PUT TO THE PROOF.
To say that Vin Harris's jealousy was unreasoning, ungovernable, and the
cause of cruel and incessant torture to himself, is merely to say that
it was jealousy; but by an unhappy coincidence this was the very moment
chosen by his father to make a disclosure which, for a startled second
or so, seemed to recall and confirm the young man's wildest suspicions.
When Vincent, in obedience to the telegraphic summons, arrived at the
house in Grosvenor Place, he found his father in the library, standing
with his back to the fire. On this occasion the great
capital-denouncing capitalist did not wear the suit of hodden grey
which, at dinner in his own house, was designed to show his contempt for
conventionality; no; when this interview was over, he meant to lunch at
the Athenaeum Club, and with a view to that solemn rite he had donned a
black frock-coat which was tightly buttoned over his substantial form.
A stiff upstanding collar and a satin tie added to the rigidity of his
appearance; while his manner was, as usual, pompous and cold. With a
roll of paper in his hand, he would have looked as if he were going to
deliver an afternoon lecture at some public institution.
"I have sent for you, Vin," he began, "because I have something of
importance to say to you, and the sooner it is said the better. You are
aware that I have never sought to interfere with your way of life.
Indeed I have seen no cause to do so. Your line of study I approve;
your ambitions I would encourage; and as for the amusements and
pleasures natural to your years, I can trust you to remember your own
self-respect. But in one direction I confess I am disappointed. My
chief aim in your education has been that you should see and know the
world; that you should understand men; and by contact learn to cope with
them, and hold your own. Yes, I confess I am disappointed; for if I am
not misinformed--and I have taken the greatest trouble not to be
misinformed--here are you, after all your travel and experience of the
world, become the dupe of two common begging-letter impostors."
The young man looked up quickly; but he held his peace. Now this
somewhat disconcerted Harland Harris, for he had expected an instant and
indignant protest, which would have justified a little judicious warmth
on his side in production of proofs. But Vincent sate calm and
collected, listening with apparent respect.
"Yes, deeply disappointed," his father continued, with a little more
animation, "for this old charlatan who seems to have got hold of you is
altogether too bare-faced and preposterous. Did you ever ask yourself
how he lived; what was his business or profession; where he got the
money to go from one country to another? Well, if you have not, I have;
I have made enquiries; I have had him traced; I can tell you his story,
and a very pretty story it is. Would you like to hear it?"
"I don't know that it concerns me much," said Vincent, with composure.
"Oh, it does not?" said the gentleman with the pompous professional air,
upon whom this indifference seemed to have a somewhat irritating effect.
"Well, there's nothing very grand about it--except the magnificent and
wholesale lying! And perhaps also the incredible simplicity of the
people who allowed themselves to be imposed on. Why, in Canada he
called himself Lord Bethune!--was there no second-hand copy of Burke
anywhere about to show them there was no such peerage in existence?
Lord Bethune haunting newspaper-offices, and borrowing money right and
left, because of his Scotch name, and his bogus literary schemes! His
sham estates--his sham lineage--his sham coat of arms: did nobody think
of turning up a book? 'Stand Fast, Craig-Royston!' Craig-Royston!----"
He crossed the room and took down a volume from one of the shelves.
"There," he said, putting the book on the table, "there is Black's Guide
to Scotland. Can you find out where Craig-Royston is? Turn up the
index."
Mechanically and carelessly Vincent did as he was bid.
"No, I don't see it there," he said.
"I should think not! Nor Balloray either: can you find Balloray? An
easy thing to claim estates that don't exist; and wear armorial bearings
of your own invention! Cadzow--oh, yes, Cadzow you will find--Cadzow
undoubtedly exists; but most people thought that Cadzow belonged to the
Duke of Hamilton. Or does Lord Bethune claim to be Marquis of Douglas
and Earl of Angus as well?"
He paused; so Vincent was bound to answer.
"I don't know that it concerns me much," the young man said, repeating
his former phrase. "Even if all you say is true, what then? You sent me
out to see the world, and take people as I found them. Well, I found a
good many liars; and one more or less doesn't matter much, does it?"
But Harland Harris was no fool; he instantly divined wherein lay the
secret of Vincent's real or assumed indifference.
"Ah, I understand," said he. "I understand. You don't care so much
about him. You are willing to let him go. You think you can dissociate
him from his granddaughter. He may be a swindler--but you fancy she
manages to keep aloof--"
The young man grew somewhat pale.
"Take care," said he, and he held up his hand as if he would enjoin
silence. "Words that are said cannot be unsaid."
His father regarded him for a second, and then he endeavoured to bring a
little more friendliness and consideration into his manner.
"I have heard of this infatuation," he said. "And if you had been like
other young men, Vin, I should have said nothing. I should have left
you to find out for yourself. But, you see, you have the misfortune to
imagine other people to be as straightforward and honourable as
yourself; you do not suspect; and you are inclined to trust your own
judgment. But even if this girl were all you think she is, what madness
it would be for you to contemplate marrying her! Look at her
position--and at yours: look at her upbringing and present
surroundings--and at yours; think of what is expected of you; what
chances you have; what an alliance with a great family might do for you
in public life. What good ever comes of overleaping social barriers--of
Quixotism--of self-sacrifice for sentiment's sake? What does a marriage
between two people in different spheres mean?--what is the inevitable
result?--it is not the one that is raised--it is the other that is
dragged down."
"These are strange doctrines for a socialist and a communist," Vincent
observed.
"They are the doctrines of common sense," his father retorted, sharply.
"However, it is unnecessary to say anything further on that score. You
will abandon all this nonsense when you understand who and what this
girl is; and you will thank God you have had your eyes opened in time.
And indeed, if all that I am told is true--if I guess aright--if I piece
the story properly together--I should say she was by far the more
dangerous of the two accomplices--"
Vincent's lips curled: he did not put his disdain into words.
"A painful revelation?" his father continued, in more oracular fashion.
"Oh, yes, no doubt. But occasionally the truth is bitter and wholesome
at the same time. What you believe about the girl is one thing; what I
know about her is another: indeed I can gather that it was only through
her artifice that the old man's impostures were accepted, or tolerated,
at all. What is he?--a farceur--a poseur--who would at once have been
sent to the right about but for the ingenue by his side, with her
innocent eyes and her sad look. When the writer of the begging-letter
calls, his story might be inquired into: but no!--for here is this
interesting young lady--and the hardest heart declines to cross-examine
while she is standing there. And of course she must go to the
newspaper-offices, to beguile the editor with her silent distress, while
her grandfather is wheedling him out of a loan; or she accompanies him
to the wine merchant, or the bookseller, or the tailor, so that nothing
can be said about unpaid accounts while she is by; and of course there
is a renewal of credit. A very simple and effective trick: even where
the people know the old man to be a rogue, they are sorry for the girl;
and they have a pleasing sense of virtue in allowing themselves to be
further mulcted: they little suspect that she is by far the more
accomplished swindler of the two----"
Here Vincent laughed, in open scorn; but the laugh was a forced one; and
his eyes were lowering.
"I am glad you consider it a laughing matter," said Mr. Harris--who
found it less easy to combat this contemptuous unbelief than if he had
been met with indignation and wrath. "Perhaps, after all, the story is
no revelation? Perhaps your complaisance goes further than merely
tolerating the old man's lies? Perhaps the glamour the girl has thrown
over you would lead you to accept her just as she is, her hypocrisy, her
craft, and all? Or perhaps you have planned out for yourself a still
more brilliant future than any that had occurred to your friends?
Perhaps you aim at being the old man's successor? It is an easy way of
getting through life, having a woman like that by your side, to earn
your living for you. The lover of Manon Lescaut----"
Vincent leapt to his feet, his eyes aflame.
"You go too far," he said, breathing hard. "You go too far. I have been
trying to remember you are my father: don't make it too difficult. What
do I care about this farrago of nonsense that some one has put into your
head--this trash--this venomous guessing? It is nothing to me. It is
idle air. I know otherwise. But when it comes to insult--well, it is
all an insult; but something must be forgiven to ignorance: the people
who have supplied you with this guess-work rubbish are probably as
ignorant as yourself about those two. Only--no more insults, if you
please! I am your son; but--but there are limits to what you ask me to
hear in patience. You talk of my madness and infatuation; it is your
madness, your infatuation! What can you say of your own knowledge of
that old man and his granddaughter? Why, nothing. You have never spoken
to them; never seen them. And yet, without an atom of inquiry, without
an atom of proof, you go and accept all this tissue of guess-work--this
rubbish--this trash--as if it were gospel; and you expect me to give it
a patient hearing? It is too contemptible!"
"Yes, but unfortunately," said Mr. Harris, with great calmness--for now
he felt he had the advantage on his side, "you are mistaken in supposing
that I have made no inquiry, and have received no proof. The inquiry
has been made for me with great skill and patience, during the past
month; and the proofs seem to me sufficient. Proofs?--you yourself shall
furnish one."
This was a kind of challenge; and the young man accepted it. His eyes
were fixed on his adversary.
"What, then?"
"When you find," said his father, with deliberation, "two people
wandering from town to town, without any visible means of subsistence,
you naturally wonder how they manage to live. Very well. But now, if
you discover they have a pretty knack of falling in with this or that
rich young gentleman, and allowing him to pay for them on all occasions,
isn't the mystery partly solved? I am informed that these two people
and yourself have been in the habit for a considerable time back of
dining together in the evening--indeed, I have the name of the
restaurant. Now I wish to ask you this question point-blank: is it not
the fact that in every case you have paid?"
Vincent did not answer; he was not thinking of himself at all; nor yet
of the direct question that had been put to him. A terrible wave of
bewilderment had passed over him; his heart seemed to have within it but
one sudden cry--'Maisrie--Maisrie--why were you driving--with that
stranger?'--and all the world grew black with a horror of doubt and
despair. He thought of the young man driving along the King's Road in
Brighton: was there another paying for those two now?--had they another
friend now to accompany them every evening? And Maisrie? But all this
wild agony lasted only a moment. He cast this palsy of the brain behind
him. His better self rose confident and triumphant--though there was
still a strange look left in his eyes.
"Paid?" he said, with a kind of scornful impatience. "Who paid? Oh, I
did--mostly. What about that? That is nothing--a few shillings--I found
it pleasanter not to have to settle bills before a young lady; and of
course she did not know who paid; I made an arrangement----"
"An arrangement by which you gave those people their dinner for nothing
for months and months!"
"And what then?"
For Vincent had entirely recovered his self-command: he affected to
regard this story that had been told him as quite unworthy of serious
attention. It was his father who was growing exasperated.
"Have you taken leave of your senses?" Mr. Harris demanded. "Is it
nothing that you yourself have shown this old man to be a pauper,
getting his dinner on charity every evening? And what better was the
girl? She must have known! Do you imagine she was not aware of his
receiving money for bogus books that he never meant to publish; and of
his inveigling soft-headed Scotchmen--I suppose there must be one here
and there--into giving him a loan because of his sham patriotism? And
these are the people you have chosen to consort with all this time; and
this is the girl you would bring into your family--you would introduce
to your friends as your wife! But you cannot be so mad! You may
pretend indifference: you cannot be indifferent. You may consider it
fine and heroic to disbelieve the clearest evidence: the world, on the
other hand, is apt to say that it is only a fool and an idiot who keeps
his eyes shut and walks into a trap blindfolded. And--and I do think,
when you begin to reflect, that your own common-sense will come to your
aid."
He turned to the mantel-piece, and took from it some papers.
"I have given you," he continued, "the sum and substance of the
enquiries I have made, in this country and in America. I can show you
here still further details; but before allowing you to examine these
communications, I must exact a promise that they shall be treated as in
strictest confidence."
"Thank you," said Vincent, "I will not trouble you. I can guess at the
kind of creature who would accept such a task, and at his interpretation
of any facts that might come across him."
Then he rose.
"And is this the important business on which you sent for me?" he asked,
but quite civilly.
"You do not think it is important?" the other demanded. "But at least
you have been warned. You have been advised to keep your eyes open. You
have been shown what kind of people they are who have got hold of you:
it is for you yourself to say whether you will be any longer their
dupe."
"Very well," said the young man; and he rose and took up his hat and
cane. "Oh, by the way, I presume you have come to an end of your
enquiries? Because, if not, I would advise your spy--your detective, or
whatever he is--not to come prowling to any restaurant or keyhole when I
am along with my friends, or he might find things become very unpleasant
for him. Good-morning!"
So this was the end of the interview; and Harland Harris shortly
thereafter made off for the Athenaeum Club, well satisfied that his
narrative had produced a far deeper impression than the young man would
acknowledge. And in truth it had. When Vincent left the house, and
walked away to the solitary little rooms in Mayfair, his face was no
longer scornful; it was serious and troubled; for there was much for him
to ponder over. Not about Maisrie. He put Maisrie aside. For one
thing, he was a little vexed and angry with her at the moment--quite
unreasonably, as he strove to convince himself; nevertheless, he would
rather not think about her just then; and, indeed, there was no
occasion, for the idea that she could be the participator in any fraud
or series of frauds was simply not a thinkable thing. He knew better
than that; and was content. Maisrie driving with a stranger--perhaps
that was not so well done of her; but Maisrie as a skilful and
accomplished professional swindler?--then you might expect to see the
stars fall from their places in the midnight sky.
But as regards the old man, that was very different; and he could not
deny that there were certain points in the story just told him which
were corroborated by his own knowledge. He knew, for example, that
George Bethune had got money for one book which, as circumstances would
have it, was not produced and published; he knew that those dinners at
the Restaurant were paid for by himself; he knew that he had heard Mr.
Bethune speak of Cadzow as belonging to his family; and he had to
confess that he could not find Craig-Royston in the index of his
father's guide-book. And yet he could not give up this magnificent,
this heroic old man all at once. He could not believe him to be a mean
and crafty trickster. Surely his love for Scotland was sincere. Surely
his passionate admiration of the old Scotch ballads was genuine enough.
Surely it was not to impose on any one that old George Bethune sang
aloud the songs of his youth as he walked through the crowded streets of
London. There was a grandeur in his very presence, a dignity in his
demeanour, that was far from the artful complaisance of a schemer. Then
his undaunted courage--his proud spirit--and above all, the tender and
affectionate guardianship he bestowed on his granddaughter: Vincent
could not forget all these things. No, nor could he forget how he had
enjoyed George Bethune's society on these many and pleasant evenings;
and how he had learned more and more to respect him, his unflinching
fortitude, his generous enthusiasms, and even, at times, his innocent
vanity. He had had a hard life, this old man, and yet he bore no
enmity. He had had many trials and misfortunes, many hopes
disappointed; yet his temper was not soured. But the conclusive proof,
after all, was the character of Maisrie herself--her noble sweetness,
her refinement, her sympathy, her quick gratitude for the smallest of
kindnesses: could such a beautiful human flower have grown up under the
fostering care of an unscrupulous vagabond and knave?
When he got to his rooms, the first thing he did--but with no very
definite purpose----was to take up his copy of Black's Guide to
Scotland. It was a recent edition; he had got it so that he might trace
out that long wandering of which old George Bethune and Maisrie had
spoken so often. And mechanically he turned to the index--with which he
had been confronted in his father's library; and mechanically he glanced
at the successive columns. But what was this?--why here was
Craig-Royston! His eyes were not deceiving him; for he at once referred
to the page indicated, and found Craig-Royston described as a district
in the neighbourhood of Loch Lomond--though, to be sure, he could
discover no trace of it on the map. So he had jumped to conclusions all
too prematurely? He had allowed that unknown enemy of his--that dark
and malignant creature in the background--too facile a triumph? He
began to be ashamed of himself. 'Stand fast, Craig-Royston!' had not
been his motto, as it was that of the proud old man whom he had injured
by listening to those childish tales.
He returned to the index, and sought for Balloray. Well, there was no
Balloray; but then Balloray was a private house; and private houses,
unless of historical interest, are seldom mentioned in guide-books. And
then again he bethought him: why, the old ballad!--the 'bonnie mill-dams
o' Balloray': surely that was sufficient evidence of there being such a
place? He could almost hear George Bethune's voice as he recalled the
opening lines--
'There were twa sisters lived in a bower;
Balloray, O Balloray;
The youngest o' them, O she was a flower!
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.
There came a squire frae out the west,
Balloray, O Balloray;
He lo'ed them baith, but the youngest best,
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.'
"Why, what a fool he had been, to be disconcerted by an index--and that
the index of some old and obsolete edition! He prosecuted his
researches. He turned to Cadzow. Yes, here was Cadzow: Cadzow Castle
and Cadzow Forest; and undoubtedly these were the property of the Duke
of Hamilton. But might there not be some other property of the same
name, as a sort of appanage of Balloray? It was no unusual thing, in
Scotland or anywhere else, for two places to have the same name; and in
this instance it was the more important one, the ducal one, that would
naturally figure in the guide-book. He seemed to see old George Bethune
regarding him, with something of a haughty look on his face, as though
he would say 'Of what next will you accuse me?'"
Well, all this was very fine and brave; it was a manful struggling with
certain phantoms; and he was trying to cheat himself into an elation of
confidence. But ever and anon there came to him a consciousness of
something behind; something inexplicable; and his thoughts would wander
away back to Brighton. Fugitive lines of that terrible poem of Heine's
would come into his brain--_Zu Tafel sassen froh die Gaest' ... und wie
ich nacht dem Brautpaar schaut' ... O weh! mein Liebchen war die Braut_.
He began to imagine for himself what those three had been doing this
morning. The weather being so fine, no doubt Mr. Bethune had laid aside
his books for the time being; and he and Maisrie would be ready to go
out by half-past ten or eleven. Would their new friend call for them,
or would there be some place of appointment down in the King's-road? He
could see them walk out the West Pier. The old man with the firm-set
figure and the flowing white locks would probably be thinking but little
of what was going on around him; as likely as not he would be singing
gaily to himself about the Pier o' Leith and Berwick Law, and 'leaving
thee, my bonnie Mary.' Yes, and so far those two others would be left
to themselves; they could talk as they chose--eyes meeting eyes. And
what had the bumpkin squire to say? Oh, horses and hounds--the county
balls--the famous bin of port to be opened at Christmas. Christmas was
coming near now; might there not be an invitation to the two
world-wanderers--to come and be hospitably entertained at the big
country-house and introduced to friends? And Maisrie--would she think
twice?--would she refuse? The old man would consent to anything that
promised him present comfort; he accepted favours with a sort of royal
complacency; it would matter little to him so long as the fire was
bright, the wine good, the company cheerful, and himself allowed a fine
latitude of oration. But Maisrie----?
It was nearly four o'clock now. That previous afternoon at Brighton had
been a time of misery; and long into the night he had been kept awake by
dull and brooding speculation, varied by bitter self-reproach. All the
same he felt himself irresistibly drawn thither again; whatever was
happening down there by the sea-side, he wanted to know; his imaginings
were a more cruel torture than anything his eyes could tell him. And
perhaps--he added to himself, with an ominous darkening of the
brows--perhaps there might be a chance of his meeting this rival of his
face to face, the better to measure him, and learn what both of them had
to expect.
He caught the four-thirty express at Victoria, and got whirled away
down. But he did not go to Mrs. Ellison's house, nor yet to the Bedford
Hotel, at which his friend Musselburgh was staying; he went to the
Bristol, so as to keep himself a little out of observation. He was
lucky enough to get a bedroom; and that was all he required; he did not
even wait to look at it; he left the hotel and went wandering down the
Marine Parade, which was now a mass of darkness lit up by innumerable
points of yellow fire.
Whither away then? If only he knew the street in which they had taken
lodgings he could soon find out their daily habits, himself remaining
unseen; but he had nothing beyond a vague recollection that they had
spoken of some hill behind the town. However, Brighton, though now
grown a big place, has a few leading thoroughfares in which everybody
who is a visitor is pretty sure to be encountered sooner or later; and
in this particular instance it was a good deal sooner than he could have
dreamed of.
He was walking along the seaward side of the Parade, with but a casual
glance now and again at this or that passer-by, when suddenly, on the
other side, at the corner of German Place, three figures came under the
glare of a gas-lamp, and these he instantly recognised. Occasionally as
they went on they became indistinguishable in the dusk; then again a
gas-lamp would bring them into vivid relief--the tall and slim young
girl, the square-set old man with the picturesque white hair, the young
gentleman with the yellow cover-coat. They were talking together, and
walking quickly, for the night was cold.
"Yes," said Vincent to himself, in the bitterness of his heart, "I am
displaced and superseded now. Without much difficulty, either. Quickly
done. And no doubt he is taking them along to some restaurant. He will
hear about the rocks and dales of Scotland--about the ballads and
songs--perhaps he has subscribed for the new book. Then they will ask
him to go home with them again; and Maisrie will take out her violin;
and perhaps--perhaps she will sing '_C'etait une fregate, mon joli coeur
de rose_--perhaps she will sing that for him, or any other of the
Canadian songs, except the one. But surely, surely, Maisrie will not
sing '_La Claire Fontaine_'?"
And then again he said to himself, with his eyes fixed on those three,
but most of all on the young girl who walked with so light and joyous a
step--
"Ah, I have suffered to-day, you do not know how much, in repelling
insinuations brought against you, and in silencing my own doubts; but
what do you care? One restaurant is as good as another; one friend as
good as another; let the absent expect to be forgotten, when it is a
woman who is asked to remember. _La Claire Fontaine_?--why not _La
Claire Fontaine_, for him as well as anyone else? All that past
companionship has gone by; here is a new friend to be welcomed with
smiles and graces. And as for the old man--what does it matter to him so
long as there is someone to settle up the tavern score?"
Nay, his madness of jealousy overmastered him altogether. When they got
down to East-street, they did not at once go into the restaurant, for it
was yet somewhat early; they began to examine the windows of one or two
of the shops, and the trinkets displayed there. And again and again
Vincent was on the point of going up to his enemy, and saying "Well, why
don't you buy her something? If you haven't got money, I will lend it
to you!" Surely this would suffice to provoke a quarrel?--to be settled
next morning, out on the downs, and not by any pistol accident or trick
of foil, but by a fair stand-up trial of strength, those two facing each
other, with clenched fists and set mouth. The young man in the
cover-coat was looking at some Austrian garnets: little did he know what
wild beast was within springing distance of him.
At length they left the shops, and leisurely strolled along to the
Italian restaurant, and entered. Vincent gave them time to get settled,
and then followed. He did not wish to interfere with them; he merely
wished to see. And when he went upstairs to the room on the first
floor, it was with no abashment; he did not slink, he walked resolutely,
to a small unoccupied table at the further end; but he was some way from
them; perchance he might be able to observe without being noticed. The
waiter came to him. "Anything!" was his order: gall and wormwood there
were likely to be in any dish that might be brought. Wine?--oh yes, a
flask of Chianti--why not a flask of Chianti?--one might fill a glass,
and send a message to a faithless friend--a message to recall her to
herself for a moment. You who are sitting there, will you not drink to
the health of all false lovers--you who are sitting there in such joyful
company--_toi qui as le coeur gai_!
He could see them well enough. There was champagne on the table: that
was not of George Bethune's ordering: the booby from the swedes and
mangold was clearly playing the part of host. And what was she saying
to him in return? What form did her thanks take? _Je ne puis rien
donner--qu' mon coeur en mariage_: that was easily said; and might mean
no more than it meant in the bygone days. Women could so readily pour
out, to any chance new comer, their _petit vin blanc_ of gratitude.
But suddenly he became aware of some movement at the table along there;
and quickly he lowered his look. Then he knew--he did not see--that
someone was coming down the long room. He breathed hard, with a sort of
fear--and it was not the fear of any man; he wished he had not come into
this place; could he not even now escape?
"Vincent!"
The voice thrilled through him; he looked up; and here was Maisrie
Bethune regarding him--regarding him with those eyes so beautiful, so
shining, so tender, and reproachful!
"Did you not see us? Why should you avoid us?"
The tone in which she spoke pierced his very heart; but still--but
still--there was that stranger at the table yonder.
"I thought you were otherwise engaged," said he. "I did not wish to
intrude."
"You are unkind."
Then she stood for a moment uncertain. It was a brave thing for this
girl to walk down a long room to address a young man, knowing that more
than one pair of eyes would be turned towards her; and here she was
standing without any visible aim or errand.
"Won't you come to our table, Vincent?" she asked hesitatingly.
And then he noticed her embarrassment; and he felt he would be a craven
hound not to come to her rescue, whatever the quarrel between them.
"Oh, yes, certainly, if I may," but with no sort of gladness in his
consent; and then he bade the waiter fetch the things along.
She led the way. When he reached the table he shook hands with George
Bethune, who appeared more surprised than pleased. Then Maisrie made a
faint little kind of introduction as between the young men: Vincent--who
had not caught the other's name--bowed stiffly, and took the seat that
had been brought for him. And then, seeing that it was on Maisrie that
all the responsibility of this new arrangement had fallen, he forced
himself to talk--making apologies for disturbing them, explaining how it
was he came to be in Brighton, and begging Maisrie not to take any
trouble about him: it was only too kind of her to allow him to join
them.
And yet it was very awkward, despite Maisrie's assiduous little
attentions, and her timid efforts to propitiate everybody. The
fresh-complexioned young gentleman stared at the intruder; grew sullen
when he observed Maisrie's small kindnesses; and eventually turned to
resume his conversation with Mr. Bethune, which had been interrupted.
Vincent, who had been ready, on the smallest provocation, to break forth
in flame and fury, became contemptuous; he would take no heed of this
person; nay, he would make use of the opportunity to show to anyone who
might choose to listen on what terms he was with Maisrie.
"Where are you living, Maisrie?" said he, and yet still with a certain
stiffness.
She gave him the number in German Place.
"Then we are neighbours, or something near it," he said. "I am at the
Bristol--the Bristol Hotel."
"Oh, really," she made answer. "I thought you had an aunt living in
Brighton--the lady who came to see us at Henley."
"Oh, can you remember things as long ago as Henley?" said he. "I did
not think a woman's memory could go so far back as that. A week--a
day--I thought that was about as much as she could remember."
For a moment she was silent, and wounded; but she was too proud to
betray anything to those other two; and she resumed her conversation
with Vincent, though with a trifle more of dignity and reserve. As for
him, he knew not what to do or say. He could perceive, he could not but
perceive, that Maisrie was trying to be kind to him; and he felt himself
a sort of renegade; but all the same there was that other sitting at the
table--there was an alien presence--and all things were somehow awry.
And yet why should he despise that stranger? In the bucolic dandy he
could see himself, as he himself was seen by certain of his friends.
This other dupe, his successor, had a countrified complexion and a
steely blue eye, he wore a horse-shoe pin in diamonds, and had a bit of
stephanotis in his button-hole; but these points of difference were not
of much account. And the old man--the old man with the grand air and
the oracular speech: no wonder he thought himself entitled to call
himself Lord Bethune; but why had he chosen to abate his rank and style?
Oh, yes, a striking presence enough--a magnificent presence--with which
to cozen shopkeepers!
For indeed this young man's mind was all unhinged. He had had a hard
fight of it that day; and perhaps if Maisrie had known she would have
made allowances. What she did clearly see was that her well-meant
invitation had been a mistake. She strove her best to remove this
embarrassment; she tried to make the conversation general; and in some
slight measure she succeeded; but always there was an obvious restraint;
there were dark silences and difficult pauses; and, on the part of the
young men, a sullen and dangerous antagonism that might at any moment
leap forth with a sudden tongue of flame--a retort--an insult.
This hapless entertainment came to an end at last; and, as Vincent had
expected, while Maisrie was putting on her cloak, their new friend
stepped aside and paid the bill--the bill for three, that is. And the
next step? An invitation that the generous host of the evening should
go along to the rooms in German Place? There would be tobacco, and
Scotch whiskey, and reminiscences of travel, and dissertations on
literary and philosophical subjects--and perhaps Maisrie would play for
him 'The Flowers o' the Forest' or sing for him 'Isabeau s'y promene.'
Perhaps the bucolic soul was penetrable by fine melody? There would be
whiskey-and-soda, at any rate, and a blazing fire.
And as a matter of fact, when the four of them paused for a second at
the door of the restaurant, the new acquaintance did receive that
invitation--from George Bethune himself. But he declined.
"Thanks, awfully," said he, "but I can't to-night. Fact is, there's a
big billiard match on this evening, and I've backed my man for L20, and
I may want to hedge a bit if he isn't in his best form. Some other
evening, if you'll allow me. But to-morrow morning--what are you going
to do to-morrow morning? You can't stay indoors while the weather is so
fine; you must leave your work until the wet comes. So I dare say I
shall find you somewhere along the front about eleven to-morrow; and if
I don't, why, then, I'll come along to German Place, and drag you out.
For who ever knew such a glorious December?--quite warm in the
sun--primroses and violets all a-growing and a-blowing--in the baskets.
Good-night to you!--good-night, Miss Bethune!--mind you bring your
grandfather along to-morrow morning; or I'll have to come and drag you
both out; good-night--good-night!"--and then with a brief nod to
Vincent, which was frigidly returned, he departed.
"You are going our way, Vincent?" Maisrie said, timidly.
"Oh, yes," he made answer, as they set out together.
For a few seconds they walked in silence. But when they had crossed the
Old Steine, and got into the Marine Parade, the moon came into view,
away over there in the east; it was at the full, but rather dusky, for
the north wind had blown the smoke of the town down on the sea-front.
"Bid you notice how clear the moon was last night?" she said, to break
this embarrassing silence.
"Yes, I did," he said. "I was walking about a good deal last night.
The moonlight was beautiful on the water."
"Oh, were you down in Brighton last night?" she asked, rather anxiously.
"Yes."
That was all. She did not dare to ask what had brought him down; and he
did not choose to invent an excuse. Again they walked on for a little
while in silence, until they reached the corner of German Place.
"Well, good-night!" said George Bethune, holding out his hand. "Quite a
surprise to meet you--quite a surprise. Hope we shall see you again
before you go back."
And now it was Maisrie's turn.
"Good-night, Vincent!" she said, with her eyes seeking his in mute
appeal.
"Good-night," said he; and he did not respond to that look: so these two
parted.
And soon, as he walked aimlessly onward, he was away from the town
altogether. To him it was a hateful place--with its contrarieties, its
disappointments, its distracting problems in human nature. When he
turned to look at it, it was like some vast and dusky pit, with a dull,
red glow shining over it from its innumerable fires. But here, as he
went on again, all was peace. The silver moonlight shimmered on the
water. There was not a whisper or murmur along these lofty and solitary
cliffs. A cold wind blew from the north, coming over the bare uplands;
but it brought no sound of any bird or beast. His shadow was his sole
companion--vague and indefinite on the grass, but sharper and blacker on
the grey and frosted road. He was alone, and he wished to be alone; and
if certain phrases from the _Claire Fontaine_ would come following and
haunting him--_jai perdu ma maitresse--sans l' avoir merite--pour un
bouquet de roses--que je lui refusai_--he strove to repel them; he would
have none of them; nor any remembrance of what was past and gone. The
world was sweet to him here, because he was alone with the sea, and the
shore, and the mystic splendour of those shining heavens; and because he
seemed to have shaken himself free from the enmities and the treacheries
and ingratitudes that lay festering in yonder town.