A SPLIT AT LAST.
The renovation of Musselburgh House took more time than had been hoped;
bride and bridegroom remained abroad, basking in the sweet airs and
sunlight of the Mediterranean spring; and it was not until well on in
the month of May that they returned to London. Immediately after their
arrival Vincent called on them--one afternoon on his way down to St.
Stephen's. He stayed only a few minutes; and had little to say. But
the moment he had left Lady Musselburgh turned to her husband.
"Oh, Hubert, isn't it dreadful! Did you ever see such a change in any
human being? And no one to tell us of it--not even his own father--nor
a word from Louie Drexel, though she wrote often enough about him and
what he was doing in the House----"
"Yes, he does look ill," said Lord Musselburgh, with a seriousness not
usual with him. "Very ill, indeed. Yet he doesn't seem to know
it--declares there is nothing the matter with him--shows a little
impatience, even, when you begin to ask questions. I suppose he has been
working too hard; too eager and anxious all the way round; too
ambitious--not like most young men. He'd better give up that
newspaper-nonsense, for one thing."
"Oh, it isn't that, Hubert; it isn't that!" she exclaimed, in rather
piteous accents; and she walked away to the window (this was the very
room in which Vincent had first set eyes on Maisrie Bethune and her
grandfather).
She stood there, alone, for a time. Then her husband went and joined
her, and linked his arm within hers. She was crying a little.
"I did it for the best, Hubert," she sobbed.
"Did what for the best?"
"Getting that girl away. I never thought it would come to this."
"Now, now, Madge," said he, in a very affectionate fashion, "don't you
worry about nothing--or rather, it isn't nothing, for Vin does look
pretty seedy; but you mustn't assume that you are in any way
responsible. People don't die nowadays of separation and a broken
heart--not nowadays. He is fagged; he is not used to the late hours of
the House of Commons; then there's that newspaper work----"
"But his manner, Hubert, his manner!" she exclaimed. "He seemed as if
he no longer cared for anything in life; he hardly listened when I told
him where we had been; he appeared to be thinking of something quite
different--as if he were looking at ghosts."
"And perhaps he was looking at ghosts," said her husband. "For it was
by that table there he first saw those two people who have made all this
trouble. But why should you consider yourself responsible, Madge? It
wasn't your money that sent them out of the country. It wasn't you who
found out what they really were."
She passed her handkerchief across her eyes.
"I was quite sure," she went on--not heeding this consolation--"that as
soon as she was got away--as soon as he was removed from the fascination
of her actual presence--he would begin to see things in their true
light. And then, thrown into the society of a charming and clever girl
like Louie Drexel, I hoped everything for him. And is this all that has
come of it, that he looks as if he were at death's door? It isn't the
House of Commons, Hubert; and it isn't the newspaper-work: it is simply
that he still believes in that girl, and that he is eating his heart out
about her absence, and has no one to confide in. For that is the worst
of it all: it is all a sealed book now, as between him and us. He was
for leaving my house in Brighton--oh, the rage he was in with me about
her!--and it would have been for the last time too, I know; only that I
promised never again to mention the subject to him, and on that
condition we have got on fairly well since. But how am I to keep
silence any longer? I cannot see my boy like that. I must speak to him;
I must ask him if he is still so mad as to believe in the honesty of
those two people; and then, if I find that his infatuation still exists,
even after all this time, then I must simply tell him that they took
money to go away. How can he get over that? How can he get over that,
Hubert?"
In her despair, this was almost a challenge as well as an appeal. But
her husband was doubtful.
"When a man is in love with a woman," said he, "he can forgive a good
lot--confound it, he can forgive everything, or nearly everything, so
long as she can persuade him she loves him in return----"
"But not this, Hubert, not this!" the young wife exclaimed. "Even if he
could forgive her being a thief and the accomplice of an old charlatan
and swindler--and what an 'if!--imagine that of Vincent--of Vincent, who
is as proud as Lucifer--imagine that of him!--but even if he were
willing to forgive all that, how could he forgive her being bought over,
her taking money to remain away from him? No, no, Hubert: surely there
is a limit, even to a young man's folly!"
"Of course you know best," her husband said, in a dubious kind of way.
"I've seen some queer things in my time, with young men. And Vin is an
obstinate devil, and tenacious: he sticks to anything he takes up: look
at him and that wretched newspaper-work, for example. If he has
persuaded himself of the innocence and honour of this girl, it may be
hard to move him. And I remember there was something very winning and
attractive about her--something that bespoke favour----"
"That was what made her so useful to that old impostor!" Lady
Musselburgh said, vindictively.
"Of course," he admitted, "as you say, here is the undoubted fact of
their taking the money. If Vin is to be convinced at all, it is
possible that may convince him."
"Very well, then," said she, with decision, "he must and shall be
convinced; and that no further off than to-morrow morning. I'll tell
Harland I'm coming along to lunch; so that he may be in the house, to
give me any papers I may want. And surely, surely, when Vincent
perceives what these people are, and what an escape he has had, he will
cease to mope and fret: at his time of life there ought to be other
things to think of than a girl who has deceived him all the way through,
and ended by taking money to leave the country!"
But notwithstanding all this brave confidence, Lady Musselburgh felt
very nervous and anxious as she went down next morning to Grosvenor
Place. She was alone--her husband was coming along later, for lunch; and
she went on foot, to give her a little more time to arrange her plan of
procedure. For this was her last bolt, and she knew it. If his fatal
obstinacy withstood this final assault, then there was no hope for him,
or for her far-reaching schemes with regard to him.
She went into the drawing-room; and he came as soon as he was sent for.
These two were now alone.
"Do you know, Vin," she began at once, "Hubert and I have been much
concerned about you; for though you won't admit there is anything the
matter, the change in your appearance struck us yesterday the moment you
came in: indeed, it made me quite anxious; and after you were gone,
Hubert and I talked a little about you and your affairs--you may be sure
with only the one wish in our minds. Hubert thinks you are over-fagged;
that you are too close in your attendance at the House; and that you
should give up your newspaper-writing for a time. I wish it were no
more than that. But I suspect there is something else----"
"Aunt," said he, interrupting her--and yet with something of a tired
air, "do you think there is any use in talking, and inquiring, and
suggesting? What has happened, has happened. It is something you don't
understand; and something you couldn't put right--with all your good
wishes."
"Yes, yes," she said eagerly, for she was rejoiced to find that he took
her interference so amiably: "that is quite right; and mind you, I don't
forget the agreement we came to at Brighton, that a certain subject
should never be referred to by either of us. I quite remember that; and
you know I have never sought to return to it again in any way whatever.
But your looks yesterday, Vin, frightened me; and at this moment--why,
you are not like my dear boy at all. I wish in all seriousness you had
come over to Paris with us--you and Louie--and gone with us to the
Mediterranean; we should not have allowed you to fall into this
condition--"
"Oh, I'm well enough, aunt!" said he.
"You are not well!" she insisted. "And why? Because your mind is ill at
ease--"
"And very little comfort I have to hope for from you," said he,
remembering former conversations: but there was no bitterness in his
tone--only a sort of resigned hopelessness.
"Now, that is not fair, Vin!" she protested. "If I said things to you
you did not like, what motive had I but your happiness? And now at this
moment, if I re-open that subject, it is not the kind of comfort you
apparently hope for that I am prepared to bring you, but something quite
different. I should like to heal your mental ailment, once and for all,
by convincing you of the truth."
"Yes, I think we have heard something of that sort on previous
occasions," he said, rather scornfully. "The truth as it is in George
Morris! Well, I will tell you what would be more useful, more to the
point, and more becoming. Before saying anything further about that old
man and his granddaughter, I think you ought to go and seek them out,
and go down on your knees to them, and ask their pardon--"
"For what?"
"For what you have already said of them--and suspected."
"Really you try my patience too much!" she exclaimed, with some show of
temper. "What have I said or suspected of them that was not amply
justified by the account of them that your father offered to show you?
Of course you wouldn't look at it. Certainly not! Facts are
inconvenient things, most uncomfortable things, where one's
prepossessions are involved. But I had no objection to looking at it--"
"I suppose not!" said he.
"And my eyes were not blinded: I could accept evidence when it was put
before me."
"Evidence!" he repeated. "You forget that I have been across the
Atlantic since that precious document was compiled. I heard how that
evidence had been got: I could see how it could be perverted to suit the
malignant theories of a pack of detectives. And if I came back with any
settled conviction, it was that you and one or two others--myself, too,
in a way--could do no better than go and humble ourselves before that
old man and that girl, and beg for their forgiveness, and their
forgetfulness of the wrongs and insults we have put upon them."
"Oh, this is beyond anything!" she cried--rather losing command of
herself. "You drive me to speak plain. Everything your father and I
could think of was tried to cure you of this mad infatuation--the most
patient inquiry--expenditure of money--representations that would have
convinced any sane person. Nothing was of any use. What was to be done
next? Well, we could only buy up those honourable persons--who were not
adventurers in any kind of way--oh, certainly not!--but all the same
they were willing to be bought; and so, on payment of a substantial
consideration, they agreed to pack up their traps and be off. What do
you think of that? What do you say to that? Where was the old
gentleman's indomitable pride?--where was the girl's pretended affection
for you?--when they consented to take a good round sum of money and be
off? How can you explain that away?"
She regarded him with a certain defiance--for she was moved to anger by
his obduracy. But if she expected him to wince under this sudden stab
she was mistaken.
"How do I know that this is true?" he said, calmly.
"I am not in the habit of speaking untruths," she said, slightly drawing
herself up.
"Oh, of course not," he answered. "But all through this matter there
has been a good deal of twisting about and misrepresentation. I should
like to know from whom Mr. Bethune got this money--and in what form."
Well, she was prepared.
"I suppose you would be convinced," said she, "if I showed you the
receipt--a receipt for L5,000--which he signed and gave to George
Morris?"
"Where is that receipt?" he asked.
"In this house. I will go to your father, and get it. Shall I ask him
at the same time for those other documents which you would not read?
Perhaps all taken together they might enable you to realise the truth at
last."
"No, thank you," said he, coldly. "I know how those other documents
were procured. I shall be glad to see the receipt."
She hurried away, anxious to strike while the iron was hot, and certain
she had already made a profound impression. And so she had, in one way,
all unknowing. When she left the room, he remained standing, gazing
blankly at the sides of the books on the table: outwardly impassive, but
with his brain working rapidly enough. He made no manner of doubt that
she could produce this receipt. He took it for granted that George
Bethune had accepted the money. Of course, Maisrie had nothing to do
with it; her grandfather kept her in ignorance of his pecuniary affairs;
and it would be enough for him to say that she must go away with him
from England--she was obedient in all things. And no doubt the old man
had been cajoled and flattered into believing he was acting justly and
in the best interests of every one concerned; there could have been
little difficulty about that; he was quick to persuade himself of
anything that happened to fall in with the needs of the moment. All
this Vincent understood at once. But when he came to consider that it
was his own relatives who had brought upon him all the long torture and
suffering of these bygone months--and not only that: for what was he or
his hidden pain?--but also that they had once more driven forth those
two tired wanderers--the old man who had some wistful notion of ending
his days in his own country, the young girl whose maiden eyes had just
made confession of her love-secret--then his heart grew hot within him.
It was too cruel. When Lady Musselburgh returned with the receipt in
her hand, he took the paper, and merely glanced at it.
"And whose clever and original idea was this?" he demanded--with what
she took to be indifference.
"But Vincent--are you convinced at last!" she exclaimed. "Surely you
must see for yourself now. You will give up thinking of them--thinking
of that girl especially when you see what she is----"
"Whose idea was it to get them sent away?" he repeated.
"Well, it was my idea," she said; "but your father paid the money."
He was silent for a second or two, and then he said slowly----
"And you are my nearest relatives; and this is what you have done, not
to me only, but to one who is dearer to me than life. So be it. But
you cannot expect me to remain longer under this roof, or to sit down at
table, anywhere, with my cruellest enemies----"
She turned very pale.
"Vincent!" she exclaimed.
"It is a question of taking sides," he went on, with perfect composure;
"and I go over to the other side. They most need help: they are poor
and friendless. I hope the mischief you have done is not irreparable; I
cannot tell; but I dare say when you and I meet again time will have
shown."
She was thunderstruck and stupefied; she did not even seek to detain him
as he left the room. For there was a curious air of self-possession, of
resolution, about his manner: this was no pique of disappointed passion,
nor any freak of temper. And she could not but ask herself, in a
breathless sort of way, whether after all he might not be in the right
about those people; and, in that case, what was this that she had
brought about? She was frightened--too frightened to reason with
herself, perhaps: she only saw Vincent leaving his father's
roof--cutting himself off from his own family--and she had a dumb
consciousness that it was her work, through some fatal error of
judgment. And she seemed to know instinctively that this step that he
had taken was irrevocable--and that she was in some dim way responsible
for all that had occurred.
When Lord Musselburgh arrived, he and Harland Harris came upstairs
together; and almost directly afterwards luncheon was announced. As
they were about to go down to the dining-room the great
Communist-capitalist looked round with a little air of impatience and
said--
"But where is Vin?"
"He was here a short time ago," said Lady Musselburgh: she dared not say
more.
Mr. Harris, from below, sent a message to his son's room: the
answer--which Lady Musselburgh heard in silence--was that they were not
to wait luncheon for him.
"Too busy with his reply to the _Sentinel_," Musselburgh suggested.
"Sharp cuts and thrusts going. I wonder that celestial minds should
grow so acrid over such a subject as the nationalisation of tithe."
There was some scuffle on the stairs outside, to which nobody (except
Lady Musselburgh, whose ears were painfully on the alert) paid any
attention; but when a hansom was called up to the front door, Harland
Harris happened to look out.
"What, is he going off somewhere? I never knew any creature so careless
about his meals. I presume his indifference means a good digestion."
"Oh, Vin's digestion is all right," Lord Musselburgh said. "I hear he
dines every night at the House of Commons--and yet he is alive----"
"But there are his portmanteaus!" Mr. Harris exclaimed, and he even rose
and went to the window for a second. Well, he was just in time to see
Vincent step into the cab, and drive off; and therewith he returned to
his place at table, and proceeded, in his usual bland and somewhat
patronising manner, to tell Lord Musselburgh of certain experiments he
was having made in copper-lustre. He was not in the least concerned
about that departing cab; nor did he know that that was the last glimpse
of his son he was to have for many and many a day.
And meanwhile Lady Musselburgh sate there frightened, and guilty, and
silent. And that without reason; for what she had done she had done
with the full concurrence and approval of her brother-in-law and her
_fiance_ (as he then was). Yet somehow she seemed to feel herself
entirely answerable for all that had happened--for the failure of all
her schemes--for the catastrophe that had resulted. And the moment she
got outside her brother-in-law's house, she began and confessed the
whole truth to her husband.
"But why didn't you tell Harris?" said he, pausing as if even now he
would go back.
"Oh, I couldn't, Hubert; I daren't!" she said, evidently in great
distress. "I was so confident everything would come right--I advised
him--I persuaded him to pay the L5,000----"
"Oh, nonsense!" was the impatient reply. "A man doesn't hand over
L5,000 unless he is himself convinced that it is worth while. And he
got what he bargained for. Those people have gone away; they don't
interfere any more----"
"Ah, but that is not all," Lady Musselburgh put in, rather sadly. "I
made so sure that Vin would forget--that as soon as the hallucination
had worn off a little, he would see what those people really were, and
turn his eyes elsewhere: yet apparently he believes in their honesty
more firmly than ever--talks of my going and asking their pardon--and
the like; and now he has wholly broken away from us--declares he will
never be under the same roof with us, or sit down at the same table with
us. He has gone over to the other side, he says, because they are poor
and friendless. Poor and friendless!" she repeated, with a snap of
anger--"living on the fat of the land through their thieving! And
yet----"
And here again she paused, as if recalling something to herself: "Do you
know, Hubert, I was startled and frightened by Vin's manner to-day; for
I had suddenly to ask myself whether after all it was possible he might
be in the right, and we altogether wrong. In all other things he shows
himself so clear-headed and able and shrewd; and then he has seen the
world; you would not take him to be one who could be easily deceived.
Sometimes I hardly know what to think. But at all events, this is what
you must do now, Hubert: you must get hold of him, and persuade him to
go back home, before Harland knows anything of what had been intended.
He can invent some excuse about the portmanteaus. You can go down to
the House to-night, and see him there; and if you persuade him to return
to Grosvenor Place, that will be so much of the mischief set straight.
That is the first thing to be done; but afterwards----"
It was quite clear that she knew not what to think, for she went on
again, almost as if talking to herself--
"Of course, if the girl were a perfectly good and honest girl, and above
suspicion of every kind, Vin's constancy and devotion to her would be a
very fine and noble thing; and I for one should be proud of him for it.
But as things are, it is a monomania--nothing else than a monomania! He
must see that she is in league with that old man to get money on false
pretences."
"He sees nothing of the kind," said her husband bluntly. "She may or
she may not be; I know little or nothing about her; but if she is, Vin
doesn't see it: you may make up your mind about that."
"And yet he seems sharp-sighted in other things," said Lady Musselburgh
in a pensive sort of way; and then she added: "However, the first step
to be taken is to get him back to his own family; and none can do that
so well as you, Hubert; you are his old friend; and you stand between
us, as it were. And there's one thing about Vin: he can't disappear out
of the way; you can always get hold of him--at the House of Commons."
Lord Musselburgh had not been long married; he did as he was bid. And
very eagerly did Vincent welcome this ambassador, when he encountered
him in the Lobby.
"Come out on to the Terrace. I was just going to write to you: I want
you to do me the greatest service you can imagine!"
"Here I am, ready to do anybody any number of services," said Lord
Musselburgh, as they proceeded to stroll up and down this dark space,
with the wide river flowing silently by, and the innumerable small beads
of gold showing where London lay in the dusk. "Only too happy. And I
am in the best position for being mediator, for I have nothing to gain
from either side--except, of course that I should be extremely sorry to
see you quarrelling with your relations. This is always a mistake, Vin,
my boy: bad for you, bad for them. And I hope you will let me go back
with the important part of my commission done--that is to say, I was to
persuade you to return to Grosvenor Place, just as if nothing had
happened. My wife is awfully upset about it--thinks it is entirely
owing to her; whereas I don't see that it is at all. She has been
trying to do her best for everybody--for your father as well as for
yourself. And the notion that you should cut yourself off from your
family naturally seems very dreadful to her; and if I can take her the
assurance that you don't mean anything of the kind--very well!"
"Oh, but look here, Musselburgh," said Vincent, "you entirely mistake.
It was not about that I wished to see you: not at all: on that point it
is useless saying anything. You must assure Lady Musselburgh that this
is no piece of temper on my part--nothing to be smoothed over, and
hushed up. I have seen all along that it was inevitable. From the
moment that my aunt and my father took up that position against--against
Maisrie Bethune and her grandfather--I foresaw that sooner or later this
must come. I have tried to reason with them; I have assured them that
their suspicions and their definite charges were as cruel as they were
false; and all to no purpose. And this last thing: this bribing of an
old man, who can be too easily persuaded, to take his granddaughter away
with him and subject her to the homeless life she had led for so many
years--perhaps there are some other considerations I need not
mention--this is too much. But I knew that sooner or later a severance
would come between them and me; and I am not unprepared. You wondered at
my drudging away at that newspaper work, when my father was allowing me
a handsome income. Now do you see the use of it? I am independent. I
can do as I please. I can't make a fortune; but I can earn enough to
live--and something more. Let them go their way, as I go mine: it has
not been all my doing."
Lord Musselburgh was disconcerted; but he was a dutiful husband; he went
on to argue. He found he might as well attempt to argue with a
milestone. Nothing could shake this young man's determination.
"I told Lady Musselburgh I had gone over to the other side, this time
for good," said he. "We are in opposite camps now. We have been so all
along--but not openly. This piece of treachery has been too much for
me: we are better apart: I could not sit down at table with people who
had acted like that--whatever their motives were. But you, Musselburgh,
you were not concerned in that wretched piece of scheming; and as I tell
you, you can do me the greatest possible service. Will you do it? Or
will you rather cast in your lot with them?"
"Oh, well," said Musselburgh, rather disappointedly, "I don't see why I
should be compelled to take sides. I want to do my best for everybody
concerned. I've just come into the family, as you might say; and it
seems a pity there should be any quarrel or break up. I had a kind of
notion that we should all of us--but particularly my wife and myself and
you and--and--your wife--I thought our little party of four might have a
very pleasant time together, both at home and abroad. My wife and I
have often talked of it, and amused ourselves with sketching out plans.
Seems such a pity----"
"Yes," said Vincent, abruptly, "but there are other things in life
besides going to Monte Carlo and staking five-franc pieces."
"What is this that you want me to do?" his friend asked next--seeing
that those inducements did not avail.
"Well," said Vincent, "I suppose you know that Lady Musselburgh showed
me this morning the receipt Mr. Bethune gave George Morris for the
L5,000. It was a simple receipt: nothing more. But everybody knows
George Morris is not the man to part with money unconditionally; there
must have been arrangements and pledges; and I want to discover what Mr.
Bethune undertook to do, where he undertook to go. Morris won't tell
me, that is certain enough: but he would probably tell you."
Lord Musselburgh hesitated.
"Why," said he, "you know why that money was paid. It was paid for the
express purpose of getting them away--so that you should not know where
they are----"
"Precisely so," said Vincent. "And you would therefore be undoing a
part of the wrong that has been done them, by your wife and my father."
"Oh, I don't call it doing a wrong to a man to give him L5,000," said
Lord Musselburgh, with a touch of resentment. "He needn't have taken
the money unless he liked."
"Do you know what representations were made to him to induce him to take
it?" Vincent said.
"Well, I don't," was the reply. "They settled all that amongst
themselves; and I was merely made acquainted with the results. It would
hardly have been my place to interfere, you see; it was before my
marriage, remember; in any case, I don't know that I should have wanted
to have any say in the matter. However, the actual outcome we all of us
know; and you must confess, Vin, whatever persuasions were used, it
looks a rather shady transaction."
"Yes--on the part of those who induced him to accept the bribe!" Vincent
said, boldly.
"Oh, come, come," Lord Musselburgh interposed, rather testily, "don't be
so bigoted. It isn't only your considering that girl to be everything
that is fine and wonderful--I can understand that--the glamour of love
can do anything; but you go too far in professing the greatest
admiration and respect for this old man. Leave us some chance of
agreeing with you, of believing you sane. For you can't deny that he
took the money: there is the plain and simple fact staring you in the
face. More than that, his taking it was the justification of those who
offered it: it proved to them that he was not the kind of person with
whom you should be connected by marriage. I say nothing about the young
lady; I don't know her; perhaps her association all these years with
this old--well, I won't call him names--has not affected her in any way;
perhaps she believes in him as implicitly as you appear to do. But as
for him: well, take any unprejudiced outsider, like myself; what am I to
think when I find him accepting this money from strangers?"
"Yes," said Vincent, a little absently, "I suppose, to an outsider, that
would look bad. But it is because you don't know him, Musselburgh; or
the story of his life; or his circumstances. I confess that at one time
there were things that disquieted me; I rather shut my eyes to them; but
now that I understand what this man is, and what he has gone through,
and how he bears himself, it isn't only pity I feel for him, it is
respect, and more than respect. But it's a long story; and it would
have to be told to sympathetic ears; it would be little use telling it
to my father or to my aunt--they have the detectives' version before
them--they have the detectives' reading of the case."
"Well, tell me, at least," said his friend. "I want to get at the
truth. I have no prejudice or prepossession one way or the other. For
another thing, I like to hear the best of everybody--and to believe it,
if I can; it makes life pleasanter; and I can't forget, either, that it
was through me you got to know George Bethune."
It was a long story, as Vincent had said; and it was a difficult one to
set in order and in a proper light: but it was chiefly based on what had
been told him by the Toronto banker; and Mr. Thompson's generous
interpretation of it ran through it all. Lord Musselburgh listened with
the greatest interest and attention. What seemed mostly to strike him
was the banker's phrase--'Call George Bethune an impostor, if you like;
but the man he has imposed on, his whole life through, has been--George
Bethune.'
"Well, it's all very extraordinary," he said, when Vincent had finished.
"I wish I had taken the trouble to become a little better acquainted
with him; one is so apt to judge by the outside; I thought he was merely
a picturesque old fellow with a mad enthusiasm about Scotland. And yet
I don't know what to say even now. All that you have told me sounds
very plausible and possible--if you take that way of looking at it; and
the whole thing seems so pitiable, especially for the girl: he has his
delusions and self-confidence--she has only her loneliness. But at the
same time, Vin, you must admit that these little weaknesses of his might
easily be misconstrued----"
"Certainly," said Vincent, with promptitude. "It is just as Mr. Thompson
said: if you choose to look at George Bethune through blue spectacles,
his way of life must appear very doubtful: if you choose to look at him
through pink spectacles, there is something almost heroic about him.
And I think, Musselburgh, if you knew the lion-hearted old man a little
better, you wouldn't shrink from acknowledging that there was something
fine and even grand in his character. As for Maisrie--as for Miss
Bethune--she asks for no generous consideration, or forbearance, or
anything of the kind; she asks for no leniency of judgment, and needs
none; she is beyond and above all that. I know her--none better than I;
and she has only to remain what she is--'dass Gott sie erhalte, so
schoen und rein und hold'!"
There was a break in his voice as he spoke. Lord Musselburgh was silent
for a moment--he felt like an intruder upon something too sacred. And
yet he had his mission; so presently he forced himself to resume:
"Well, after all, Vin, I think you must grant that there is something to
be said for your relatives, even if they have been mistaken. They could
not know all that you know--all that you learned in Canada as well; they
could only judge from the outside; they could only believe what they
heard----"
"Why did they interfere at all?" Vincent demanded, in his turn. "Why
had they Mr. Bethune's steps dogged by detectives?"
"You should be the last to protest. It was entirely for your sake that
it was done."
"Yes," said Vincent, with a certain scorn. "It was for my sake they
were so ready to suspect--it was for my sake they were so eager to
regard everything from the attorney's point of view! They would not take
my word for anything; they would rather trust to their private enquiry
offices. I was supposed to be so easily blinded; the swindlers had such
a willing dupe; no reliance was to be placed but on the testimony of
spies. What childish rubbish! Why, I introduced my aunt to Mr. Bethune
and his granddaughter: she could not find a word to say against
them--but her suspicions remained all the same! And then apparently she
went and consulted with my father. It was so dreadful that I was being
cheated by those two dangerous characters! Couldn't the lawyers and
their private inquiry agents--couldn't they make out some story that
would appal me? Couldn't they make up some bogey--straw, and an old
coat--that would terrify me out of my wits? And then when I wasn't
appalled by their idle trash of stories--oh, for goodness sake, get
those desperate creatures smuggled away out of the country! No safety
unless they were hidden away somewhere! And then they went to the old
man; and I can imagine how they persuaded him. The greatest kindness to
every one concerned if only he would fall in with their views; he would
save his granddaughter from entering a family who had mistaken, but
undoubted, prejudices against her; and of course they couldn't allow him
to put himself so much about without endeavouring to pay part of the
cost. It was no solatium to the young lady--oh, no, certainly
not!--probably she was destined for much higher things; and it was no
gift to himself; it was merely that the relatives of that hot-headed
young man were desirous of pleasing themselves by showing how much they
appreciated his, Mr. Bethune's, generosity in making this little
sacrifice. Well, they succeeded: but they little knew--and they little
know--what they have done!"
Perhaps there was something in the proud and withal disdainful tones of
the young man's voice that was quite as convincing as his words; at all
events, his friend said--
"Well, I sympathise with you, Vin, I do really. But you see how I am
situated. I am an emissary--an intermediary--I want peace----"
"It is no use saying peace where there is no peace," Vincent broke in.
"Nor need there be war. Silence is best. Let what has been done go; it
cannot be undone now."
"Vincent--if you would only think how fond your aunt is of you--if you
would think of her distress----"
"It was she who ought to have considered first," was the rejoinder. "Do
you imagine I have suffered nothing, before I went to America, and then,
and since? But that is of little account. I could forgive whatever has
happened to myself. It is when I think of some one else--sent adrift
upon the world again--but it is better not to talk!"
"Well, yes," persisted Lord Musselburgh, who was in a sad quandary; for
the passionate indignation of this young man seemed so much stronger
than any persuasive argument that could be brought against it, "I can
perfectly understand how you may consider yourself wronged and injured;
and how much more you feel what you consider wrong and injury done to
others; but you ought to be a little generous, and take motives into
account. Supposing your father and your aunt were mistaken in acting as
they did, it was not through any selfishness on their part. It was for
your welfare, as they thought. Surely you must grant that to them."
"I will grant anything to them, in the way of justification," said
Vincent, "if they will only take the first step to make atonement for
the mischief they have wrought. And that they can do through you. They
can tell you on what conditions Mr. Bethune was persuaded to take the
money; so that I may go to him, and bring him back--and her."
"But probably they don't know where he is!" his friend exclaimed, in
perfect honesty. "My impression was that Mr. Bethune agreed to leave
this country for a certain time; but of course no one would think of
banishing him to any particular spot."
"And so they themselves don't know where Mr. Bethune has gone?" said
Vincent, slowly.
"I believe not. I am almost certain they don't. But I will make
inquiries, if you like. In the meantime," said Musselburgh, returning
to his original prayer, "do consider, Vin, and be reasonable, and go
back to your father's house to-night. Don't make a split in the family.
Give them credit for wishing you well. Let me take that message from
you to my wife--that you will go home to Grosvenor Place to-night."
"Oh, no," said Vincent, with an air of quiet resolve. "No, no. This is
no quarrel. This is no piece of temper. It is far more serious than
that; and, as I say, I have seen all along that it was inevitable.
After what I have told you, you must recognise for yourself what the
situation is. I have spoken to you very freely and frankly; because I
know you wish to be friendly; and because I think you want to see the
whole case clearly and honestly. But how could I talk to them, or try to
explain? Do you think I would insult Miss Bethune by offering them one
word of excuse, either on her behalf or on that of her grandfather? No,
and it would be no use besides. They are mad with prejudice. No doubt
they say I am mad with prepossession. Very well; let it stand so."
Lord Musselburgh at length perceived that his task was absolutely
futile. His only chance now was to bring Vincent into a more placable
disposition by getting him the information he sought; but he had not
much hope on that score; for people do not pay L5,000 and then at once
render up all the advantages they fancy they have purchased. So here
was a deadlock--he moodily said to himself, as he walked away home to
Piccadilly.
And as for Vincent? Well, as it chanced, on the next morning--it was a
Wednesday morning--when he went across from the Westminster Palace Hotel
to the House of Commons, and got his usual little bundle of letters, the
very first one that caught his eye bore the Toronto post-mark. How
anxiously he had looked for it from day to day--wondering why Mr.
Thompson had heard no news--and becoming more and more heart-sick and
hopeless as the weary time went by without a sign--and behold! here it
was at last.