortunate legacy accordingly as you use it;
but if your legacy is only the knowledge that the estate ought to be
yours, and isn't, that is a fine set of circumstances! And I have
little doubt it was to forget that wretched lawsuit, to escape from a
ceaseless and useless disappointment, that he took refuge in a world of
imagination, and built up delusions round about him--just as other
people take refuge in gin or in opium. At all events, his spirit has
not been crushed. Did you ever hear him whine and complain?--I should
think not! He has kept a stout heart, has old George Bethune. Perhaps,
indeed, his pride has been excessive. Here am I, for example: I'm
getting well on in years, and I haven't a single near relative now
living; I've scraped together a few sixpences in my time; and nothing
would give me greater pleasure than if George Bethune were to come to me
and ask me to share my purse with him. And he knows it too. But would
he? Not a bit! Rather than come to me and get some useful sum, he
would go and get a few pounds out of some newspaper-office on account of
one of his frantic schemes to do something fine for poor old Scotland.
No," the banker proceeded, with rather an injured air, "I suppose I'm
not distinguished enough. Friend George has some very high and mighty
notions about the claims of long descent--and _noblesse oblige_--and all
that. It is a condescension on his part to accept help from any one;
and it is the privilege of those who have birth and lineage like himself
to be allowed to come to his aid. I'm only Thompson. If I were
descended from Richard Coeur de Lion I suppose it would be different.
Has he ever accepted any money from you?"
"Never," said Vincent--who was not going to recall a few restaurant
bills and cab fares.
"No," resumed the banker, "Your name is Harris. But when it comes to
Lord Musselburgh, that is quite different, that is all right. No doubt
Lord Musselburgh was quite proud to be allowed to subscribe--how much
was it?--towards a book that never came out."
"Oh, but I ought to explain that that money was paid back," said
Vincent, quickly.
"Paid back?" repeated the banker, staring. "That is a new feature,
indeed! The money paid back to Lord Musselburgh? How did that come
about? How did friend George yield to a weakness of that kind?"
"The fact is," said Vincent, blushing like a school-boy, "I paid it."
"Without letting the old gentleman know?"
"Yes."
"Then excuse my saying so," Mr. Thomson observed, "but you threw away
your money to very little purpose. If George Bethune is willing to take
a cheque from Lord Musselburgh--if he can do so without the slightest
loss of self-respect or dignity--why should not his lordship be allowed
to help a brother Scot? Why should you interfere?"
"It was for Maisrie's sake," said Vincent, looking down.
"Ah, yes, yes," the banker said, knitting his brows. "That is where the
trouble comes in. I shouldn't mind letting George Bethune go his own
way; he is all right; his self-sufficiency will carry him through
anything: but for a sensitive girl like that it must be terrible. I
wonder how much she suspects," he went on. "I wonder how much she sees.
Or if it is possible he has blinded her as well as himself to their
circumstances? For you must remember this--I am talking to you now, Mr.
Harris, as one who may have a closer relationship with these two--you
must remember this, that to himself George Bethune's conscience is as
clear as that of a one-year-old child. Do you think he sees anything
shady or unsatisfactory in these little transactions or forgetfulnesses
of his? He is careless of money because he despises it. If he had any,
and you wanted it, it would be yours."
"I know that," said Vincent, eagerly; and he told the story of their
meeting the poor woman in Hyde Park.
"Take that string of charges you spoke of," the banker resumed. "I have
not the least doubt that from the point of view of the people who
discovered those things their story was quite accurate. Except,
perhaps, about his calling himself Lord Bethune: I don't believe that,
and never heard of it; that was more likely a bit of toadyism on the
part of some bar-loungers. But, as I say, from a solicitor's point of
view, George Bethune would no doubt be regarded as a habitual impostor;
whereas to himself he is no impostor at all, but a perfectly honourable
person, whose every act can challenge the light of day. If there is any
wrong or injury in the relations between him and the world, be sure he
considers himself the wronged and injured one: though you must admit he
does not complain. The question is--does Margaret see? Or has he
brought her up in that world of imagination--careless of the real facts
of life--persuading yourself of anything you wish to believe--thinking
little of rent or butchers' bills so long as you can escape into the
merry green-wood and live with Burd Helens and May Colleans and the
like? You see, when I knew her she was little more than a child; it
would never occur to her to question the conduct of her grandfather; but
now you say she is a woman--she may have begun to look at things for
herself----"
Mr. Thompson paused, and eyed his companion curiously. For a strange
expression had come into Vincent's face.
"What then?" asked the banker.
"I am beginning to understand," the young man said, "and--and--perhaps
here is the reason of Maisrie's going away. Suppose she imagined that I
suspected her grandfather--suppose she thought I considered those
reports true: then she might take that as a personal insult; she might
be too proud to offer any defence; she would go to her grandfather and
say 'Grandfather, if this is what he and his friends think of us, it is
time we should take definite steps to end this companionship.' It has
been all my doing, then, since I was so blind?" Vincent continued,
evidently in deep distress. "I don't wonder that she was offended and
insulted--and--and she would be too proud to explain. I have all along
had a kind of notion that she had something to do, perhaps everything to
do, with their going away. And yet----"
He was silent. Mr. Thompson waited for a second or two, not wishing to
interrupt: then he said--
"Of course you know her better than I do; but that is not how I should
read the situation. It is far more probable that her own eyes have been
gradually opening--not to what her grandfather is, but to what he may
appear to be in the eyes of the world; and when she has come more and
more to perceive the little likelihood of his being considerately
judged, she may have determined that you should be set free from all
association with him and with her. I think that is far more likely, in
view of the things you have told me. And I can imagine her doing that.
A resolute young creature; ready to sacrifice herself; used to
wandering, too--her first solution of any difficulty would be to 'go
away.' A touch of pride, perhaps, as well. I dare say she has
discovered that if you look at George Bethune through blue spectacles,
his way of life must look rather questionable; but if you look at him
through pink spectacles, everything is pleasant, and fine, and even
grand. But would she ask anyone to put on a pair of pink spectacles?
No; for she has the stiff neck of the Bethunes. I imagine she can hold
her head as high as any one, now she is grown up. And of course she will
not ask for generous interpretation; she will rather 'go away.'"
Vincent was still silent; but at length he said--as if speaking to
himself--
"I wonder what Maisrie must have thought of me."
He had evidently been going over all that had happened in those bygone
days--by the light of this new knowledge.
"What do you mean?" the banker said.
"Why, if there were any generous interpretation needed or expected,
surely it should have come first of all from me. The outside world
might be excused for thinking this or that of Mr. Bethune; but I was
constantly with him; and then, look at the relations that existed
between Maisrie and myself. I thought I was doing enough in the way of
generosity when I tried to shut my eyes to certain things; whereas I
should have tried to see more clearly. I might have understood--if any
one. I remember now Maisrie's saying to me on one occasion--it was
about that book on the Scottish-American poets--she said quite
piteously: 'Don't you understand? Don't you understand that grandfather
can persuade himself of anything? If he has thought a thing over, he
considers it done, and is ready for something else.' And then there was
another time----"
"Come, come," said Mr. Thompson, good-naturedly, "I don't see you have
much to reproach yourself with. You must admit that that affair--if he
really did see the proof-sheets in New York--looked pretty bad. You say
yourself that Hugh Anstruther was staggered by it----"
"Yes, he was," said Vincent, "until I explained that the money had been
repaid to Lord Musselburgh, and also that I had no doubt Mr. Bethune
considered himself, from his knowledge of the subject, quite entitled to
publish a volume on the other side of the water. Mr. Ross's book was
published only on this side--at least, that is my impression."
"Did you tell Anstruther who repaid the money to Lord Musselburgh?" Mr.
Thompson asked, with a shrewd glance.
"No," answered Vincent, looking rather shame-faced.
"Ah, well," the banker said, "a freak of generosity is very pardonable
in a young man, especially where a young lady is concerned. And you had
the means besides. Your father is a rich man, isn't he?"
"Oh, yes, pretty well."
"And you--now forgive my curiosity--it only arises from my interest in
Margaret--I dare say you are allowed a sufficient income?"
"I have more money than I need," said Vincent, frankly, "but of course
that would not be the case if I married Maisrie Bethune, for then I
should have to depend on my own resources. I should have to earn my own
living."
"Oh, earn your own living? Well, that is very commendable, in any case.
And how do you propose to earn your own living?"
"By writing for the newspapers."
"Have you had any experience?" Maisrie's 'second father' continued.
"Yes, a little; and I have had fair encouragement. Besides, I know one
or two important people in the newspaper world."
"And what about your seat in Parliament?"
"That would not interfere: there are several journalists in the House."
The banker considered for a little while.
"Seems a little hazardous, doesn't it, to break away from a certainty of
income?" he asked, at length. "Are you quite convinced that if you
married Margaret your relatives would prove so implacable?"
"It isn't what they would do that is the question," Vincent responded,
with promptitude. "It is what I should be inclined to do. At present
they regard Maisrie as nothing more nor less than a common adventuress
and swindler--or rather an uncommon one--a remarkably clever one. Now
do you think I am going to take her by the hand, and lead her up to
them, and say, 'Dear Papa,' or 'Dear Aunt,' as the case may be, 'Here is
the adventuress and swindler whom I have married, but she is not going
to be wicked any more; she is going to reform; and I beg you to receive
her into the family, and forgive her all that she has been; and also I
hope that you will give me money to support her and myself.' You see,"
continued Vincent, "before I did that I think I would rather try to find
out how much a week I could make by writing leading-articles."
"Quite right--quite right," said Mr. Thompson, with a smile: for why
this disdain?--_he_ had not counselled the young man to debase himself
so.
"And then it isn't breaking away from any certainty of income," Vincent
proceeded, "but quite the reverse. The certainty is that as soon as I
announce my intention of marrying Miss Bethune, my father will suggest
that I should shift for myself. Very well. I'm not afraid. I can take
my chance, like another. They say that poverty is a good test of
affection: I am ready to face it, for one."
"Oh, as for that," the banker interposed, "I wish you to understand
this--that your bride won't come to you empty-handed. George Bethune
may hold aloof from me as long as he likes. If he thinks it is more
dignified for him to go cadging about with vague literary projects--all
for the honour and glory of Scotland, no doubt--instead of letting his
oldest friend share his purse with him, I have nothing to say. My
name's only Thompson; _noblesse oblige_ has nothing to do with me. But
when my little Margaret walks into church to meet the man of her choice,
it will be my business to see that she is suitably provided for. I do
not mean to boast, or make rash promises, or raise false expectations;
but when her husband brings her away it will be no pauper he is taking
home with him. And I want to add this, since we are talking in
confidence: I hope her husband will be none other than yourself. I like
you. I like the way you have spoken of both grandfather and
granddaughter; and I like your independence. By all means when you get
back to the old country: by all means carry out that project of yours of
earning an income for yourself. It can do you no harm, whatever
happens; it may be invaluable to you in certain circumstances. And in
the meantime, if I may still further advise, give up this search of
yours for the present. I dare say you are now convinced they are not on
this side the water; well, let that suffice for the time being. Here is
Parliament coming together; you have your position to make; and the
personal friend and protege of ---- should surely have a great chance in
public life. Of course, you will say it is easy to talk. But don't
misunderstand me. What can you do except attend to these immediate and
practical affairs? If George Bethune and Margaret have decided, for
reasons best known to themselves, to sever the association between you
and them, mere advertising won't bring them back. And searching the
streets of this or that town is a pretty hopeless business. No; if you
hear of them, it will not be in that way: it will be through some
communication with some common friend, and just as likely as not that
friend will be myself."
All this seemed very reasonable--and hopeless. Vincent rose.
"I must not keep you up too late," said he, in am absent sort of way.
"I suppose you are right--I may as well go away back to England at once.
But of course I will call to see you before I go--to-morrow if I may--to
thank you for all your kindness."
"Ah, but you must keep up your heart, you know," the banker said,
regarding the young man in a favouring way. "No despair. Why, I am
sure to hear from one or other of them; they cannot guess that you have
been here; even if they wish to keep their whereabouts concealed from
you they would have no such secret from me. And be sure I will send you
word the moment I hear anything. I presume the House of Commons will be
your simplest and surest address."
As he walked away home that night Vincent had many things to ponder
over; but the question of questions was as to whether Maisrie had
indignantly scorned him for his blindness in not perceiving more clearly
her grandfather's nature and circumstances, or for his supineness in
wavering, and half-admitting that these charges might bring disquiet.
For now the figure of old George Bethune seemed to stand out distinctly
enough: an amiable and innocent monomaniac; a romantic enthusiast; a
sublime egotist; a dreamer of dreams; a thaumaturgist surrounding
himself with delusions and not knowing them to be such. And if Daniel
Thompson's reading of the character of his old friend was accurate--if
George Bethune had merely in splendid excess that faculty of
self-deception which in lesser measure was common to all mortals--who
was going to cast the first stone?