"HOLY PALMER'S KISS."
This was a bright and cheerful afternoon in November; and old George
Bethune and his granddaughter were walking down Regent-street. A
brilliant afternoon, indeed; and the scene around them was quite gay and
animated; for the wintry sunlight was shining on the big shop-fronts,
and on the busy pavements, and on the open carriages that rolled by with
their occupants gorgeous in velvet and silk and fur. Nor was George
Bethune moved to any spirit of envy by all this display of luxury and
wealth; no more than he was oppressed by any sense of solitariness amid
this slow-moving, murmuring crowd. He walked with head erect; he paid
but little heed to the passers-by; he was singing aloud, and that in a
careless and florid fashion--
"The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,
Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,
The ship rides by the Berwick Law,
And I maun leave my bonnie Mary."
But suddenly he stopped: his attention had been caught by a window, or
rather a series of windows, containing all sorts of Scotch articles and
stuffs.
"Maisrie," said he, as his eye ran over these varied wares and fabrics,
"couldn't you--couldn't you buy some little bit of a thing?"
"Why, grandfather?" she asked.
"Oh, well," he answered, with an air of lofty indifference, "it is but a
trifle--but a trifle; only I may have told you that my friend Carmichael
is a good Scot--good friend and good Scot are synonymous terms, to my
thinking--and--and as you are going to call on him for the first time,
you might show him you are not ashamed of your country. Isn't there
something there, Maisrie?" he continued, still regarding the articles in
the window. "Some little bit of tartan ribbon--something you could put
round your neck--whatever you like--merely to show that you fly your
country's colours, and are not ashamed of them--"
"But why should I pretend to be Scotch, grandfather, when I am not
Scotch?" she said.
He was not angry: he was amused.
"You--not Scotch? You, of all people in the world, not Scotch? What
are you, then? A Bethune of Balloray--ay, and if justice were done, the
owner and mistress of Balloray, Ballingean, and Cadzow--and yet you are
not Scotch? Where got you your name? What is your lineage--your
blood--your right and title to the lands of Balloray and Ballingean?
And I may see you there yet, Maisrie; I may see you there yet. Stranger
things have happened. But come away now--we need not quarrel about a
bit of ribbon--and I know Mr. Carmichael will receive you as his
countrywoman even if you have not a shred of tartan about you."
Indeed he had taken no offence: once more he was marching along, with
fearless eye and undaunted front, while he had resumed his gallant
singing--
"But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
Wad mak' me langer wish to tarry,
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar--
It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!"
They went down to one of the big hotels in Northumberland Avenue; asked
at the office for Mr. Carmichael; and after an immeasurable length of
waiting were conducted to his room. Here Maisrie was introduced to a
tall, fresh-coloured, angular-boned man, who had shrewd grey eyes that
were also good-humoured. Much too good-humoured they were in Maisrie's
estimation, when they chanced to regard her grandfather: they seemed to
convey a sort of easy patronage, almost a kind of good-natured pity,
that she was quick to resent. But how could she interfere? These were
business matters that were being talked of; and she sate somewhat apart,
forced to listen, but not taking any share in the conversation.
Presently, however, she heard something that startled her out of this
apathetic concurrence, and set all her pulses flying. The tall,
raw-boned, newspaper proprietor, eyeing this proud-featured old man with
a not unkindly scrutiny, was referring to the volume on the Scottish
Poets in America which George Bethune had failed to bring out in time;
and his speech was considerate.
"It is not the first case of forestalling I have known," said he; "and
it must just be looked on as a bit of bad luck. Better fortune next
time. By the way, there is another little circumstance connected with
that book--perhaps I should not mention it--but I will be discreet. No
names; and yet you may like to hear that you have got another friend
somewhere--somewhere in the background--"
It was at this point that Maisrie began to listen, rather breathlessly.
"Oh, yes, your friend--your unknown friend--wanted to be generous
enough," Mr. Carmichael continued. "He wrote to me saying he understood
that I had advanced a certain sum towards the publication of the work;
and he went on to explain that as certain things had happened to prevent
your bringing it out, he wished to be allowed to refund the money. Oh,
yes, a very generous offer; for all was to be done in the profoundest
secrecy; you were not to know anything about it, lest you should be
offended. And yet it seemed to me you should be glad to learn that
there was someone interesting himself in your affairs."
The two men were not looking at the girl: they could not see the pride
and gratitude that were in her eyes. "And Vincent never told me a
word," she was saying to herself, with her heart beating warm and fast.
But that was not the mood in which old George Bethune took this matter.
A dark frown was on his shaggy eyebrows.
"I do not see what right anyone has to intermeddle," said, he, in tones
that fell cruelly on Maisrie's ear, "still less to pay money for me on
the assumption that I had forgotten, or was unwilling to discharge, a
just debt----"
"Come, come, come, Mr. Bethune," said the newspaper proprietor, with a
sort of condescending good-nature, "you must not take it that way. To
begin with, he did not pay any money at all. I did not allow him. I
said 'Thank you; but this is a private arrangement between Mr. Bethune
and myself; and if he considers there is any indebtedness, then he can
wipe that off by contributions to the _Chronicle_.' So you see you have
only to thank him for the intention--"
"Oh, very well," said the old man, changing his tone at once. "No harm
in that. No harm whatever. Misplaced intention--but--but creditable.
And now," he continued, in a still lighter strain, "since you mention
the _Chronicle_, Mr. Carmichael, I must tell you of a scheme I have had
for some time in mind. It is a series of papers on the old ballads of
Scotland--or rather the chief of them--taking one for each weekly
article, giving the different versions, with historical and philological
notes. What do you think of that, now? Look at the material--the
finest in the world!--the elemental passions, the tragic situations that
are far removed from any literary form or fashion, that go straight to
the heart and the imagination. Each of them a splendid text!" he
proceeded, with an ever-increasing enthusiasm. "Think of Edom o'
Gordon, and the Wife of Usher's Well, and the Baron o' Brackla; Annie of
Lochryan, Hynde Etin, the piteous cry of 'Helen of Kirkconnell,' and the
Rose of Yarrow seeking her slain lover by bank and brae. And what could
be more interesting than the collation of the various versions of those
old ballads, showing how they have been altered here and there as they
were said or sung, and how even important passages may have been dropped
out in course of time and transmission. Look, for example, at 'Barbara
Allan.' The version in Percy's Reliques is as bad and stupid as it can
be; but it is worse than that: it is incomprehensible. Who can believe
that the maiden came to the bedside of her dying lover only to flout and
jeer, and that for no reason whatever? And when she sees his corpse
'With scornful eye she looked downe,
Her cheek with laughter swellin''--
"Well, I say that is not true," he went on vehemently; "it never was
true: it contradicts human nature; it is false, and bad, and impossible.
But turn to our Scottish version! When Sir John Graeme o' the West
Countrie, lying sore sick, sends for his sweetheart, she makes no
concealment of the cause of the feud that has been between them--of the
wrong that is rankling at her heart:
'O dinna ye mind, young man,' said she,
'When the red wine ye were filling,
That ye made the healths gae round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allan?'
And proud and indignant she turns away. There is no sham laughter here;
no impossible cruelty; but a quarrel between two fond lovers that
becomes suddenly tragic, when death steps in to prevent the possibility
of any reconciliation.
He turned his face unto the wa',
And death was with him dealing:
'Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a',
Be kind to Barbara Allan!'
Can anything be more simple, and natural, and inexpressibly sad as well?
It is the story of a tragic quarrel between two true lovers: it is not
the impossible and preposterous story of a giggling hoyden grinning at a
corpse!"
And here it was probable that old George Bethune, having warmed to his
subject, and being as usual wildly enamoured of his latest scheme, would
have gone on to give further instances of the value of collation and
comparison, but that Mr. Carmichael was forced to interrupt. The
proprietor of the _Edinburgh Chronicle_ was a busy man during his brief
visits to town.
"Very well, Mr. Bethune," said he. "I think your idea a very good
one--an excellent one, in fact, for the weekly edition of a Scotch
paper; and I will give you _carte blanche_ as to the number of articles.
Who knows," he added, with a condescending smile, "but that they may
grow to a book--to take the place of the one that was snatched out of
your hands?"
And again, as his visitors were leaving, he said in the same
good-humoured way--
"I presume it is not necessary for us to discuss the question of terms,
especially before a young lady. If you have been satisfied with us so
far--"
"I am quite content to leave that with you: quite," interposed the old
man, with some little dignity.
"I was only going to say," Mr. Carmichael resumed, "that a series of
articles such as you suggest may require a good deal of research and
trouble: so that, when the reckoning comes, I will see you are put on
the most favoured nation scale. And not a word more about the American
book: we were disappointed--that is all."
This latter admonition was wholly unnecessary. When George Bethune got
out into the street again, with Maisrie as his sole companion and
confidante, it was not of that lost opportunity he was talking, it was
all of this new project that had seized his imagination. They had to
make one or two calls, in the now gathering dusk; but ever, as they came
out again into the crowded thoroughfares, he returned to the old ballads
and the opportunities they presented for a series of discursive papers.
And Maisrie was about as eager in anticipation as himself.
"Oh, yes, grandfather," she said, "you could not have thought of a
happier subject. And you will begin at once, grandfather, won't you?
Do you think I shall be able to help you in the very least way?--it
would please me so much if I could search out things for you, or copy,
or help you in the smallest way. And I know it will be a labour of love
for you; it will be a constant delight; and all the more that the days
are getting short now, and we shall have to be more indoors. And then
you heard what Mr. Carmichael said, grandfather; and if he is going to
pay you well for these articles, you will soon be able to give him back
the money he advanced to you about that unfortunate book--"
"Oh, don't you bother about such things!" he said, with an impatient
frown. "When I am planning out an important work, I don't want to be
reminded that it will result in merely so many guineas. That is not the
spirit in which I enter upon such an undertaking. When I write, it is
not with an eye to the kitchen. Unless some nobler impulse propels,
then be sure the result will be despicable. However, I suppose women
are like that; when you are thinking of the literature of your native
land--of perhaps adding some little tributary wreath--they are looking
towards grocers' bills. The kitchen--the kitchen is before them--not
the dales and vales of Scotland, where lovers loved, and were
broken-hearted. The kitchen--"
But Maisrie was not disconcerted by this rebuke.
"And you will begin at once, grandfather," she said, cheerfully. "Oh, I
know it will be so delightful an occupation for you. And I don't wonder
that Mr. Carmichael was glad to have such a chance. Then it won't
involve any expense of travelling, like the other book you thought of,
about the Scotland of Scotch songs. The winter evenings won't be so
dull, grandfather, when you have this to occupy you; you will forget it
is winter altogether, when you are busy with those beautiful scenes and
stories. And will you tell Vincent this evening, grandfather? he will
be so interested: it will be something to talk of at dinner."
But Vincent was to hear of this great undertaking before then. When
Maisrie and her grandfather reached the door of their lodgings, he said
to her--
"You can go in now, Maisrie, and have the gas lit. I must walk along to
the library, and see what books they have; but I'm afraid I shall have
to get Motherwell, and Pinkerton, and Allan Cunningham, and the rest of
them from Scotland. Aytoun they are sure to have, I suppose."
So they parted for the moment; and Maisrie went upstairs and lit the gas
in the little parlour. Then, without taking off her bonnet, she sate
down and fell into a reverie--not a very sad one, as it seemed. She was
sitting thus absorbed in silent fancies, when a familiar sound outside
startled her into attention; she sprang to her feet; the next instant
the door was opened; the next again she was advancing to the tall and
handsome young stranger who stood somewhat diffidently there, and both
her hands were outstretched, and a light of joy and gratitude was
shining in her eyes.
"Oh, Vincent, I am so glad you have come over!" she said, in a way that
was far from usual with her, and she held both his hands for more than a
second or two, and her grateful eyes were fixed on his without any
thought of embarrassment. "I was thinking of you. You have been so
kind--so generous! I wanted to thank you, and I am so glad to have the
chance--"
"But what is it, Maisrie?--I'm sure there is nothing you have to thank
me for!" said he, as he shut the door behind him, and came forward, and
took a seat not very far away from her. He was a little bewildered. In
her sudden access of gratitude, when she took both his hands in hers,
she had come quite close to him; and the scent of a sandal-wood necklace
that she wore seemed to touch him as with a touch of herself. He knew
those fragrant beads; more than once he had perceived the slight and
subtle odour, as she passed him, or as he helped her on with her cloak;
and he had come to associate it with her, as if it were part of her,
some breathing thing, that could touch, and thrill. And this time it
had come so near--
But that bewilderment of the senses lasted only for a moment. Maisrie
Bethune was not near to him at all: she was worlds and worlds away. It
was not a mere whiff of perfume that could bring her near to him.
Always to him she appeared to be strangely unapproachable and remote.
Perhaps it was the loneliness of her position, perhaps it was the
uncertainty of her future, and those vague possibilities of which her
grandfather had spoken, or perhaps it was the reverence of undivided and
unselfish love on his part; but at all events she seemed to live in a
sort of sacred and mysterious isolation--to be surrounded by a spell
which he dared not seek to break by any rude contact. And yet surely
her eyes were regarding his with sufficient frankness and friendliness,
and even more than friendliness, now as she spoke.
"This afternoon we called on Mr. Carmichael," said Maisrie, "Mr.
Carmichael of the _Edinburgh Chronicle_. He told us someone had offered
to repay the money he had advanced to my grandfather on account of that
American book: and though he did not mention any name, do you think I
did not know who it was, Vincent? Be sure I knew--in a moment! And you
never said a word about it! I might never have known but for this
accident--I might never have had the chance of thanking you--as--as I
should like to do now--only--only it isn't quite easy to say everything
one feels--"
"Oh, but that is nothing at all, Maisrie!" said he, coming quickly to
her rescue. "You have nothing to thank me for--nothing! It is true I
made the offer; but it was not accepted; and why should I say anything
about it to you?"
"Ah, but the intention is enough," said she (for she knew nothing about
his having paid Lord Musselburgh the L50). "And you cannot prevent my
being very, very grateful to you for such thoughtfulness and kindness.
To save my grandfather's self-respect--to prevent him being
misunderstood by--by strangers--because--because he is so forgetful: do
you think, Vincent, I cannot see your motive, and be very, very
grateful? And never saying a word, too! You should have told me,
Vincent! But I suppose that was still further kindness--you thought I
might be embarrassed--and not able to thank you--which is just the
case--"
"Oh, Maisrie, don't make a fuss about nothing!" he protested.
"I know whether it is nothing or not," said she, proudly. "And--and
perhaps if you had lived as we have lived--wandering from place to
place--you would set more store by an act of friendship. Friends are
little to you--you have too many of them--"
"Oh, Maisrie, don't talk like that!" he said. "You make me ashamed.
What have I done?--nothing! I wish there was some real thing I could do
to prove my friendship for your grandfather and yourself--then you might
see--"
"Haven't you proved it every day, every hour almost, since ever we have
known you?" she said, in rather a low voice.
"Ah, well, perhaps there may come a chance--" said he; and then he
stopped short; for here was old George Bethune, with half-a-dozen
volumes under his arm, and himself all eagerness and garrulity about his
new undertaking.
At the little dinner that evening in the restaurant, there was quite an
unusual animation, and that not solely because this was the ninth of
November, and they were proposing to go out later on and look at the
illuminations in the principal thoroughfares. Vincent thought he had
never seen Maisrie Bethune appear so light-hearted and happy; and she
was particularly kind to him; when she regarded him, there still seemed
to be a mild gratitude shining in the clear and eloquent deeps of her
eyes. Gratitude for what!--he asked himself, with a touch of scorn. It
was but an ordinary act of acquaintanceship: why should this beautiful,
sensitive, proud-spirited creature have to debase herself to thank him
for such a trifle? He felt ashamed of himself. It was earning
gratitude by false pretences. The very kindness shining there in her
eyes was a sort of reproach: what had he done to deserve it? Ah, if she
only knew what he was ready to do--when occasion offered!
And never before had he seen Maisrie so bravely confident about any of
her grandfather's literary projects.
"You see, Vincent," she said, as if he needed any convincing, when she
was satisfied! "in the end it will make a far more interesting book than
the Scotch-American one; and in the meantime there will be the series of
articles appearing from week to week, to attract attention to the
subject. And then, although grandfather says I take a low and mercenary
view of literature, all the same I am glad he is to be well-paid for the
articles; and there are to be as many as he likes; and when they are
completed, then comes the publication of the book, which should be as
interesting to Mr. Carmichael, or Lord Musselburgh, or anyone, as the
Scotch-American volume. And grandfather is going to begin at once; and
I am asking him whether I cannot be of any use to him, in the humblest
way. A glossary, grandfather; you must have a glossary of the Scotch
words: couldn't I compile that for you?"
"I have been wondering," the old man said, absently, and without
answering her question, "since I came into this room, whether it would
be possible to classify them into ballads of action and ballads of the
supernatural. I imagine the former belong more to the south country;
and that most of the latter had their origin in the north. And yet even
in the Battle of Otterburn, the Douglas says
'But I hae dreamed a dreary dream,
Ayont the Isle o' Skye,--
I saw a deid man win a fight,
And I think that man was I.'
Well, that may have been an interpolation; at all events, it is a
Highland touch; the strong, brisk, matter-of-fact Border ballad has
seldom anything of that kind in it. The bold Buccleuch and Kinmont
Willie were too much in the saddle to have time for wraiths. You
remember, Maisrie, when they brought word to 'the bauld Keeper' that
Kinmont Willie was a captive in Carlisle Castle?--
He has ta'en the table wi' his hand,
He garred the red wine spring on hie--
'Now a curse upon my head,' he cried,
'But avenged on Lord Scroop I'll be!
O is my basnet a widow's curch,
Or my lance a wand of the willow-tree,
Or my arm a lady's lily hand,
That an English lord should lichtly me?'
That is more like the ballad of the south: sharp and vivid, full of
action and spirit, and the audacious delight of life: when you want
mystery and imagination and supernatural terrors you must turn to the
brooding and darkened regions of the north. The Demon Lover is clearly
of northern origin; its hell is the Scandinavian hell; not the fiery
furnace of the eastern mind, but a desolation of cold and wet.
'O what'n a mountain's yon,' she said,
'Sae dreary wi' frost and snow?'
'O yon is the mountain o' hell,' he cried,
'Where you and I maun go!'"
"The Demon Lover?" said Maisrie, inquiringly; and Vincent could not but
notice how skilfully and sedulously she fanned the old man's interest in
this new scheme by herself pretending to be deeply interested.
"Don't you know it, Maisrie?" said he. "It is the story of two lovers
who were parted; and he returns after seven years to claim the
fulfilment of her vows; and finds that in his absence she has taken
someone else for her husband. It is a dangerous position--if he wishes
her to go away with him; for a woman never forgets her first lover; what
is more, she attributes all the natural and inevitable disillusionment
of marriage to her husband, whilst the romance attaching to her first
love remains undimmed. Therefore, I say let Auld Robin Gray
beware!--the wife is not always so loyal to the disillusioniser as was
the Jeannie of the modern song. Well, in this case, she who has been a
false sweetheart, proves a false wife--
'If I was to leave my husband dear,
And my twa babes also,
O where is it you would tak' me to,
If I with thee should go?'
And the lover becomes the avenger; together they sail away on a strange
ship, until they descry the mountains of hell; and the lover turned
demon warns her of her doom.
And aye when she turned her round about,
Aye taller he seemed for to be,
Until that the tops o' that gallant ship
Nae taller were than he.
He struck the topmast wi' his hand,
The foremast wi' his knee;
And he brak that gallant ship in twain,
And sank her in the sea."
"Will there be illustrations, sir?" asked Vincent (in humble imitation
of Maisrie). "And an _edition de luxe_? For that, I imagine, is where
my co-operation might come in. Maisrie seems so anxious to help; and I
should like to take my part too."
"It is a far cry to the completion of such an undertaking as that," said
the old man, rather wistfully.
But Maisrie would not have him lapse into any despondent mood.
"You must not look so far ahead, grandfather," she said, cheerfully.
"You must think of your own pride and satisfaction in beginning it; and
I know you will be delighted; for who can do it as well as you? And if
I am so very mercenary, I can't help it; only I shall be all the better
pleased to remember that you are being properly paid for your work.
Supposing the kitchen is my department?--Oh, very well!--somebody must
look to that. It will be a labour of love for you, grandfather, all the
way through; and then, when the book is nearing completion, just think
of the pride you will have in choosing someone, some distinguished
person, for the dedication. It will be far more your own work than
merely giving specimens of the Scottish-American poets; indeed it will
be all your own; for the ballads are only to be texts, as you say. And
I think we should go home now, and you will look over some of the books.
I don't care about the illuminations--not I. What is the Lord Mayor's
Day to Vincent or me--when you might be telling us about Katherine
Janfarie and May Collean?"
"No, no, Maisrie," said he, as he rose from the table. "Give me a
little time for preparation. We promised to show you the streets lit
up. And mind you wrap yourself well, Maisrie, for the evenings are
getting cold now."
But little did Vincent Harris, as he helped her on with her cloak, and
made ready to go out into the dusky and glaring thoroughfares, foresee
what was going to befall him that night.
When they issued forth into Regent-street, there was as yet no very
dense crowd, though here and there the front of a tall building flamed
in yellow fire; but nevertheless Maisrie said--
"We must not get separated, grandfather. Let me go between you two; and
I will take your arm on the one side and Vincent's on the other; and if
we have occasionally to go sideways, we can always keep together."
"Oh, I shan't let you be dragged away, Maisrie," the younger man said.
"And if you don't mind, I think this will be a better way of holding on
to you--" and therewith he made bold to pass his hand underneath the
hanging sleeve of her cloak, and there he took hold of her arm from the
inside--rather timidly, perhaps, but then his grasp could be tightened,
if needs were.
"Yes," said she, placidly, and she made a little movement as though she
would draw both her companions closer to her. "This is very
comfortable. Which way, grandfather?"
And so the little group of friends, knit together by many intimate
interests and much association, adventured out into the great world of
London that was all astir now with a vague and half-subdued excitement.
There was no need for them to talk; they had but to look at the blazing
stars, and feathers, and initial letters, and to make their way through
the murmuring throng. There was no jostling; the crowd was entirely
good-natured; and if these three could not always go abreast, they then
went diagonally for a second or so, and were not separated. Of course,
Vincent had to hold Maisrie a little more firmly now; his arm was
parallel with hers, and his hand had hold of her wrist; and there was an
intoxicating sense of warmth as well as of close companionship in this
mutual clinging. Thus they slowly and idly passed away down
Regent-street, well content with their own silence and the brilliant
sights around them. Then a little incident occurred. A vehicle was
coming along one of the smaller thoroughfares they had to cross; there
was a brief bit of a scrimmage; and Maisrie, the better to keep hold of
her companion, slipped her hand from the muff that was slung round her
neck, and seized his hand, that was ready enough, be sure, to respond.
They got over without further trouble; they mixed once more in this
vast, slow-moving assemblage--only he retained the hand she had given
him, and that with no uncertain grasp.
It was a wonderful, mysterious, secret thing to be happening in the
midst of all this great, careless, dusky crowd. Her hand, that was
ungloved, was soft and warm after coming out of its cosy resting-place;
and it was not likely to get cold, when it was held so tight, under the
concealment of the hanging sleeve. And then--well, probably the girl
did not know what she was doing; she was affected by all this excitement
around her; it was "Look, grandfather, look!" from time to time; most
likely she thought no more of her hand being held than if she were
crossing a meadow in the spring-time with some careless
girl-companion--but however that may be, what must she do but open her
fingers, so that his should interclasp with hers! Nay, she opened them
again, and shut them again, the better to adjust that gentle clasp; and
every touch thrilled through him, so that he walked as one in a dream.
He dared hardly breathe, he durst not speak, lest some stray word of his
might startle her into consciousness, and shatter this miracle. She did
not seem to be in the least aware: it was "Which way, grandfather?" or
"Take care, grandfather!" and her eyes were turned to the brilliant and
parti-coloured devices in front of the Pall Mall clubs, and not at all
to the handsome lad who walked so close to her that now and again he
could detect some faint trace of the odour of sandal-wood that seemed to
hover around her neck and her hair. What did he see or hear of the
crowd now, or of the garish lights along the houses? He walked in an
enchanted land: there were only two people in it: and they were bound
together, in subtle intercommunion, by this magic grasp. There was
wonder as well as joy in his mind; the sensation was so new and strange.
Did he remember that "palm to palm" was "holy palmer's kiss"? No, he
remembered nothing; he only knew that he held Maisrie's hand interlocked
with his, in this secret fashion; and that all the wild phantasmagoria
around them was something unreal and visionary with which neither he nor
she had any concern.
And even now his cup of bliss and bewilderment was not yet full, on this
marvellous night. When at last they drew away from the crowded streets
and found themselves in quieter thoroughfares on their way home, the old
man drew a breath of relief.
"This is better, Maisrie," he said. "It seems as if we had been out on
a roaring sea, and had at length drifted into stillness and peace."
"And we were not separated once, grandfather," said she, cheerfully.
"Not once all the time."
And then it was Vincent who spoke.
"I don't see why we should ever separate," said he. "Friends are few
enough in this world."
"Yes, indeed, good friends are few," Maisrie said; and therewithal--ere
he could tell what was happening--she had taken his hand that she held
in hers and raised it, and for one brief moment pressed it against her
heart. The little impulsive movement--of gratitude perhaps; perhaps of
affection; perhaps of both combined--could not have been perceived by
any passer-by; and yet the young man seemed to be struck by a sudden
shock of fear; he could not speak; his own heart was beating so that
speech was impossible. For it appeared to him in that swift second as
if the scales had fallen from his eyes. To him she was no longer an
elusive phantom--a mirage--a vision--pensive, and mysterious, and
remote; now he saw her a beautiful young creature of flesh and blood,
whose hands and heart were warm, who could cling for help and
companionship and sympathy, who was not afraid to speak and act, when
love or gratitude prompted her. No longer the strangely isolated
maiden: the unapproachable had all at once come near; so near that the
scent of sandalwood touched him from time to time; so near that her soft
fingers were interclasped with his, pulsating there, nestling there, not
relaxing their hold, nor inclined to do that. This was no piece of
statuary, to be worshipped from afar: this was Maisrie Bethune, whose
arm lay close and caressing against his, under the friendly shelter of
that hanging sleeve, whose step went with his step as they walked
together, whose breathing he could almost overhear, in the silence of
this gracious night. And what had she not confessed, in that artless
way?
And then amid his bewilderment and breathless exultation a horrid fancy
shot across his brain. Perhaps that was no confession at all; but a
quite simple, unpremeditated, even unconscious, act of mere friendliness
and sympathy? Did she know that she had done it? Would she repeat it?
Would she give him further assurance? Might she not herself wish to be
certain that he had understood--that he had received a message that was
to change all his life?
Well, he had hold of her hand. Gently and with trembling and eager
touch he tried to raise it--he would have her replace his own hand where
that had been for one delirious moment: perhaps to ask if her heart had
still, and for ever and always, the same message to send. Alas! she did
not yield to the mute invitation. Perhaps she did not comprehend it.
For here they were at the corner of the little street in which they
lived; and she unclasped her fingers, so that his also might be released
from their too happy imprisonment; and she was talking to her
grandfather when the door of the house was reached. Nor did her eyes
say anything as he bade her good-bye for the night. Perhaps it was all a
mistake, then?--some little involuntary act of kindness, and nothing
more?