Produced by Al Haines.
STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON!
A Novel
BY
WILLIAM BLACK,
AUTHOR OF
"A DAUGHTER OF HETH," "MACLEOD OF DARE," ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOL. II.
LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON, LIMITED
St. Dunstan's House
FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1891.
[_All rights reserved._]
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
CHAPTER
I. Doubts and Dreams
II. By Northern Seas
III. "Holy Palmer's Kiss"
IV. Interposition
V. The Gnawing Fox
VI. Put to the Proof
VII. Renewing is of Love
VIII. On the Brink
IX. "And hast thou played me this!"
STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON!
CHAPTER I.
DOUBTS AND DREAMS.
And at first Vincent was for rebelliously thrusting aside and ignoring
this information that had reached him so unexpectedly. Was he, on the
strength of a statement forwarded by an unknown correspondent in New
York, to suspect--nay, to condemn unheard--this proud and solitary old
man with whom he had all this while been on terms of such close and
friendly intimacy? Had he not had ample opportunities of judging
whether George Bethune was the sort of person likely to have done this
thing that was now charged against him? He went over these past weeks
and months. Was it any wonder that the old man's indomitable courage,
his passionate love of his native land, and the constant and assiduous
care and affection he bestowed on his granddaughter, should have aroused
alike the younger man's admiration and his gratitude? What if he talked
with too lofty an air of birth and lineage, or allowed his enthusiasm
about Scotland and Scottish song to lead him into the realms of
rodomontade: may not an old man have his harmless foibles? Any one who
had witnessed Maisrie's devotion to her grandfather, her gentle
forbearance and consideration, her skilful humouring of him, and her
never-failing faith in him, must have got to know what kind of man was
old George Bethune.
And yet, when Vincent turned to the letter, it seemed terribly simple,
and straightforward, and sincere. There was no vindictiveness in it at
all; rather there was a pained surprise on the part of the writer that a
loyal Scot--one, too, who had been admitted into that fraternity of
song-writing exiles over the water--should have been guilty of such a
flagrant breach of trust. Then Lord Musselburgh's patronage, as the
young man knew very well, had taken the form of a cheque; so that the
charge brought by the writer of this letter practically was that George
Bethune had obtained, and might even now be obtaining, money by fraud
and false pretences. It was a bewildering thing--an impossible
thing--to think of. And now, as he strove to construct all sorts of
explanatory hypotheses, there seemed to stand in the background the
visionary form of Mrs. Ellison; and her eyes were cold and inquiring.
How had she come to suspect? It was not likely that she could be
familiar with the Scotch-American newspaper offices of the United
States.
No, he could make nothing of it; his perplexity only increased. All
kinds of doubts, surmises, possible excuses went chasing each other
through his brain. Perhaps it was only literary vanity that had
prompted the old man to steal this project when it was placed before
him? Or perhaps he thought he had a better right to it, from his wide
knowledge of the subject? Vincent knew little of the laws and bye-laws
of the literary world; perhaps this was but a bit of rivalry carried too
far; and in any case, supposing the old man had erred in his eagerness
to claim this topic as his own, surely that did not prove him to be a
charlatan all the way through, still less a professional impostor? But
then his making use of this scheme to obtain money--and that not only
from Lord Musselburgh? Oh, well (the young man tried to convince
himself) there might not be so much harm in that. No doubt he looked
forward to issuing the volume, and giving his patrons value in return.
Old George Bethune, as he knew, was quite careless about pecuniary
matters: for example, if the bill for those little dinners at the
various restaurants was paid by some one, that was enough; the old
gentleman made no further inquiries. He was content to let his young
friend settle these trivial details; and Master Vin was willing enough.
In fact, the latter had devised a system by which the awkwardness of
calling for the bill in Maisrie's presence was avoided; this system
worked admirably; and Mr. Bethune asked no questions. Doubtless, if he
had remembered, or taken the trouble, he would have paid his shot like
anyone else.
But amid all these conflicting speculations, there was one point on
which the mind of this young man remained clear and unswerving; and that
was that whatever might be the character or career of old George
Bethune, his principles or his practice, Maisrie was as far apart and
dissociated from them as if worlds intervened. If there had been any
malfeasance in this matter, she, at least, was no sharer in it. And the
more he pondered, the more anxious he became to know whether Maisrie had
any idea of the position in which her grandfather was placed. How much
would he be entitled to tell her, supposing she was in ignorance? And
when could he hope for an opportunity? And then again, failing an
opportunity, how was he to go and spend the evening with those two
friends of his, pretending to be entirely engrossed by their little
amusements and occupations outdoors and in, while all the time there was
lying in his pocket this letter, unanswered and perhaps unanswerable?
Fortune favoured him. Towards evening, a little before six o'clock, he
heard a door shut on the other side of the street; and, lifting his
head, he perceived that it was Mr. Bethune who had just come out of the
house, alone. Here was a chance not to be missed. Waiting for a couple
of minutes, to make sure that the coast was clear, he passed downstairs,
crossed the little thoroughfare, and knocked. The landlady told him
that Miss Bethune was upstairs, and upstairs he went. The next moment a
voice that he knew well invited him to enter, and therewithal the two
young people found themselves face to face.
"You are early," she said, with a little smile of welcome, as she
stopped in her sewing.
"Yes," said he, and he added quite frankly, "I saw your father go out,
and I wished to speak with you alone. The fact is, Maisrie," he
continued, taking a chair opposite her, "I have heard from America
to-day about that proposal I made--to get some one to collect materials
for your grandfather's book; and the answer is rather a strange one--I
don't quite understand--perhaps you can tell me something about it." He
hesitated, and then went on: "Maisrie, I suppose it never occurred to
you that--that some one else in America might be proposing to bring out
a similar book?"
She looked up quickly, and with a certain apprehension in her eyes.
"Oh, yes, I knew. My grandfather told me there had been talk of such a
thing. What have you heard?"
He stared at her.
"You knew?" said he. "Then surely you might have told me!"
There was something in his tone--some touch of reproach--that brought
the blood to her face; and yet she answered calmly and without
resentment----
"Did I not tell you?--nor my grandfather? But perhaps neither of us
thought it of much importance. It was only some vague talk, as I
understood; for everyone must have known that no one was so familiar
with the subject as my grandfather, and that it would be foolish to try
to interfere with him. At the same time I have always been anxious that
he should get on with the book, for various reasons; and if you have
heard anything that will induce him to begin at once, so much the
better."
It was clear that she was wholly in ignorance of the true state of the
case.
"No," said he, watching her the while. "What I have heard will not have
that effect, but rather the reverse. To tell you the plain truth, the
American or Scotch-American writer has finished his book, and it will be
out almost directly."
She sprang to her feet with an involuntary gesture, and stood still for
a moment, her lips grown suddenly pale, and her eyes bewildered: and
then she turned away from him to hide her emotion, and walked to the
window. Instantly he followed her.
"Maisrie, what is the matter!" he exclaimed in astonishment, for he
found that tears had sprung to her eyes.
"Oh, it is a shame--it is a shame," she said, in broken accents, and her
hands were clenched, "to steal an old man's good name from him, and that
for so small a thing! What harm had he ever done them? The book was
such a small thing--they might have left it to him--what can they gain
from it----"
"But Maisrie----!"
"Oh, you don't understand, Vincent, you don't understand at all," she
said, in a despairing sort of way, "how my grandfather will be
compromised! He undertook to bring out the book; he got friends to help
him with money; and now--now--what will they think?--what can I say to
them?--what can I do? I--I must go to them--but--but what can I say?"
Her tears were running afresh now; and at sight of them the young man
threw to the winds all his doubts and conjectures concerning George
Bethune's honesty. That was not the question now.
"No, you shall not go to them!" said he, with indignant eyes.
"You?--you go to any one--in that way? No, you shall not. I will go.
It is a question of money: I will pay them their money back. Tell me
who they are, and the amounts; and they shall have every farthing of
their money back, and at once: what can they ask for more?"
For a second she regarded him with a swift glance of more than
gratitude; but it was only to shake her head.
"No, how could I allow you to do that? What explanation could you make?
There must be some other way--often I have wished that ray grandfather
would let me try to earn something--I am willing enough--and I am never
sure of my grandfather, because he can believe things so easily." She
had grown calmer now; and over her face there had come the curious look
of resignation that he had noticed when first he saw her, and that
seemed so strange in a young girl. "I might have expected this," she
went on, absently and sadly. "My grandfather can persuade himself of
anything: if he thinks a thing is done, that is enough. I am sure I
have urged him to get on with this book--not that I thought anybody
could be so mean and cruel as to step in and forestall him--but that he
might get free from those obligations; but I suppose when he had once
arranged all the materials in his own mind he felt that the rest was
easy enough and that there was no hurry. He takes things so
lightly--and now--the humiliation--well, I shall have to bear that----"
"I say you shall not," he said, hotly. "I claim the privilege of a
friend, and you cannot refuse. Who are the people to whom your
grandfather is indebted over this volume?" he demanded.
"For one, there is Lord Musselburgh," she said, but indifferently, as if
no hope lay that way. "And there is Mr. Carmichael, who owns an
Edinburgh paper--the _Chronicle_."
"Very well," said he, promptly. "What is to hinder my explaining to
them that circumstances have occurred to prevent Mr. Bethune bringing
out the volume he had projected; and that he begs to return them the
money they had been good enough to advance?"
She shook her head again and sighed.
"No. It is very kind of you: You are always kind. But I could not
accept it. I must try some way myself--though I am rather helpless: it
is so difficult to get my grandfather to see things. I told you before:
he lives in a world of imagination, and he can persuade himself that
everything is well, no matter how we are situated. But it was shameful
of them," she said, with her indignation returning, and her lips
becoming at once proud and tremulous, "to cheat an old man out of so
poor and small a thing! Why, they all knew he was going to write this
book--all the writers themselves--they were known to himself
personally--and glad enough they were to send him their verses. Well,
perhaps they are not to blame. Perhaps they may have been told that he
had given up the idea--that is quite likely. At all events, I don't
envy the miserable creature who has gone and taken advantage of my
grandfather's absence--"
She could say no more just then, for there was a sound below of the door
being opened and shut; and the next minute they could hear old George
Bethune coming with his active step up the flight of stairs, while he
sang aloud, in fine bravura fashion, "'Tis the march--'tis the
march--'tis the march of the Cameron men!"
The little dinner in the restaurant that evening was altogether unlike
those that had preceded it. The simple and innocent gaiety--the sense of
snugness and good-comradeship--appeared to have fled, leaving behind it
a certain awkwardness and restraint. Vincent was entirely perplexed.
The story he had heard from America was in no way to be reconciled with
Maisrie's interpretation of her grandfather's position; but it was
possible that the old man had concealed from her certain material facts;
or perhaps had been able to blind himself to them. But what troubled
the young man most of all was to notice that the old look of pensive
resignation had returned to Maisrie's face. For a time a brighter life
had shone there; the natural animation and colour of youth had appeared
in her cheeks; and her eyes had laughter in them, and smiles, and
kindness and gratitude; but all that had gone now--quite suddenly, as it
seemed--and there had come back that strange sadness, that look of
unresisting and hopeless acquiescence. Alone of the little party of
three George Bethune retained his usual equanimity; nay, on this
particular evening he appeared to be in especial high spirits; and in
his careless and garrulous good-humour he took little heed of the
silence and constraint of the two younger folk. They made all the
better audience; and he could enforce and adorn his main argument with
all the illustrations he could muster; he was allowed to have everything
his own way.
And perhaps Vincent, thinking of Maisrie, and her tears, and the
hopelessness and solitariness of her position, may have been inclined to
resent what he could not but regard as a callous and culpable
indifference. At all events, he took the first opportunity that
presented itself of saying--
"I hope I am not the bearer of ill-news, Mr. Bethune; but I have just
heard from New York that someone over there has taken up your subject,
and that a volume on the Scotch poets in America is just about ready,
and will be published immediately."
Maisrie glanced timidly at her grandfather; but there was nothing to
fear on his account; he was not one to quail.
"Oh, indeed, indeed," said he, with a lofty magnanimity. "Well, I hope
it will be properly and satisfactorily done: I hope it will be done in a
way worthy of the subject. Maisrie, pass the French mustard, if you
please. A grand subject: for surely these natural and simple
expressions of the human heart are as deeply interesting as the more
finished, the more literary, productions of the professional poet. A
single verse, rough and rugged as you like--and the living man stands
revealed. Ay, ay, so the book is coming out. Well, I hope the public
will be lenient; I hope the public will understand that these men are
not professional poets, who have studied and written in leisure all
their lives; it is but a homely lilt they offer; but it is genuine; it
is from the heart--and it speaks to the heart----"
"But, grandfather," said Maisrie, "you were to have written the book!"
"What matters it who compiles the pages?--that is nothing at all; that
is in a measure mechanical. I am only anxious that it should be well
done, with tact, and discretion, and modesty," he continued--and with
such obvious sincerity that Vincent was more than ever perplexed. "For
the sake of old Scotland I would willingly give my help for nothing--a
little guidance here and there--a few biographical facts--even an
amended line. But after all the men must speak for themselves; and well
they will speak, if the public will but remember that these verses have
for the most part been thought of during the busy rush of a commercial
life, and written down in a chance evening hour. It will be a message
across the sea, to show that Scotland's sons have not forgotten her.
MacGregor Crerar--Donald Ramsay--Hugh Ainslie--Evan MacColl--Andrew
Wanless--I wonder if they have got Wanless's address to the robin that
was sent to him from Scotland--you remember, Maisrie?
'There's mair than you, my bonnie bird,
Hae crossed the raging main,
Wha mourn the blythe, the happy days,
They'll never see again.
Sweet bird, come sing a sang to me,
Unmindfu' o' our ills;
And let us think we're ance again
'Mang our ain heather hills!'
The book will be welcomed by many a proud heart, and with moist eyes,
when it gets away up among the glens, to be read by the fireside and
repeated at the plough; and I think, Maisrie, when you and I take a walk
along Princes-street in Edinburgh we may see more than one or two copies
in the bookseller's windows. Then I hope _Blackwood_ will have a
friendly word for it; and I am sure Mr. Carmichael will allow me to give
it a hearty greeting in the _Weekly Chronicle_."
"But, grandfather," said Maisrie, almost piteously, "surely you forget
that you undertook to bring out this book yourself!"
"Yes, yes," said he, with perfect good humour. "But 'the best laid
schemes o' mice and men, gang aft agley.' And I do not grudge to some
other what might have been mine--I mean the association of one's name
with such a band of true and loyal Scotchmen. No; I do not grudge it;
on the contrary I am prepared to give the volume the most generous
welcome in my power; it is not for a brother Scot to find fault in such
a case, or to be niggard of his praise. I hope we are capable of
showing to the world that 'we're a' John Thampson's bairns.'"
Maisrie was growing desperate. Her grandfather would not understand;
and how was she to speak plain--with Vincent listening to every word?
And yet she knew that now he was aware of all the circumstances;
concealment was impossible; and so she forced herself to utterance.
"Grandfather," said she--and her face was flushed a rose-red, though she
seemed to take no heed of her embarrassment, so earnest and imploring
was her speech, "You cannot forget the obligations you put yourself
under--to Lord Musselburgh and Mr. Carmichael, and perhaps others. You
undertook to write the book. If that is impossible now, it is a great
misfortune; but at least there is one thing you must do; you must
explain to them what has happened, and give them back the money."
The old man could no longer shelter himself behind his gay and
discursive optimism; he frowned impatiently.
"I have already told you, Maisrie," said he, in severely measured
accents, "--and you are grown up now, you might understand for
yourself--that there are times and seasons when the introduction of
business matters is uncalled for, and, in fact, unbecoming; and one of
these is, surely, when we come out to spend a pleasant evening with our
young friend here. I do not think it necessary that we should discuss
our business affairs before him--I presume he would consider such a
thing somewhat inappropriate at a dinner-table."
Maisrie's lips quivered; and her grandfather saw it. Instantly he
changed his tone.
"Come, come," said he, with a cheerful good nature. "Enough, enough. I
can quite comprehend how the _res angusta domi_ may tend to give money,
and questions of money, an over-prominence in the minds of women. But
money, and the obligations that money may place us under, are surely a
very secondary affair, to one who looks at human nature with a larger
view. I thank God," he went on, with much complacency, "that I have
never been the slave of avarice, that even in times of great necessity I
have kept subsidiary things in their proper sphere. I do not boast; our
disposition is as much a matter of inheritance as the shape of our
fingers or feet; and that disposition may be handed down without the
accompanying circumstances that developed it. You follow me, Mr.
Harris?"
"Oh, yes," said the younger man, gloomily; that quiver of Maisrie's lips
was still in his mind.
For the first time since he had known them Vincent was glad to get away
from his companions that night: the situation in which he found them and
himself alike involved was altogether so strange that he wanted time to
think over it. And first of all he put aside that matter of the
Scotch-American book as of minor importance: no doubt some kind of
explanation was possible, if all the facts were revealed. It was when
he came to consider the position and surroundings of Maisrie Bethune
that the young man grew far more seriously concerned; indeed, his heart
became surcharged with an immeasurable pity and longing to help. He
began to understand how it was that a premature sadness and resignation
was written on that beautiful face, and why her eyes so rarely smiled;
and he could guess at the origin of that look of hopelessness, as though
she despaired of getting her grandfather to acknowledge the realities
and the responsibilities of the actual life around him. To Vincent the
circumstances in which this young girl was placed seemed altogether
tragic; and when he regarded the future that might lie before her, it
was with a blank dismay.
Moreover, he now no longer sought to conceal from himself the nature of
this engrossing interest in all that concerned her, this fascination and
glamour that drew him towards her, this constant solicitude about her
that haunted him day and night. Love had originally sprung from pity,
perhaps; her loneliness had appealed to him, and her youth, and the
wistful beauty of her eyes. But even now that he knew what caused his
heart to leap when he heard her footfall on the stairs, or when he
happened to look up at the table to find her regard fixed on him, there
was no wild desire for a declaration of his fond hopes and dreams.
Rather he hung back--as if something mysteriously sacred surrounded her.
He had asked her for a flower: that was all. Probably she had
forgotten. There seemed no place for the pretty toyings of love-making
in the life of this girl, who appeared to have missed the gaiety of
childhood, and perhaps might slip on into middle-age hardly knowing what
youth had been. And yet what a rose was ready to blow there--he said to
himself--if only sunshine, and sweet rains, and soft airs were
propitious! It was the wide, white days of June that were wanted for
her, before the weeks and the months went by, and the darkness and the
winter came.
No, he did not speak; perhaps he was vaguely aware that any abrupt
disclosure on his part might startle her into maiden reserve; whereas in
their present relations there existed the frankest confidence. She made
no secret of the subdued and happy content she experienced in this
constant companionship; her eyes lit up when he approached; oftentimes
she called him 'Vincent' without seeming to notice it. She had given
him a flower?--yes, as she would have given him a handful at any or
every hour of the day, if she fancied it would please him, and without
ulterior thought. They were almost as boy and girl together in this
daily intercourse, this open and avowed comradeship, this easy and
unrestricted familiarity. But sometimes Vincent looked ahead--with dim
forebodings. He had not forgotten the murmur of that wide sea of
separation that he had beheld as it were in a vision; the sound of it,
faint, and sad, and ominous, still lingered in his ears.
It was in one of these darker moments that he resolved, at whatever
risk, to acquaint old George Bethune with something of his irresolute
hopes and fears. The opportunity arrived quite unexpectedly. One
morning he was as usual on his way to his lodgings when, at the corner
of Upper Grosvenor Street, he met Mr. Bethune coming into Park Lane
alone.
"Maisrie is well?" Vincent asked, in sudden alarm, for it was the rarest
thing in the world to find grandfather and granddaughter separated.
"Oh, yes, yes," the old man said. "She has some household matters to
attend to--dressmaking, I think. Poor lass, she has to be economical;
indeed, I think she carries it to an extreme; but it's no use arguing
with Maisrie; I let her have her own way."
"I wanted to speak to you--about her," Vincent said, and he turned and
walked with the old man, across the street into Hyde Park. "I have
often wished to speak to you--and--and of course there was no chance
when she herself was present--"
He hesitated, casting about for a beginning; then he pulled himself
together, and boldly flung himself into it.
"I hope you won't take it for impertinence," said he. "I don't mean it
that way--very different from that. But you yourself, sir, you may
remember, you spoke to me about Maisrie when we were down at Henley
together--about what her future might be, if anything happened to
you--and you seemed concerned. Well, it is easy to understand how you
should be troubled--it is terrible to think of a young girl like
that--so sensitive, too--being alone in the world, and not over
well-provided for, as you have hinted to me. It would be so strange and
unusual a position for a young girl to be in--without relations--without
friends--and having no one to advise her or protect her in any way. Of
course you will say it is none of my business----"
"But you would like to have it made your business," said old George
Bethune, with a bland and good-natured frankness that considerably
astounded his stammering companion. "My dear young friend, I know
perfectly what you would say. Do you think I have been blind to the
friendly and even affectionate regard you have shown towards my
granddaughter all this while, or to the pleasure she has enjoyed in
having you take part in our small amusements? No, I have not been
blind. I have looked on and approved. It has been an added interest to
our lives; between you and her I have observed the natural sympathy of
similar age; and I have been glad to see her enjoying the society of one
nearer her own years. But now--now, if I guess aright, you wish for
some more definite tie."
"Would it not be better?" the young man said, breathlessly. "If there
were some clear understanding, would not a great deal of the uncertainty
with regard to the future be removed? You see, Mr. Bethune, I haven't
spoken a word to Maisrie--not a word. I have been afraid. Perhaps I
have been mistaken in imagining that she might in time--be inclined to
listen to me----"
He stopped: then he proceeded more slowly--and it might have been
noticed that his cheek was a little paler than usual. "Yes, it may be
as you say. Perhaps it is only that she likes the companionship of one
of her own age. That is natural. And then she is very kind and
generous: I may have been mistaken in thinking there was a possibility
of something more."
He was silent now and abstracted: as he walked on he saw nothing of what
was around him.
"Come, come, my friend!" George Bethune exclaimed, with much benignity.
"Do not vex yourself with useless speculations; you are looking too far
ahead; you and she are both too young to burden yourselves with grave
responsibilities. A boyish and girlish attachment is a very pretty and
engaging thing; but it must not be taken too seriously----"
And here for a second a flash of resentment fired through Vincent's
heart: was it well of this old man to speak so patronisingly of Maisrie
as but a child when it was he himself who had thrust upon her more than
the responsibilities and anxieties of a grown woman?
"Take things as they are! Do you consider that you have much cause to
complain, either the one or the other of you?" old George Bethune
resumed, in a still lighter strain. "You have youth and strength, good
health, and a constant interest in the life going on around you: is not
that sufficient? Why, here am I, nearing my three score years and ten;
and every morning that I awake I know that there lies before me another
beautiful, interesting, satisfactory day, that I am determined to enjoy
to the very utmost of my power. To-morrow?--to-morrow never yet
belonged to anybody--never was of any use to anybody: give me to-day,
and I am content to let to-morrow shift for itself! Yes," he continued,
in firm and proud and almost joyous accents, and he held his head erect,
"you may have caught me in some unguarded moment--some moment of nervous
weakness or depression--beginning to inquire too curiously into the
future; but that was a transient folly; I thank God that it is not my
habitual mood! Repining, complaining, anticipating: what good do you
get from that? Surely I have had as much reason to repine and complain
as most; but I do not waste my breath in remonstrating with 'fickle
Fortune.' 'Fickle Fortune!'" he exclaimed, in his scorn--"if the
ill-favoured jade were to come near me I would give her a wallop across
the buttocks with my staff, and bid her get out of my road! 'Fickle
Fortune!' She may 'perplex the poor sons of a day;' but she shall never
perplex me--by God and Saint Ringan!"
He laughed aloud in his pride.
"Why," said he, suddenly changing into quite another vein, "have you not
yet come to know that the one priceless thing to think of in the
world--the one extraordinary thing--is that at this precise moment you
can see? For millions and millions of years these skies have been
shining, and the clouds moving, and the seas running blue all round the
shores; and you were dead and blind to them; unknowing and unknown.
Generation after generation of men--thousands and thousands of
them--were looking at these things; they knew the hills and the clouds
and the fields; the world existed for them; but you could see nothing,
you were as if lying dead. Then comes your brief instant; it is your
turn; your eyes are opened; and for a little while--a passing
second--the universe is revealed to you. Don't you perceive that the
marvellous thing is that out of the vast millions of ages it should be
this one particular moment, this present moment, that happens to be
given to you? And instead of receiving it with amazement and wonder and
joy, why, you must begin to fret and worry and lay schemes, as if you
were unaware that the gates of the empty halls of Pluto were waiting to
engulf you and shut you up once more in darkness and blindness. Look at
those elm-trees--at the water down there--at the moving clouds: isn't it
wonderful to think that in the immeasurable life of the world this
should happen to be the one moment when these things are made visible to
you?"
Vincent perceived in a kind of way what the old man meant; but he did
not understand why this should make him less concerned about Maisrie's
position, or less eagerly covetous of winning her tender regard.
"Well, well," said old George Bethune, "perhaps it is but natural that
youth should be impatient; while old age may well be content with such
small and placid comforts as may be met with. I should have thought
there was not much to complain of in our present manner of life--if you
will allow me to include you in our tiny microcosm. It is not exciting;
it is simple, and wholesome; and I hope not altogether base and gross.
And as regards Maisrie, surely you and she have enough of each other's
society even as matters stand. Let well alone, my young friend; let
well alone; that is my advice to you. And I may say there are especial
and important reasons why I should not wish her to be bound by any
pledge. You know that I do not care to waste much thought on what may
lie ahead of us; but still, at the same time, there might at any moment
happen certain things which would make a great difference in Maisrie's
circumstances----"
Vincent had been listening in a kind of absent and hopeless way; but
these few words instantly aroused his attention: perhaps this was the
real reason why the old man wished Maisrie to remain free?
"A great and marvellous change indeed," he continued, with some increase
of dignity in his manner and in his mode of speech. "A change which
would affect me also, though that would be of little avail now. But as
regards my granddaughter, she might be called upon to fill a position
very different from that she occupies at present; and I should not wish
her to be hampered by anything pertaining to her former manner of life.
Not that she would ever prove forgetful of past kindness; that is not in
her nature; but in these new circumstances she might find herself
confronted by other duties. Enough said, I hope, on that point. And
well I know," he added, with something of a grand air, "that in whatever
sphere Maisrie Bethune may be placed, she will act worthily of her name
and of the obligations it entails."
He suddenly paused. There was a poorly-clad woman going by, carrying in
one arm a baby, while with the other hand she half dragged along a small
boy of five or six. She did not look like a professional London beggar,
nor yet like a country tramp; but of her extreme wretchedness there
could be no doubt; while there was a pinched look as of hunger in her
cheeks.
"Wait a bit!--where are you going?" old George Bethune said to her, in
blunt and ready fashion.
The woman turned round startled and afraid.
"I am making for home, sir," she said, timidly.
"Where's that?" he demanded.
"Out Watford way, sir--Abbot's Langley it is."
"Where have you come from?"
"From Leatherhead, sir."
"On foot all the way?"
"Yes, indeed, sir," she said, with a bit of a sigh.
"And with very little food, I warrant?" said he.
"Little indeed, sir."
"Have you any money?"
"Yes, sir--a matter of a few coppers left. I gave what I had to my old
mother--she thought she was dying, and sent for me to bring the two
little boys to see her--but she's better, sir, and now I'm making for
home again."
"Oh, you gave what you had to your mother? Well," said he, deliberately,
"I don't know whether what I have will amount to as much, but whatever
it is you are welcome to it."
He dived into his trousers pockets and eventually produced about half a
handful of shillings and pence; then he searched a small
waistcoat-pocket and brought forth two sovereigns. It was all his
wealth.
"Here, take that, and in God's name get yourself some food, woman!" said
he, unconsciously lapsing into a pronounced Scotch accent. "You look
starved. And this bit of a laddie, here--buy him some sweet things as
well as bread and butter when you get up to the shops. And then when
you're outside the town, you'll just give some honest fellow a shilling,
and you'll get a cast of an empty cart to help you on your road. Well,
good-day to ye--no, no, take what there is, I tell ye, woman!--bless me,
you'll need most of it before you get to your own fireside. On your
ways, now!--and when you reach the shops, don't forget the barley-sugar
for this young shaver."
So he turned away, leaving the poor woman so overwhelmed that she had
hardly a word of thanks; and when he had gone for some little distance
all he said was--with something of a rueful laugh--
"There went my luncheon; for I promised Maisrie I should not return home
till near dinner-time."
"And you have left yourself without a farthing?" the young man
exclaimed. "Well, that's all right--I can lend you a few sovereigns."
"No, no," said old George Bethune, with a smile, and he held up his hand
in deprecation. "I am well pleased now; and if I should suffer any
pangs of starvation during the day, I shall be glad to think that I can
endure them better than that poor creature with the long tramp before
her. To-night," said he, rubbing his palms together with much
satisfaction, "to-night, when we meet at Mentavisti's, I shall be all
the hungrier and all the happier. Ah, must you go now?--good-bye, then!
We shall see you at half-past six, I suppose; and meantime, my friend,
dismiss from your mind those cares and anxious thoughts about the
future. 'To the gods belongs to-morrow!'"
Now this little incident that had just happened in Hyde Park comforted
Vincent exceedingly. Here was something definite that he could proudly
set against the vague and unworthy suspicions of Mrs. Ellison. Surely
the man was no plausible impostor, no charlatan, no crafty schemer, who
could so readily empty his pockets, and look forward to a day's
starvation, in order to help a poor and unknown vagrant-woman? No doubt
it was but part and parcel of his habitual and courageous disregard of
consequences, his yielding to the generous impulse of the moment; but,
if the truth must be told, Master Vin was at times almost inclined to
envy old George Bethune his splendid audacity and self-confidence. Why
should the younger man be the one to take forethought for the morrow;
while the venerable gray beard was gay as a lark, delighted with the
present hour, and defiant of anything that might happen? And what if
the younger man were to follow the precepts of the elder, and lapse into
a careless content? Their way of living, as George Bethune had pointed
out, was simple, happy, and surely harmless. There were those three
forming a little coterie all by themselves; enjoying each other's
society; interested in each other's pursuits. The hours of the daytime
were devoted to individual work; then came the glad reunion of the
evening and the sallying forth to this or the other restaurant;
thereafter the little dinner in the corner, with its glimpses of foreign
folk, and its gay talk filled with patriotism and poetry and
reminiscences of other lands; finally the hushed enchantment of that
little parlour, with Maisrie and her violin, with dominoes, and
discussions literary and political, while always and ever there reigned
a perfect frankness and good-fellowship. Yes, it seemed a happy kind of
existence, for these three. And was not old George Bethune in the right
in thinking that the young people should not hamper themselves by any
too grave responsibilities? A boyish and girlish attachment (as he
deemed it to be) was a pretty and amusing and engaging thing; quite a
little idyll, in fact--but not to be taken too seriously. And where the
future was all so uncertain, was it not better to leave it alone?
Specious representations, indeed! But this young man, who had his own
views and ways of thinking, remained stubbornly unconvinced. It was
because the future was so vague that he wanted it made more definite;
and as he thought of Maisrie, and of what might befall her when she was
alone in the world, and as he thought of his own far-reaching resolves
and purposes, he did not in the least consider the relationship now
existing between him and her as being merely a pretty little pastoral
episode, that would lead to nothing. No doubt their present way of
living had many charms and fascinations, if only it would last. But it
would not last; it was impossible it should last. Looking back over
these past months, Vincent was surely grateful enough for all the
pleasant and intimate companionship he had enjoyed; but his temperament
was not like that of George Bethune; the passing moment was not
everything to him. He had an old head on young shoulders; and it needed
no profound reflection to tell him that life could not always consist of
the Restaurant Mentavisti and _La Claire Fontaine_.