ON THE BRINK.
Nay, he could see but the one clear and resolute way out of all these
perplexities, which was that he should forthwith and without further
preamble marry Maisrie Bethune: thereafter his relatives might do or say
whatever it most pleased them to do or say. This would be his answer to
the vague but persistent suspicions of Mrs. Ellison, and to the more
precise but none the less preposterous accusations of his father. Then
as regards Maisrie herself, would not this conclusive act banish all
those dim presentiments and alarms with which she seemed to regard the
future? And if her present circumstances involved her in humiliation,
lie would take her out of these. As for old George Bethune, ought he
not to welcome this guardianship that would succeed his own? The
happiness of his granddaughter seemed to be his first care; and here was
a stay and bulwark for her, a protection for her when his own should be
withdrawn in the natural course of things.
This solution of the difficulty seemed reasonable and simple, though
sometimes his arguments would suddenly get lost in a flood of wild
wonder and joy; and entrancing visions of that pretty canary-cage he
meant to secure--down by Chelsea way, perhaps, or up about Campden Hill,
or it might be out among some suburban gardens--would interfere with the
cool and accurate representations he was preparing to lay before his
friends. For after all, simple as the solution appeared, there were
ways and means to be considered. Vincent was now about to
discover--nay, he already perceived--that for a young man to be brought
up without any definite calling meant a decided crippling of his
independence. The canary-cage, charming and idyllic as it might be,
would cost something, even if he went as far as Shepherd's Bush or
Hammersmith; and the little fortune that had been left him did not
produce much of an annual income. Then again his father: would not the
great socialist (on paper) instantly withdraw the handsome allowance he
had hitherto made, on hearing that his son contemplated marrying that
dangerous person, that low-born adventuress, that creature of the slums?
For Vincent Harris was not given to disguising things from himself. He
knew that these were the phrases which his father would doubtless apply
to Maisrie Bethune. Not that they or any other phrases were of much
import: the capitalist-communist was welcome to invent and use as many
as he chose. But his opposition to this marriage, which was almost to
be counted on, might become a very serious affair for everybody
concerned.
Next morning Vincent was up betimes; and at an early hour he went along
to the Bedford Hotel. He was told that Lord Musselburgh was in the
coffee-room; and thither he accordingly proceeded.
"Oh, yes, I'll have some breakfast, thank you," said he, as he took a
seat at the small table. "Anything--anything. The fact is, Musselburgh,
I want to speak to you, if you can give me a little time. Something of
importance, too--to me at least----"
"Let me tell you this, Vin, first of all," said the elder of the two
young men, with a smile. "You'll have to make your peace with Mrs.
Ellison. She is mortally offended at the notion of your coming to
Brighton, and going to a hotel. I suppose you imagined she didn't know
you had come down? We saw you yesterday."
"Where?" said Vincent, quickly.
"In the Marine Parade. We followed you some little way--if you had
turned round you would have seen us."
"What time?"
"Why, about one, I should think."
"Then--then you saw--"
"Yes, we saw--" said the other.
There was a moment's silence; Vin's eyes were fixed on his companion
with a curious expectancy and prayer; had this friend of his, if he were
a friend at all, no approving word to say about Maisrie?
Well, Lord Musselburgh was an exceedingly good-natured young man; and on
this occasion he did not allow a selfish discretion to get the better of
him.
"I don't know that I intended to tell you," said he. "Fact is, Mrs.
Ellison hinted that I'd better follow her example; and have nothing to
say on a certain subject; but really, Vin, really--I had no
idea--really----"
"Yes?--what?" said Vincent, rather breathlessly.
"Well, to be candid with you, I never was so surprised in my life! Why,
you remember that afternoon in Piccadilly, when I first saw
them--perhaps I did not pay much attention to the girl--she seemed a
slip of a thing--pretty, oh, yes, pretty enough; but yesterday--when I
saw her yesterday--by George, she's grown to be one of the most
beautiful creatures I ever beheld! And so distinguished-looking--and
apparently so unconscious of it too! Again and again I noticed people
half-turn their heads to get another glimpse of her as she went by--and
no wonder--why, really, such a carriage--such an air of distinction and
quiet self-possession, for all she looked so young--I never was so
surprised in all my life! Oh, a most beautiful creature!--and that I
must say in common honesty, whatever comes of it."
Nay, the very incoherence of his praise was proof of its sincerity; and
Vincent's face burned with pleasure and pride. How could sweeter words
have been poured into a lover's ears?
"Did you chance to notice her hair?--did you?" said he, eagerly. "Did
you chance to see the sunlight on it? And--and you were behind her--you
must have seen how she walked--the lightness and grace of her step.
Mind you, Mussel burgh," he went on--and his breakfast received but
scant attention, now that he had found someone to whom he could talk on
this enchanting and all-engrossing theme. "A light and graceful step
means far more than mere youth and health--it means a perfect and supple
figure as well. Did you think she was rather pale?" he asked--but only
to answer his own question. "Yes, I dare say you might think she was
rather pale. But that is not because she is delicate--oh, dear,
no!--not in the least: it is the natural fineness of her complexion; and
when brisk walking, or a cold wind blowing, brings colour into her
cheeks, then that is all the rarer and more beautiful. Of course you
couldn't see her eyes at all?--she doesn't stare at people in the
streets; she seems to find the sea more interesting when we are walking
up and clown; but they are the clearest, the most expressive, eyes you
could imagine! She hardly has to speak--she has only to look! I do
think blue-grey is by far the prettiest colour of eyes; they vary so
much; I've seen Maisrie Bethune's eyes quite distinctly blue--that is
when she is very strong and well, and out in the open air. I don't
suppose it possible that any reflection from the sky or sea can affect
the colour of the eyes; it must be simply that she is in the fresh air,
and stimulated with exercise and happy----" He paused for a second.
"Is there anything so very amusing?"
"To tell you the truth, Vin," his companion admitted, "I was thinking
that when you came in you announced you had something of importance to
say----"
"Instead of which I have been talking about Miss Bethune," Vincent said,
without taking any offence. "But who began? I thought it was you who
introduced the subject--and you seemed interested in her appearance----"
"Oh, yes, of course, of course," the young nobleman said, goodnaturedly.
"I beg your pardon. And I understand how the subject may be of
importance to you----"
"Well, yes, it is," said Vincent, calmly. "For I propose to marry Miss
Bethune, and at once, if she will consent."
Lord Musselburgh looked up quickly, and his face was grave enough now.
"You don't mean that, Vin?"
"That is precisely what I do mean," the young man said.
"I thought--I had fancied--that certain things had been found out," his
friend stammered, and then stopped; for it was a hazardous topic.
"Oh, you have been told too?" Vincent said, with a careless disdain.
"Well, when I heard those charges brought against Miss Bethune's
grandfather, I did not choose to answer them; but speaking about him to
you is another thing; and I may say to you, once for all, that more
preposterous trash was never invented. I won't deny," he continued,
with a perfectly simple frankness, "that there are one or two things
about Mr. Bethune that I cannot quite explain--that I rather shut my
eyes to; and perhaps there are one or two things that one might wish
altered--for who is perfect? But the idea that this old man, with his
almost obtrusively rugged individuality, his independence, his self-will
and pride, should be a scheming impostor and swindler--it is too absurd!
To my mind--and I think I know him pretty intimately--he appears to be
one of the finest and grandest characters it is possible to imagine; a
personality you could never forget, once you had learned to know him
even a little; and that this man, of all men, should be suspected of
being a fawning and wheedling writer of begging-letters--it is too
laughable! I admit that he has little or no money--if that is a crime.
They live in straitened circumstances, no doubt. And of course there
are many unpleasant things connected with poverty that one would rather
hide from the eyes of a young lady, and that can't well be hidden:
though I don't know that her nature, if she has a fine and noble nature,
need suffer from that. For example, it isn't nice for her to see her
grandfather served with a writ; but many excellent people have been
served with writs; it doesn't follow that Mr. Bethune must be a thief
because he has no money--or perhaps because he has been negligent about
some debt or other. But even supposing that he was a questionable
person--even supposing that he was in the habit of using doubtful means
to supplement his precarious income; isn't that all the greater reason
why such a girl should be taken away from such circumstances?"
Lord Musselburgh did not reply to this question. He had heard from Mrs.
Ellison that the granddaughter was suspected, or more than suspected, of
being an accomplice; and although, of course, he could not in the least
say whether there was any truth in this allegation, he deemed it wiser
to hold his tongue.
"Now you may put all that aside," Vincent went on. "That is all rubbish
and trash--a pack of old wives' stories. And what I want of you,
Musselburgh, is to give me your honest opinion on a certain point. I
ask for your advice. I want you to tell me what you think would happen
in a possible case. And the main question is this: assuming that I
could persuade Miss Bethune to marry me at once, and assuming also that
her grandfather approved--when the marriage had actually taken place,
what would my relatives say? Or rather, that is not the question: the
question is what they would do. I know what they would say. They would
be wild enough. Their heads are full of these foolish fancies and
suspicions; and beside that, I gather that they want me to marry some
noble damsel whose family would have political influence. Yes, they
would be wild enough, no doubt; but when they found the thing actually
settled, what would they do? Would my father make a deadly quarrel of
it and cut me off with a shilling, like something out of a play; or
would he exercise a little common-sense, and make the best of it, seeing
the thing was done?"
"Really," said Musselburgh, who seemed more concerned than one might
have expected from his half-cynical, half-careless temperament, "you ask
me what I can't answer. And giving advice is a perilous business. All
I can say is this, Vin--you seem to me to have got into a devilish
awkward position, and I wish to goodness you were out of it."
"You think I regret anything that has happened?" Vincent said. "Not I!
I would not go back--not for all the world. But as for this monetary
difficulty, there it is; and it has to be faced. You see, I have been
brought up to do nothing; and consequently I am in a measure dependent
on my father. My own little income doesn't amount to much. Then again,
if I were to marry Maisrie Bethune, I should have to leave her
grandfather whatever small fund they have--I don't quite understand
about it--anyhow, I couldn't take that away, for I imagine the old
gentleman's earnings from newspaper work are not very substantial or
regular. Now what do you think my father would do?"
"Wouldn't it be the simplest thing to go and ask him--to go and ask him
now?" said Lord Musselburgh, who clearly did not wish to assume any
responsibility in this serious matter.
"I can tell myself what he would say now," Vincent made answer; "the
question is what he would say then."
"After the marriage?"
"Yes."
His companion across the little table hesitated for a second or two.
"You see, Vin, it isn't only in plays that fathers get
angry--unfortunately, it sometimes happens in real life; and
occasionally they get very angry indeed. According to your own showing,
if your father refused to acknowledge this marriage--if he declared he
would have nothing further to do with you--you would find yourself in
rather desperate straits. Why should you, with your eyes open, walk
into any such straits? You know what may happen. And then--with a
young wife--with next to no resources--what would you do? Let us come
to one definite and immediate thing, that I hope is not far off now; who
would pay your election expenses at Mendover?"
"You yourself, Musselburgh, in the interests of the party!"
"I am glad you can make a jest of the situation, Vin----"
"No, really, I don't," Vincent said, more seriously. "But if I were to
ask for my father's consent I should not get it--I know that quite well;
and meanwhile this girl is supposed to be--oh, I need not name the
things! You don't understand! She is my dearest in all the world; how
can I stand by and allow these base accusations to be brought against
her, without protest? And that would be my protest! That would show
them what I thought of their mean suspicions and their preposterous
charges."
"And thereafter?" said Lord Musselburgh.
"Thereafter? Well, as I say, my father might show some common sense and
accept the thing, seeing it was done. I can tell you it isn't very
pleasant to find myself so dependent on any other human being's
reasonableness. I haven't been used to it. I dare say I have been
spoiled--things made too easy for me. And now when I look round and
wonder what I could turn to, I suppose I am simply in the position of a
thousand others, who haven't had any special training. The few articles
I have written have paid me well enough; but at present I don't see
anything substantial and permanent in that direction. If you were in
office I should ask you for a private secretaryship----"
"Why not ask someone who is in office?"
"I could not change my coat quite so quickly as that."
"Ah, you haven't had much experience in practical politics," Lord
Musselburgh observed. "Well, now, Vin, look here: it seems to me you
are on the brink of a tremendous catastrophe. You have asked for my
advice; I will give it you frankly. For goodness sake, don't marry that
girl! She may be everything you say; her grandfather may be everything
you say; but don't do anything rash--don't do anything irrevocable. And
consider this: if your relations should look on such a marriage with
disfavour, it is in your own interest; it is no selfish wish on their
part that you should marry well--marry in your own sphere--marry some
one who would do you credit and be a fit companion for you. Mind you, I
say nothing against Miss Bethune--nothing; I would not even if I
could--I am not such a fool--for I should simply anger you without
convincing you; but just consider for a moment what her experiences must
have been. You know what Mrs. Ellison so frequently talks about--the
sentimental fallacy of supposing that there is anything intrinsically
noble or beautiful about poverty. I'm afraid she's right. I am afraid
that poverty is altogether a debasing and brutalising thing, destroying
self-respect, stunting the mind as well as the body."
"Yes," said Via Harris, rather scornfully, "I am quite aware that is the
opinion of poverty held by the rich. They show it. They profess to
believe what the Sermon on the Mount says about the Kingdom of Heaven
being reserved for the poor; but catch any single man-jack of them
putting aside his riches in order to secure that other inheritance! Not
much! He prefers the Kingdom he has got--in consols."
"I was only wondering," Musselburgh said, with a little hesitation,
"what influence those--those associations might have had on Miss Bethune
herself. Not the best training for a young girl, perhaps?"
"If she had been brought up in a thieves' den," said Vincent, hotly,
"she would have remained the pure and beautiful-souled creature that she
is now. But I see there is no use talking. I have asked for your
advice--for your opinion; and you have given it to me. I thank you, and
there's an end."
He rose. But his friend also rose at the same moment.
"No, no, Vin, you're not going to quarrel with me. Come into the
smoking-room, and we'll have a cigarette."
Nor did he wish to quarrel. They left the coffee-room together. But as
luck would have it, in crossing the hall, he chanced to look towards the
front door; and behold! all the outer world was shining in clear
sunlight. It suddenly occurred to this young man that he had been
sitting plunged in gloom, listening to coward counsels, regarding the
future as something dark; while there--out there--the golden pavements,
and the far-shimmering sea, and the wide white skies spoke only of hope,
and seemed to say that Maisrie would soon be coming along, proud and
tall and sweet. Why, it was to her that he ought to have appealed--not
to any timorous, vacillating temporiser; it was her hands he ought to
have taken and held, that he might read the future in her true eyes.
And so, with some brief words of apology and thanks, he left Lord
Musselburgh, and made his way into the outer air: this was to breathe
more freely--this was to have the natural courage of youth mounting into
the brain.
He walked away along the King's Road; and unconsciously to himself he
held his head erect; as if in imitation of the stout-hearted old man
who, despite his threescore years and ten, could still bear himself so
bravely in face of all the world. Moreover, there were some lines in
one of Maisrie's songs haunting him; but not in any sad way; nay, he
found himself dwelling on the _r_'s, as if to recall her soft
pronunciation:--
Elle fit un' rencontre
De trente matelots,
De trente matelots
Sur le bord de l' ile.
He had thrust aside those pusillanimous counsels: out here was the
sunlight and the fresh-blowing wind; his soul felt freer; he would gain
new courage from Maisrie's eyes. This was the kind of morning to bring
a touch of crimson to the transparent pallor of her cheek; her teeth
would glisten when she laughed; her graceful step would be lighter, more
buoyant, than ever. _Sursum corda_! Nay, he could have found it in his
heart to adopt the proud-sounding 'Stand Fast, Craig-Royston!'--if only
to fling it back in the face of those who had brought those monstrous
accusations.
His long and swinging stride soon carried him to the house in German
Place, where he found George Bethune and his granddaughter just making
ready to come out.
"This will not do, Maisrie," said old George Bethune, in his gay,
emphatic fashion. "Too much idleness. Too much idleness. Fresh air is
all very well; but we must not become its slaves. Remember Horace's
warning. '_Tu, nisi ventis debes ludibrium, cave_.'"
"Why, who could keep at work on a morning like this!" Vincent protested.
"A west wind and brilliant sunlight are not so common in December. It
makes it hard for me that I've to go away to-morrow."
"Are you going away to-morrow, Vincent?" said Maisrie, regarding him.
"Yes," said he. "I have to go down to Mendover on Thursday, to deliver
a sort of address--a lecture--and I've only got the heads and divisions
sketched out as yet. I wish I could escape it altogether; but I dare
not play any tricks at present; I'm on my best behaviour. And this time
at least I don't mean to drag Lord Musselburgh down with me; I'm going
alone."
"And after that you return to London?" she asked.
He hardly knew what to say. A single word of encouragement from either
of them, and he would at once and gladly have promised to come back to
Brighton at the earliest possible moment; but he had not forgotten the
implied understanding on which Maisrie and her grandfather had come away
from their lodgings in Mayfair.
"Yes, to London," he replied vaguely. "But I have no definite plans at
present. I dare say my aunt, Mrs. Ellison, will want me to come down
here at Christmas."
When they were outside, and had gone on to the Parade, he besought his
two companions, instead of taking their accustomed stroll into the town,
to come away out into the country. The Downs, he said, would be looking
very cheerful on so pleasant a morning. And of course it mattered
little to them whither they went. They acceded at once; and by-and-bye
they had left the wide thoroughfare and the houses behind them, and were
walking along the soft turf, alone with the cliffs, and the sea, and the
smooth, faintly-coloured uplands. The spring-time was not yet; but
there were hues of green and red in those far-stretching breadths of
soil; and the sky was of a cloudless blue.
And how strange it was that out here in the open, in the clear sunlight,
those dark imaginings of the Private Inquiry Offices seemed to fall
helplessly away from these two friends of his, and they themselves stood
sharply defined just as he had always known them--the two solitary and
striking figures that his fancy had invested with so pathetic an
interest. Mentally he addressed Lord Musselburgh: 'Come and see them
here--in the white light of day--and ask yourself whether you can
believe in those midnight things you have heard of them. Look at this
girl: you say yourself she is of extraordinary beauty; but is there not
a still stranger fascination--is there not something that wins the heart
to sympathy, and pity, and respect? Look at the pensive character of
her mouth--look at the strange resignation in the beautiful eyes:
perhaps her life has not been altogether too happy?--and is that to be
brought as a charge against her? Then this old man--look at his proud
bearing--look at the resolute set of his head--his straight glance--the
courage of his firm mouth: has he the appearance, the demeanour, of a
sharper, of a plausible and specious thief?' At this moment, at all
events, it did not seem as if George Bethune's mind was set upon any
swindling scheme. As he marched along, with head erect, and with eyes
fixed absently on the far horizon, he was reciting to himself, in
sonorous tones, the metrical version of the Hundredth Psalm--
'O enter then His gates with praise,
Approach with joy his courts unto;
Praise, laud, and bless His name always,
For it is seemly so to do.
For why? the Lord our God is good,
His mercy is for ever sure;
His truth at all times firmly stood,
And shall from age to age endure.'
No doubt it was some reminiscence of his youthful days--perhaps a
Saturday night's task--that had lain dormant in his memory for sixty
years or more.
The two young folk were mostly silent; they had plenty to think
about--especially in view of Vincent's departure on the morrow. As for
him, his one consuming desire was to make sure of Maisrie, now that she
had disclosed her heart to him; he wished for some closer bond, some
securer tie, so that, whatever might happen, Maisrie should not be taken
away from him. For he seemed to know as if by some inscrutable instinct
that a crisis in his life was approaching. And it was not enough that
her eyes had spoken; that she had given him the sandal-wood necklace;
that she had striven with an almost pathetic humility to show her
affection and esteem. He wished for some clearer assurance with regard
to the future. Those people in the background who had pieced together
that malignant story: were they not capable of further and more deadly
mischief? He had affected to scorn them as mere idle and intermeddling
fools; but they might become still more aggressive--enemies striking at
him and at his heart's desire from the dim phantom-world that enshrouded
them. Anyhow, he meant to act now, on his own discretion. Lord
Musselburgh's advice was no doubt worldly-wise enough and safe; but it
was valueless in these present circumstances. Vincent felt that his
life was his own, and that the moment had come when he must shape it
towards a certain end--for good or ill, as the years might show.
After a pretty long walk along the cliffs, they returned to the town (on
the Parade they met Sherry, who cheerfully informed them that he was on
the point of starting for Monte Carlo, and hoped they would wish him
good luck) and Vincent was easily persuaded by Maisrie to share their
modest luncheon with them. Thereafter, when tobacco was produced, she
begged to be excused for a little while, as she had some sewing to do in
her own room; and thus it was that Vincent, quite suddenly and
unexpectedly, found himself presented with an opportunity of approaching
the old man on the all-important theme. But on this occasion he was
much more precise and urgent in his prayer; for he had thought the whole
matter clearly out, through many a sleepless hour; and his plans lay
fixed and definite before him.
"You yourself," he went on, "have often hinted that your future
movements were uncertain--you might have to go away--and--and then I
don't say that either Maisrie or I would forget--only I am afraid of
absence. There appear to be certain people who don't wish you well;
there might be more stories; who can tell what might not happen?
Indeed," said he, regarding the old man a little anxiously, "I have been
thinking that--that if Maisrie would consent--our getting married at
once would be the safest and surest tie of all. I have not spoken of it
to her--I thought I would put it before you first----"
Here he paused, in something of anxious uncertainty.
"Married at once?" George Bethune repeated, slowly. There was no
expression of surprise or resentment; the old man waited calmly and
courteously for further elucidation of these plans; his eyes were
observant and attentive--but quite inscrutable.
"And I want to show you how I am situated," Vincent went on (but not
knowing what to make of that perfectly impassive demeanour). "I hope
there is no need to conceal anything--indeed, I should think you were
pretty well acquainted with my circumstances by this time. You know my
father is a rich man. I am his only son; and I suppose I shall inherit
his fortune. I have a little money of my own--not much of an annual
income, to be sure; and I have some friends who would help me if the
worst came to the worst, but I don't see how that necessity should
arise. For myself, I have unfortunately been brought up to no
profession; I was trained for public life--for polities--if for
anything: it has never been considered necessary that I should learn
some method of making my own living. That is a misfortune--I can see
that now; but at least I have been trying to do something of late; and I
have got some encouragement; if there were any need, I fancy I could
earn a modest income by writing for the newspapers. You have seen one
or two of those articles--and I have been offered introductions, as you
know. Well, now----"
And again he paused. All this had been more or less of plain sailing:
now he was approaching a much more delicate matter.
"Well--the fact is--there has been some envious tittle-tattle--wretched
stuff--not worth mentioning --except for this: that if I went to my
father and told him I wished to marry your granddaughter, he would be
opposed to it. Yes, that is the truth. He does not know you; he has
never even seen Maisrie; and of course he goes by what he
hears--absolute folly as it is. However," Vincent continued, with some
effort at cheerfulness (for he was glad to get away from that subject
without being questioned), "the main point is this: if Maisrie and I
were to get married, at once--as we have the right to do--we are surely
of sufficient age--we know our own minds--I am quite certain my father
would accept the whole affair good-naturedly and reasonably, and all
would be well. Then see what it would be for Maisrie to have an assured
position like that! She would be able to give up her share in the small
income you once spoke of; that would be altogether yours; and surely you
would be glad to know that her future was safe, whatever might happen.
There would practically be no separation between you and her; it isn't
as if she were moving into another sphere--among pretentious people; in
fact, all the advantages are on her side; if we have plenty of money,
she has birth and name and family; and then again, when Maisrie and I
took up house for ourselves, there would be no more welcome guest than
her grandfather. I think I can promise that."
There was silence for a moment--an ominous silence.
"Has Maisrie," said George Bethune, with slow and measured enunciation,
and he regarded the young man from under his shaggy eyebrows, "has
Maisrie intimated to you her wish for that--that arrangement?"
"No," said Vincent, eagerly. "How could she? I thought I was bound to
speak to you first; for of course she will do nothing without your
approval. But don't you think she has had enough of a wandering
life--enough of precarious circumstances; and then if her heart says yes
too----?"
Well, if this venerable impostor had at last succeeded in entrapping a
rich man's son--in getting him to propose marriage to his
granddaughter--he did not seem to be in a hurry to secure his prey.
"Maisrie has said nothing?" George Bethune asked again, in that
curiously impassive fashion.
"No----"
"Has expressed no wish?"
"No--I have not spoken to her about this immediate proposal."
"Then, until she has," said the old man, calmly, "I must refuse any
consent of mine. I think you have described the whole situation very
fairly--clearly and honestly, as I imagine; but I do not see any reason
for departing from what I said to you before, that I would rather my
granddaughter was not bound by any formal tie or pledge--much less by
such a marriage as you propose. For one thing, she may have a future
before her that she little dreams of. Of course, if her happiness were
involved, if she came to me and said that only by such and such an
arrangement could her peace of mind be secured, then I might alter my
views: at present I see no cause to do so. You are both young: if you
care for each other, you should be content to wait. Years are a
valuable test. After all, according to your own showing, you are
dependent on your father's caprice: some angry objection on his
part--and where would the fortunes of the young married couple be?"
But Vincent was too impetuous to be easily discouraged.
"Even then I should not be quite helpless," he urged. "And is my
willingness to work to count for nothing? However, that is not the
immediate question. Supposing Maisrie's happiness _were_
concerned?--supposing she were a little tired of the uncertainty of her
life?--supposing she were willing to trust herself to me--what then?
Why, if she came to you, and admitted as much, I know you would consent.
Is not that so?--I know it is so!--you would consent--for Maisrie's
sake!"
The old man's eyes were turned away now--fixed on the slumbering coals
in the grate.
"I had dreamed of other things," he said, almost to himself.
"Yes; but if Maisrie came to you?" Vincent said, with the same
eagerness--almost, indeed, with some trace of joyous assurance--"She
would not have long to plead, I think! And then again, at any moment,
my circumstances might be so altered as to give you all the guarantee
for the future which you seem to think necessary. A word from my father
to-morrow might settle that: if I went to him, and could get him to
understand what Maisrie really was. Or I might obtain some definite
post: I have some good friends: I am going up to London to-morrow, and
could begin to make inquiries. In the meantime," he added hastily--for
he heard someone on the stair--"do you object to my telling Maisrie what
you have said?"
"What I have said? I dare say she knows," old George Bethune made
answer, in an absent sort of way--and at this moment Maisrie entered the
room, bringing her sewing with her, and further speech was impossible.
It was on this same afternoon that Lord Musselburgh carried along to his
fair fiancee a report of the interview he had had with Vincent in the
morning. The young widow was dreadfully alarmed.
"Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed, and she began to pace up and down the
room in her agitation. "Marry the girl at once? Why, it is
destruction! Fancy what all our plans and interests, all our lives,
would be--with Vin cut out! It cannot be--it shall not be--it must be
prevented at any cost! He would be dead--worse than dead--we should be
pitying him always, and knowing where he was, and not able to go near
him. You don't mean to say he is definitely resolved?" she demanded in
her desperation.
"Indeed, there is no doubt about it--he spoke as plainly as you could
wish," said Lord Musselburgh. "And he has argued the thing out; his head
is clear enough, for all this wild infatuation of his. He sees that his
father will not consent--beforehand; so he means to marry, and then hope
for reconciliation when the whole affair is past praying for. That's the
programme, you may depend on it."
"Harland must know at once," said Mrs. Ellison, going instantly to her
writing-desk. "This must and shall be prevented. I am not going to
have my boy's life ruined by a pack of begging-letter swindlers and
cheats!"