INTERPOSITION.
Yes, she had come near--so near that she seemed to absorb his very life.
He could think of nothing but her. As he walked away down through the
dark streets, he imagined her to be still by his side; he tried to fancy
he could detect some faint perfume of sandal-wood in the surrounding
air; his right hand tingled yet with the touch of her warm,
interclasping fingers. And if at one moment his heart beat high with
the assurance that she had confessed her love and given herself to him,
the next he tortured himself with vague alarms, and wondered how the
long night was to be got through, before he could go up to her in the
morning, and challenge her to speak. All the future was filled with
her; and there again he saw himself by her side, her strong and
confident protector. And yet if he had mistaken that mute declaration
of hers? What if, after all, it were merely a timid expression,
involuntary and unpremeditated, of her friendship, her kindness, her
gratitude?
Well, he knew he could get no confirmation of either his audacious hopes
or his depressing fears until the next day; and as the alternation
between the two moods was altogether a maddening thing, he resolved to
seek relief and distraction. As soon as he got to his own room down in
Grosvenor Place he took out a foolscap sheet of paper which had certain
pencillings on it. These formed, in fact, an outline sketch of a
lecture which he had undertaken to deliver before the Mendover Free
Library Association; and it was high time he was getting on with it, for
the meeting was to be held in the following week. But strange things
happened with this sheet of paper. Apparently the pencilled heading was
"_The Unscrupulousness of Wealth_;" but the longer he looked at the
title, the more clearly did it spell out "_Maisrie Bethune_." The
sub-headings, too, began to reveal hidden mysteries. Here was one which
on the face of it read "_Circumstances in which the capitalist may
become a tyrant in spite of himself_." But behold! that scrawl slowly
disappeared, and in its place a picture grew into existence. He seemed
to recognise the big grey building--was it not the mansion-house of
Balloray?--and well he knew the figure of the tall young girl with the
long-flowing hair who, in riding-habit, came out on to the terrace,
above the wide stone steps. Is that her grandfather, proud-featured,
lion-hearted, with the same undaunted demeanour as of old, come to wave
her good-bye? The splendour of the morning is all around her; there is
a white road outside the grounds, and an avenue of beech trees dappled
with sun and shade: when she vanishes into that wonderland of foliage,
she seems to take the light of the day away with her. And again, what
further miracle is this? Another vision interposes, and at length
becomes dominant; and this one is very different; this one is of a
street in Toronto. And here also is a young girl; but now she is all in
black; and she is alone--she knows not one of those passers-by. Pale
and pensive she walks on; her eyes are downcast; perhaps she is thinking
of wide intervening seas, and of her loneliness, and of one who used to
be her friend. Tears?--but of what avail are these, here in this
strange city?--they are only a confession of helplessness--perhaps of
despair...
Vincent Harris got up and walked about the room: at this rate the
members of the Mendover Free Library Association were not likely to
receive much instruction. And indeed he did not return to that sheet of
foolscap; his brain could conjure up quite sufficient visions of the
future without having recourse to any palimpsest discoveries; while as
for his hand--well, perhaps the hand that Maisrie had held over her
heart for one wild, startling moment, was a little too unsteady to use a
pencil. If only the hours would go by! He tried to read--and could not.
He got hold of a map of Scotland, and traced out the line of travel he
should like to follow if Maisrie and her grandfather and himself should
ever start on their long-projected tour. He turned to a map of the
United States, and sought out Omaha: Maisrie's birthplace was not
distinguished by any difference of type, and yet he regarded those five
letters with a curious interest and fascination. He recalled his having
stood on the heights of Council Bluffs, and looked across the yellow
Missouri; and now he marvelled that he could have contemplated the wide,
straggling city with comparative indifference. Perhaps, by diligent
seeking on the morrow--for the capital of Nebraska is an important
place--he might even in London discover a photograph or two to put on
his mantel-shelf; and then he could stand opposite them and say, "Why,
Maisrie must have passed that railway station many a time!" or "Maisrie
must often have looked up to the spire of the High School, there on the
hill." To think that he had been twice in Omaha--without
caring--without knowing! And so his eyes rested on this little word in
the middle of the big map; but his imagination was far away.
Well, the longest night must have an end; and yet the new dawn brought
no surcease to his anxieties; for how was he to have an opportunity of
speaking with Maisrie alone? He was up in the little Mayfair street
betimes; and made some pretence of beginning work; but that was soon
abandoned. He could not keep his eyes on any book or paper when there
were those two windows over the way. When would she appear there to
water the chrysanthemums in the little balcony? If she accidentally
caught sight of him, might not some tell-tale flush reveal all he wanted
to know? Or she might be coming out on some errand--so that he could
quickly follow her? Or perhaps her grandfather might be going to the
library, leaving her at home by herself? The door of the house opposite
grew to be as fascinating as the windows; unknown possibilities might be
sprung upon him at any moment.
It was quite a cheerful morning--for London in November. If pale mists
hung about the thoroughfares, at least some trace of blue was
discernible overhead; and on the panes of the higher windows the
sunlight shone here and there a dull gleaming gold. The butcher's boy
whistled loudly as he marched by; the cabman flicked at his horse out of
mere good humour; the ostlers in the adjacent mews made merry with
bandied jests. It seemed too fine a morning for the collation of Scotch
ballads; and so indeed it proved to be; for about eleven o'clock the
door across the way was opened, and out came Mr. Bethune and his
granddaughter into the wintry sunlight. Maisrie did not look up. The
two were talking together as they went along the little thoroughfare and
turned into Park Street. The next moment Vincent had snatched up his hat
and gloves, and was off in pursuit.
But he did not seek to overtake them. On the contrary, he kept as wide
a space between them and him as he had done before he had ever dared to
address them; and yet the distance was not so great but that he could
observe Maisrie's every gesture and the graceful motion of every step.
She wore those hanging sleeves, too, that had hidden his arm on the
preceding night--those hanging sleeves that had allowed her to say
something in secret to him, even amid the noise and movement of a great
crowd. And now that he saw her actual self instead of the vague phantom
of his reveries, he plucked up courage. Yes, she must have known what
she was doing. Those were flesh and blood fingers that had taken hold
of his; when she raised his hand to her heart, it could not have been
altogether through inadvertence. Once or twice a wild fancy got into
his head that here and now he would hasten forward, and seize her arm,
as if by right, and say 'Maisrie, there is no need of words between us:
I am here at your side, and mean to remain here. Whatever that message
meant, I claim you as mine.' And then again he drew back. What if
there were some mistake? Hyde Park did not seem a fitting place for
explanations. And then, her grandfather might be more than astonished.
Yet hour after hour of this terrible day went by, and brought him no
nearer to the discovery he longed for. When Maisrie and her grandfather
returned from their stroll through the Park, the young man went back to
the sheet of foolscap on which he meant to shadow forth the outlines of
his lecture. The effort was absurd. He might keep his eyes
mechanically fixed on the paper; but his brain refused to act.
Industry--capital--the proposed resumption by the workers of the world
of the mines, factories, docks, ships, canals, railways which their
labour had constructed--the impracticability of land
nationalisation--and so forth: what were these but mere lifeless
phrases, when his heart was listening for the smallest sound on the
other side of the street? And ill-luck pursued him. She did not come
once to the window. The chrysanthemums in the little balcony were quite
neglected. The afternoon passed, and neither she nor her grandfather
came out alone. Then, when he went over as usual about half-past six,
there was no chance of his speaking to her by herself; in fact, both she
and her grandfather were seated at the one table, with a heap of books
and papers before them.
"Enough, Maisrie, enough," Mr. Bethune said blithely, and he rose at
once. "You have had your wish--though I don't see why you should
undertake any such drudgery--"
She also rose to receive the visitor; and as she gave him her hand for a
moment, and regarded him with very friendly eyes, there was not the
least trace of self-consciousness in her manner.
"Yes," said she, with a bright and frank smile, "grandfather has
conferred a new dignity on me. I am become his amanuensis. Not that I
am the slightest real use to him, I suppose; it is only done to please
me; still, I take it seriously, and pretend to be doing my share. Time
to go, is it?--very well, I shall be ready in a minute."
He was amazed and mortified beyond measure by this perfect
self-possession. Had nothing whatever happened the night before, then?
There was no secret between them at all? She had made no
confession--given him no message? And then wounded pride stepped in and
spoke--with its usual violence and cruel injustice. Perhaps there were
people who dispensed their caresses so freely that they thought nothing
of them? What had startled him, a man, might be only a matter of course
to her, a girl? Nay,--for what will not a lover say in a passion of
jealous anger and disappointment?--perhaps he was not the first nor the
only one who had been similarly bewildered?
He had no word for Maisrie on her return to the room. When the three of
them went out into the street, he forsook his usual post by her side,
and walked with her grandfather, to whom he talked exclusively. And of
course, as his questions were all about the projected compilation of
ballads, and as old George Bethune was always keenly enthusiastic about
any new undertaking, there was no stint to their conversation. Maisrie
walked on in silence and unheeded. When they reached the restaurant,
and as they were taking their seats at the little table, she glanced at
the young man; but his eyes did not happen to meet hers. And there was
no place for her in their talk.
"No," old George Bethune was saying--and with considerable animation,
for he appeared to have been looking over some of the ballads during the
day, and his mind was still fired by the recollection of them, "I think
they are beyond the reach of illustration, even if there should be an
_edition de luxe_. I have considered your suggestion more than once;
but I fear the drawing would in almost every instance be an anticlimax
to the power and simplicity and pathos of the printed page. No picture
could be as vivid and clear and striking as the verses themselves: why,
just think of such lines as these--
''Tis not the frost that freezes fell,
Nor blowing snaw's inclemencie;
'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But my love's heart grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgow town,
We were a comely sight to see;
My love was clad i' the black velvet,
And I myself in cramoisie.'
What picture could better that? What picture could do anything but
weaken it? You remember in 'Edom o' Gordon' how the young maiden is
lowered from the burning tower only to be slain by Edom o' Gordon's
spear--
'They row'd her in a pair o' sheets,
And tow'd her owre the wa';
But on the point o' Gordon's spear
She gat a deadly fa'.
O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth,
And cherry were her cheeks,
And clear, clear was her yellow hair,
Whereon the red blood dreeps.
Then wi' his spear he turned her owre;
O but her face was wan!
He said, "Ye are the first that e'er
I wish'd alive again."
He turned her owre and owre again,
O but her skin was white!
"I might hae spared that bonnie face
To hae been some man's delight.
"Busk and boun, my merry men a',
For ill dooms I do guess;--
I cannot look on that bonnie face
As it lies on the grass,"'--
What illustration could improve on that?--why, it burns clear as flame!
Then, again, take the girl who was drowned by her sister in 'the bonnie
mill-dams o' Balloray'----"
At this point the silent and neglected Maisrie suddenly looked
up--glancing from her grandfather to the young man in a curiously
appealing way. She seemed to say 'Grandfather, you forget: it is not
Balloray, it is Binnorie;' and again 'Vincent, he has forgotten: that is
all.' But neither of them took any notice of her; nay, the younger man,
in his insensate indignation and disappointment, would not look her way
at all; while old George Bethune, with his mind fixed on those imaginary
pictures, went on in a rapt fashion to repeat certain of the verses--
"Ye couldna see her yellow hair,
Balloray, O Balloray,
For gowd and pearls that were sae rare,
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.
Ye couldna see her middle sma',
Balloray, O Balloray,
Her gowden girdle was sae braw,
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.
Ye couldna see her lily feet,
Balloray, O Balloray,
Her gowden fringes were sae deep,
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.
'Sair will they be, whae'er they be,
Balloray, O Balloray,
The hearts that live to weep for thee!'
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray!"
"It is like a picture by one of the pre-Raphaelites," Vincent said; and
then the old man proceeded to talk of paper and type and binding, as if
the new work were just ready for press.
But silence was not to reign for ever between those two. On their way
home Mr. Bethune was talking of "The Demon Lover," of its alleged
Italian origin, and of a suggestion he had seen somewhere that it was no
forsaken sweetheart who had come to tempt the wedded wife, but a fiend
adopting that disguise. When they reached the little parlour he began
to search about for the volume in which "The Demon Lover" was thus
treated; but could not find it; whereupon he went off upstairs, to see
if it was not among his books and papers there. As soon as he had gone,
Maisrie rose and came over to where the young man was standing by the
fireplace.
"What have I done, Vincent?" she said.
"Oh, nothing," he made answer, avoiding her eyes.
"I have a right to know," she said, proudly.
"It is nothing," said he. "I--I made a mistake; that is all."
She looked at him in mute reproach: then she turned away, and went back
to her seat. There was a paper-knife on the table beside her; she took
that into her hands, and began to finger it; her eyes were downcast; he
was free to go now, when he chose.
But he did not go. On the contrary, after a second or two of
vacillation, he followed her.
"Maisrie," said he, in a very different tone, "perhaps it's all a
mistake on my part. If so, I am sorry. I don't want to vex you--
"I don't want to vex you, Vincent," said she, in a somewhat low voice.
"Tell me what it is."
"Well," said he, "I came here this afternoon thinking--hoping--there
might be some more definite understanding between you and me: yes, I was
hoping for much--and then--and then I found you quite careless and
thoughtless, just as if nothing at all had happened last night----"
"Last night?" she repeated.
"Yes," said he, rather reproachfully. "Don't you remember what happened
last night? Don't you know that you pressed my hand to your heart? But
perhaps that was nothing--perhaps that meant nothing at all----"
"It meant a very great deal, Vincent," said she, warmly, looking up at
him with honest eyes. "We were talking of the value of true
friends--and I could not say much--yet I wished to tell you what I
thought of all your goodness and kindness. Indeed, indeed it meant a
great deal, Vincent--and I hoped you would understand----"
"I have understood too much," said he, and he was silent for a second.
Then he went on. "I thought you had something more than that to say to
me, Maisrie. For why need I tell you what you must have guessed
already? You know I love you; you must have seen it all this time;
there was no need for me to speak. And when the future has but the one
hope for me, that some day or other you should be my wife, then perhaps
I was too eager to believe it had all come true--that you were giving me
a promise in that quiet way--and no need of a spoken word between us.
But I was mistaken, I see. You only meant friendship. You only wanted
to say 'Thank you!' to a friend----"
But by this time she had risen from her chair; and there was in her eyes
the strangest look of pride, and joy, and perhaps, too, of sadness.
"Do you know what you are saying, Vincent?" she said, quite gently.
"You--of all people in the world--"
She hesitated: she regarded, with admiring, and grateful, and
affectionate eyes, this handsome lad on whom fortune had shed all good
things--and perhaps she could not quite confess all she thought.
"You--of all people in the world--every one making much of you--every
one hoping such great things of you--and you come seeking a wife here."
She glanced round at the shabby little apartment. Then she turned her
eyes towards him again; and there was a smile in them, of an unstable
kind; and tears were gathering in the lashes. "Well," she said, "it
will be something for me to think of. It will be something for me to be
proud of. There can be no harm in that. I shall be able to say to
myself 'Vincent thought so well of you that he once asked you to be his
wife'----"
"But I don't know what you mean, Maisrie!" he exclaimed, and in spite of
her he seized her hand and held it tight between his two. "What do you
mean? You are going to be my wife! Oh, I don't want you to make rash
promises; I don't want to frighten you; no, I want you to be of good
heart, and you will see things will turn out all right in the end. And
if you don't know your own mind yet--if you are afraid to say
anything--won't you let me guess? Surely we have not been all this time
together, and seeing so much of each other, without getting to know each
other pretty intimately? And if I did make a mistake last night--well,
that is a trifling matter--and I was too presumptuous----"
She managed to release her hand.
"Sit down, Vincent, and let me talk to you," she said. "Perhaps I may
not have another chance; and I do not wish you ever to look back and say
I was ungrateful, or unreasonable, or cold-hearted. Cold-hearted?--not
that--not that--towards you!" And then she went on in rather a sad way,
"I think the time has about come that we should part. It has been a
pleasant companionship: I am not likely ever to forget it. But your
future is so important, and ours so uncertain, that I am sure the sooner
we go separate ways the better. And I am anxious to make a change now.
I think if my grandfather and I went away somewhere where we could live
more cheaply--where there would be fewer temptations towards the
spending of money--I could do something to support him, and leave him
the luxury of his books. I am a woman now--I want to work----"
"You work? Not while I can!" he said, hotly.
She went on without heeding him.
"That is why I have been glad to see him so eager about this book of
ballads. If he could only get rid of all indebtedness, to friends and
others, through this book, then we should start clear; and I should ask
him not to fret any more about his literary schemes. He is an old man.
He has done everything for me: why should I not do something for him
now? And I have no pride. The story about those Scotch estates was
always a kind of fairy tale to me; I never had any real belief in the
possibility of their coming to us; I was never a fine lady even in
imagination. So that it matters little to me what I turn my hand to; if
what little education I have had is useless, I would take to something
else; I would work about a farm-house as soon as anything--for I am a
great deal stronger than you may imagine----"
"Oh, what are you talking about, Maisrie!" he said, with simulated
anger. "If you think I am going to allow any such folly, you are
mistaken. There are plenty of dairymaids in the world without you. And
I have the right to say something--I claim the right: I am going to
interfere, whether you like it or not. When you speak of your duty
towards your grandfather, that I understand. He has been everything to
you: who would ask you to forsake him? But, as you say, he is an old
man. If anything were to happen to him, think of your own position.
You have hardly a friend in the world--a few acquaintances in Canada,
perhaps--but what is that? You will want some one to protect you: give
me that right! If I let you go from me now, how am I to find you
again?--how am I to know what may happen? Maisrie, have courage!--be
frank!--tell me that the little message of last night meant something
more!"
The eloquence was not in the words, but in the vibrating tones of his
voice; and there were tears in her eyes as she answered--
"Vincent, I cannot--I dare not! You don't know how grandfather and I
are situated: you are so generous, so open-minded, that--that you see
everything in so favourable a light; but then other people might step
in----
"Between you and me? Who?" he demanded, with set lips.
"Ah," she said, with a sigh, "who can tell? And besides--besides--do
you not think I am as proud of you as any one?--do you not think I am
looking forward to all that is expected of you?--and when I hear of you
as this or that, I will say to myself 'I knew what Vincent was going to
do; and now he is glad that he did not hamper himself out of--out of
pity--for a friendless girl'----"
But here she broke down altogether, and covered her face with her hands,
and sobbed without possibility of concealment. He was by her side in a
moment; he laid his hand on the down-bent head--on the soft hair.
"Maisrie," he said, with the utmost gentleness, "don't make me angry.
If you have anything to say why you cannot, or will not, be my wife,
tell me; but do not be unreasonable and foolish. You speak of my
future: it is nothing to me without you. You talk of the expectations of
my friends: I tell you that my life is my own. And why should you be
any drag or hamper--you! I wish you would think of yourself a little:
not of me. Surely there is something better in the world than ambition,
and figuring before the public in newspapers." Then he stopped for a
second or two; and resumed in a lower and different tone. "Of course,
if you refuse me your love, that is different. That I can understand. I
have done nothing to deserve it: I have come to you as a beggar. If you
refuse me that, there is nothing more to be said. I do not blame you.
If I have made a mistake, so much the worse for me----"
She rose.
"Vincent," she said, between her half-stifled sobs, "you are not very
kind. But it is better so--much better. Now I must go and help
grandfather to find that book. And as this is to be the last
word--well, then--dear friend--don't be so ungenerous to me when in
after years you look back----"
But he was not likely to let her go like that. He interposed between her
and the door; nay, he drew her towards him, and took her head between
his hands, and pushed back the hair from her brow, as though he would
read down to the very depths of those beautiful, tear-dimmed eyes.
"You have not refused me your love, Maisrie--because you dare not!" he
said. "And what do I care whether you say it or not--when I know?" And
therewith he kissed her on the mouth--and again--and again. "Now you
are mine. You dare not deny your love--and I claim you as my wife----"
She struggled backward to be free from him, and said almost wildly--
"No, no--Vincent, you do not understand--I have not been frank with
you--I cannot ever be your wife!--some day I will tell you----"
There was no chance for any further entreaty or explanation, for at this
moment there was the sound of a footstep outside, the door was opened,
and old George Bethune appeared, carrying in his hands some half-dozen
books. When he saw those two standing opposite to each other, the young
man pale and agitated, the girl also pale and with her eyes streaming
over with tears, he glanced from the one to the other in silence. Then
he walked deliberately forward to the table, and laid down the books.
Maisrie escaped from the room. Vincent returned to the fireplace, too
bewildered by her last words to care much what construction might be
placed upon this scene by her grandfather. But he had to recall
himself: for the old man, just as if he had observed nothing, just as if
nothing had happened, but yet with a certain measured precision in his
tones, resumed his discussion of "The Demon Lover," and proceeded to
give his reasons for thinking that the story had migrated from the far
north to the south.
But presently Mr. Bethune had turned from those books, and was staring
into the fire, as he said with a certain slow and significant emphasis--
"It will be an interesting subject; and yet I must guard against being
wholly absorbed by it. And that for my granddaughter's sake. I imagine
we have been living a much too monotonous life for some time back; and
that is not well for anyone, especially for a young girl. A limitation
of interests; that is not wholesome. The mind becomes morbid; and
exaggerates trifles. And in the case of Maisrie, she has been used to
change and travel; I should think the unvarying routine of our life of
late, both as regards our employments and amusements, extremely
prejudicial to her health and spirits----"
"Why, she seems very well!" Vincent said, anxiously--for he knew not
what all this might mean.
"A change will do her good--will do all of us good, perhaps," said the
old man. "Everyone knows that it is not wise for people to see too much
of each other; it puts too heavy a strain on friendship. Companionship
should be a volunteered thing--should be a reward, indeed, for previous
isolation and work----"
Vincent's forehead flushed; and the natural man within him was crying
out 'Oh, very well, then; I don't press any further acquaintance on
you!' But for Maisrie's sake he curbed his pride. He said, as quickly
as might be--
"In our case I thought that was precisely how our companionship stood--a
little relaxation after the labours of the day. However, if you think
there has been too much of that----"
"I was speaking of general principles," Mr. Bethune said, with
equanimity. "At the same time I confess that, as regards Maisrie, I
think that some alteration in our mode of existence might be beneficial.
Her life of late has been much too monotonous."
"Again and again she has told me that she delights in the quietude of
it!" the young man protested--for it suddenly occurred to him that
Maisrie was to be dragged away from England altogether. "Surely she has
had enough of travel?"
"Travel? That is not what I have in mind," old George Bethune said.
"We have neither the time nor the means. I should merely propose to
pack up a few books and things, and take Maisrie down to some sea-side
place--Brighton, perhaps, as being the most convenient."
The young man's face flashed instant relief; Brighton--that was
something different from what he had been dreading. Brighton--Brighton
was not Toronto nor Montreal; there was going to be no wide Atlantic
between him and her; a trivial matter of an hour's railway journey or
something of the kind!
"Oh, Brighton?" said he, quite gladly. "Yes, that will be very pleasant
for her. Brighton is brisk and lively enough at this time of the year;
and if there is any sunlight going, you are sure to get it there. I am
afraid you will find the hotels full----"
"We shall not trouble the hotels," Mr. Bethune said, with grave dignity.
"Some very humble lodgings will suffice. And perhaps we might get rooms
in a house on the hill at the back of the town; that would give me
seclusion and quiet for my work. Yes, I think the change will be
wholesome; and the sooner we set about it the better."
Well, to Vincent it did not seem that this proposal involved any great
alteration in their mode of life, except that he himself was obviously
and unmistakeably excluded; nevertheless, he was so glad to find that
the separation from Maisrie was of a mild and temporary nature that he
affected to give a quite cordial approval. He even offered to engage
the services of his aunt, Mrs. Ellison, in securing them apartments; but
Mr. Bethune answered that Maisrie and he were old travellers, and would
be able to shift for themselves. And when did they propose to go?
Well, to-morrow, if his granddaughter were content.
While they were yet talking, Maisrie made her appearance. She had
bathed her eyes in water, and there was not much trace of her recent
agitation, though she was still somewhat pale. And Vincent--to show her
that he refused to be alarmed by her parting words--to show her that he
was quite confident as to the future--preserved his placid, not to say
gay, demeanour.
"Do you know what your grandfather is going to do with you, Maisrie?"
said he. "He is going to take you down to Brighton for a time. Yes,
and at once--to-morrow, if you care to go."
She glanced quickly from one to the other, as if fearing some conspiracy
between them.
"And you, Vincent?" she asked, turning to him.
He did not meet her look.
"I? Oh, I must keep to work; I can't afford to go away down and idle
among those fashionable folk. My Mendover lecture isn't half sketched
out yet. And then, again, you remember the article I told you
about?--before beginning it I ought really to run down to Scotland, or
at least to Yorkshire, and see one of those Municipal Lodging-houses in
actual operation. They seem to me marvellous institutions," continued
this consummate hypocrite (as if the chief thought in his mind at this
moment was the housing of the industrious poor!), "and of the greatest
importance to the country at large; worked at a profit, too, that is the
amazing thing! Fancy at Huddersfield; threepence a day includes use of
cooking and table utensils, a smoking-room, reading-room, and
conversation-room, and then a bed at night--all for threepence!
Belonging to the rate-payers, themselves--under the management of the
Corporation--and paying a profit so that you can go on improving and
extending. Why, every big town in the kingdom ought to have a Municipal
Lodginghouse, or half a dozen of them; and it only needs to be shown how
they are worked for the example to be copied everywhere----"
"And when do you go, Vincent?" she asked, with downcast eyes.
"Oh, I am not sure yet," he made answer cheerfully. "Of course, I ought
in duty to go; but it will cost me half what I shall get for the
article. However, that is neither here nor there. But if this is to be
our last night together for a little while, Maisrie," he went on, to
keep up his complacent acquiescence in this temporary separation, "you
might give us a little music--won't you?--you haven't had the violin out
of its case for a long time."
She was very obedient. She went and got the violin--though she was in
no playing or singing mood.
"What, then, grandfather?" she said when she was ready.
"Whatever you please."
Then she began, and very slowly and tenderly she played the air of a
Scotch song--"Annie's Tryst." It is a simple air, and yet pathetic in
its way; and indeed so sensitive and skilful was her touch that the
violin seemed to speak; any one familiar with the song might have
imagined he could hear the words interpenetrating those vibrant notes--
"Your hand is cauld as snaw, Annie,
Your cheek is wan and white;
What gars ye tremble sae, Annie,
What maks your e'e sae bright?
The snaw is on the ground, Willie,
The frost is cauld and keen,
But there's a burnin' fire, Willie,
That sears my heart within.
* * * * *
Oh, will ye tryst wi' me, Annie,
Oh, will ye tryst me then?
I'll meet ye by the burn, Annie,
That wimples down the glen.
I daurna tryst wi' you, Willie,
I daurna tryst ye here,
But we'll hold our tryst in heaven, Willie,
In the springtime o' the year."
"That is too sad, Maisrie," her grandfather said, fretfully. "Why don't
you sing something?"
She turned to Vincent: there was a mute question in her eyes.
"Will you sing the _Claire Fontaine_, Maisrie?" said he.
She seemed a little surprised: it was a strange song to ask for on a
night of farewell; but she did as she was bidden. She went and got the
book and placed it open before her on the table: then she drew her bow
across the strings.
But hardly had she began to sing the little ballad than it became
evident that there was something added to the pure, clear tones of her
voice--some quality of an indefinable nature--some alien influence that
might at any moment prove too strong for her self-control.
_Sur la plus haute tranche--_
this was the point at which she began--
_Le rossignol chantait;_
_Chante, rossignol, chante,_
_Toi qui as le coeur gai--_
And so far all was well; but at the refrain
_Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,_
_Jamais je ne t'oublierai_
her voice shook a little, and her lips were tremulous. Vincent cursed
his folly a hundred times over: why had he asked her to sing the _Claire
Fontaine_? But still she held bravely on:
_Chante, rossignol, chante,_
_Toi qui as le coeur gai;_
_Tu as le coeur a rire,_
_Moi je l' ai-t-a pleurer--_
And here she could go no further for those choking tears in her voice;
she stood for a moment all uncertain, trying to master herself; then she
laid the violin on the table, and with a broken "Good-night,
Vincent--and good-bye!" she turned and left the room, her hands hiding
her face, her frame shaken by the violence of her sobbing.
There was an instant of silence.
"Yes, it is time she was taken away," old George Bethune said, with a
deep frown on his shaggy eyebrows. "Her nerves are all wrong. Why
should she make such a to-do about leaving London for a fortnight?"
But Vincent Harris knew better than that. It was not this unexpected
departure that was in Maisrie's mind: it was the words that he had
spoken to her, and she to him, earlier in the evening. It was of no
fortnight's absence she was thinking, but of a far wider and longer
farewell.