"AND HAST THOU PLAYED ME THIS!"
And now in this time of urgency the appeal was to Maisrie herself; and
how could he doubt what her answer would be, in spite of all those
strange and inexplicable forebodings that seemed to haunt her mind?
But when he got up next morning he found to his dismay that a sudden
change in the weather was like to interfere in a very practical manner
with his audacious plans. During the night the wind had backed to the
south-west, accompanied by a sharp fall of the barometer; and now a
stiff gale was blowing, and already a heavy sea was thundering in on the
beach. There was as yet no rain, it is true; but along the southern
horizon the louring heavens were even darker than the wind-driven
waters; and an occasional shiver of white sunlight that swept across the
waves spoke clearly enough of coming wet. Was it not altogether too
wild and stormy a morning to hope that Maisrie would venture forth? And
yet he was going away that day--with great uncertainty as to the time of
his return; and how could he go without having some private speech with
her? Nor was there any prospect of a lightening up of the weather
outside; the gale seemed to be increasing in fury; and he ate his
breakfast in silence, listening to the long, dull roar and reverberation
of the heavy-breaking surf.
Nevertheless here was a crisis; and something had to be done; so about
half-past ten he went along to the lodging-house in German Place. The
servant-maid greeted this handsome young man with an approving glance;
and informed him that both Mr. and Miss Bethune were in the parlour
upstairs.
"No, thank you," said he, in answer to this implied invitation, "I won't
go up. I want to see Miss Bethune by herself: would you ask her if she
would be so kind as to come downstairs for just a moment--I won't detain
her----"
The girl divined the situation in an instant; and proved herself
friendly. Without more ado she turned the handle of a door near her.
"Won't you step in there, sir?--the gentleman 'as gone out."
Vincent glanced into the little parlour. Here, indeed, was a refuge
from the storm; but all the same he did not like to invade the privacy
of a stranger's apartments.
"Oh, no, thanks," he said. "I will wait here, if Miss Bethune will be
so kind as to come down for a minute. Will you ask her, please?"
The girl went upstairs; returned with the message that Miss Bethune
would be down directly; then she disappeared, and Vincent was left alone
in this little lobby. It was not a very picturesque place, to be sure,
for an interview between two lovers: still, it would serve--especially
if the friendly chambermaid were out of earshot, and if no prying
landlady should come along. The gale outside was so violent that all
the doors and windows of the house were shaking and rattling: he could
not ask Maisrie to face such a storm.
But in a second or so here was Maisrie herself, all ready
apparelled--hat, muff, gloves, boa, and the furred collar of her jacket
turned up.
"Why, Maisrie," he said, "you don't mean you are going out on such a
morning--it is far too wild and stormy!----"
"That is of no consequence," she made answer, simply. "I have something
to say to you, Vincent, before you go."
"And I have something to say to you, Maisrie. Still," he continued, with
some little hesitation (for he was accustomed to take charge of her and
guard her from the smallest harms), "I don't want you to get wet and
blown about--"
"What does that matter?" she said: it was not of a shower of rain that
she was thinking.
"Oh, very well," said he at last. "I'll tell you what we'll do; we'll
fight our way down to the sea-front, and then go out to the end of the
Chain Pier. There are some places of shelter out there; and there won't
be a living soul anywhere about on such a morning. For I am going to
ask you to make a promise, Maisrie," he added in a lower voice, "and the
sea and the sky will be quite sufficient witnesses."
And truly this was fighting their way, as they discovered the moment
they had left the house; for the gusts and squalls that came tearing
along the street were like to choke them. She clung to his arm tightly;
but her skirts were blown about her and impeded her; the two ends of her
boa went flying away over her shoulders; while her hair was speedily in
a most untoward state--though her companion thought it was always
prettier that way than any other. Nevertheless they leant forward
against the wind, and drove themselves through it, and eventually got
down to the sea-front. Here, again, they were almost stunned by the
terrific roar; for the tide was full up; and the huge, brown, concave,
white-crested waves, thundering down on the shelving shingle, filled all
the thick air with spray; while light balls of foam went sailing away
inland, tossed hither and thither up into the purple-darkened sky. So
far the driving squalls had brought no rain; but the atmosphere was
surcharged with a salt moisture; more than once Vincent stopped for a
second and took his handkerchief to dry Maisrie's lashes and eyebrows,
and to push back from her forehead the fine wet threads of her
glistening hair.
But soon they had got away from this roar of water and grinding pebbles,
and were out on the pier, that was swaying sinuously before these fierce
trusts, and that trembled to its foundations under each successive shock
of the heavy surge. And now they could get a better view of the wide
and hurrying sea--a sea of a tawny-brownish hue melting into a vivid
green some way further out, and always and everywhere showing swift
flashes of white, that seemed to gleam all the more suddenly and sharply
where the weight of the purple skies darkened down to the horizon.
"What a shame it is," he said to her (perhaps with some affectation of
cheerfulness, for she seemed curiously preoccupied), "What a shame it is
to drag you out on such a morning!"
"I do not mind it," she made answer. "It will be something to
remember."
When they reached the end of the pier, which was wholly deserted, he
ensconced her snugly in a corner of one of the protected seats; and he
was not far away from her when he sate down. Her lips had grown pale
with the buffeting of the wind; the outside threads and plaits of her
hair were damp and disordered; and her eyes were grave even to sadness;
and yet never had the strange witchery of her youthful beauty so
entirely entranced him. Perhaps it was the dim fear of losing her, that
dwelt as a sort of shadow in his mind even when he was most buoyed up by
the radiant confidence of four-and-twenty; perhaps it was the knowledge
that, for a time at least, this was to be farewell; at all events he
sate close to her, and held her hand tight, as though to make sure she
should not be stolen away from him.
"Maisrie," said he, "do you know that I spoke to your grandfather
yesterday?"
"Yes," she answered. "He told me."
"And what did he say?"
"At first," she said, with a bit of a sigh, "he talked of Balloray. I
was sorry that came up again; he is happier when he does not think of
it. And, indeed, I have noticed that of late he has almost given up
speaking of the possibility of a great change in our condition. What
chance is there of any such thing? We have no money to go to law, even
if the law had not already decided against us. Then grandfather's idea
that the estates might come to us through some accident, or series of
accidents--what is that but a dream? I am sure he is far more content
when he forgets what might have been; when he trusts entirely to his own
courage and self-reliance; when he is thinking, not of lost estates, but
of some ballad he means to write about in the _Edinburgh Chronicle_.
Poor grandfather!--and yet, who can help admiring his spirit--the very
gaiety of his nature--in spite of all his misfortunes?"
"Yes, Maisrie--but--but what did he say about you?"
"About me?" the girl repeated. "Well, it was his usual kindness. He
said I was only to think of what would tend to my own happiness.
Happiness?" she went on, rather sadly. "As if this world was made for
happiness!"
It was a strange speech for one so young--one who, so far as he could
make out, had been so gently nurtured and cared for.
"What do you mean, Maisrie?" said he in his astonishment. "Why should
you not have happiness, as well as another? Who can deserve it more
than you--you who are so generous and well-wishing to everyone--"
"I would rather not speak of myself at all, Vincent," she said. "That
is nothing. I want to speak of you. I want you to consider--what is
best for you. And I understand your position--perhaps more clearly than
you imagine. You have made me think, of late, about many things; and
now that you are going away, I must speak frankly. It will be
difficult. Perhaps--perhaps, if you were more considerate, Vincent--?"
"Yes?" said he. That Maisrie should have to beg for consideration!
"There might be no need of speaking," she went on, after that momentary
pause. "If you were to go away now, and never see us any more, wouldn't
that be the simplest thing? There would be no misunderstanding--no
ill-feeling of any kind. You would think of the time we knew you in
London--and I'm sure I should always think of it--as a pleasant time:
perhaps something too good to last. I have told you before: you must
remember what your prospects are--what all your friends expect of
you--and you will see that no good could come of hampering yourself--of
introducing someone to your family who would only bring difficulty and
trouble--"
"Yes, I understand!" he said--and he threw away her hand from him. "I
understand now. But why not tell the truth at once--that you do not love
me--as I had been fool enough to think you did!"
"Yes, perhaps I do not love you," she said in a low voice. "And yet I
was not thinking of myself. I was trying to think of what was best for
you--"
Her voice broke a little, and there were tears gathering on her
eyelashes: seeing which made him instantly contrite. He caught her hand
again.
"Maisrie, forgive me! I don't know why you should talk like that! If I
have your love I do not fear anything that may happen in the future.
There is nothing to fear. When I spoke to your grandfather yesterday
afternoon, I told him precisely how I was situated; and I showed him
that, granting there were some few little difficulties, the best way to
meet them would be for you and me to get married at once: then
everything would come right of its own accord--for one must credit one's
relatives with a little common sense. Now that is my solution of all
this trouble--oh, yes, I confess there has been a little trouble; but
here is my solution of it--if you have courage, Maisrie. Maisrie, will
you give me your promise--will you be my wife?"
She looked at him for a second; then lowered her eyes.
"Vincent," she said slowly, "you don't know what you ask. And I have
wished that you would understand, without my having to speak. I have
wished that you would understand--and go away--and make our friendship a
memory, something to think over in after years. For how can I tell you
clearly without seeming cruel and ungrateful to one who has through my
whole life been kindness and goodness to me?--no!--no!"
She withdrew her hand; she turned away from him altogether.
"Maisrie," said he, "I don't want you to say anything, except that you
love me, and will be my wife."
"Your wife, Vincent--your wife!" she exclaimed, in a piteous sort of
way. "How can you ask any one to be your wife who has led the life that
I have led? Can you not guess--Vincent--without my having to speak?"
He was astounded--but not alarmed: never had his faith in her flinched
for a single instant.
"The life you have led?" said he, rather breathlessly; "Why--a--a
beautiful life--an idyllic life--constant travel--and always treated
with such kindness and care and affection--an ideal life--why, who would
not envy you?"
She was sobbing--with her head averted.
"Don't, Vincent, don't! I cannot--I will not--tell you," she said, in a
kind of despair. "What is the use? But it is you who have made me
think--it is you who have shown me clearly what I have been. I--I was
young--I was only a child; my grandfather was everything to me; whatever
he did was right. And now I have become a woman since I knew you--I can
see myself--and I know that never, never can I be your wife."
"Maisrie!"
But she paid no heed. She was strangely excited. She rose to her feet:
and for a moment he thought he saw a look of her grandfather in her
face.
"And yet even in my degradation--my degradation," she said, repeating
the words with cruel emphasis, "I have some pride. I know what your
friends think of me: or I can guess. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps
the stories you spoke of were all to be believed. That is neither here
nor there now. But, at least, they need not be afraid that I am coming
to them as a suppliant. I will not bring shame upon them; they have
nothing to fear from me."
He regarded her with astonishment, and with something of reproach also:
these proud tones did not sound like Maisrie's voice. And all of a
sudden she changed.
"Why, Vincent, why," she said, "should you put yourself in opposition to
your friends? Why give up all the splendid future that is before you?
Why disappoint all the hopes that have been formed of you----?"
"If need were, for the sake of your love, Maisrie," he said.
"My love?" she said. "But you have that, Vincent--and--and you shall
have that always!"
And here she burst into a passionate fit of weeping; and in vain he
tried to soothe her. Nay, she would not have him speak.
"Let this be the last," she said, through her bitter sobs. "Only--only,
Vincent, don't go away with any doubt about that in your mind. I love
you!--I shall love you always!--I will give my life to thinking of
you--when you are far too occupied--ever to think of me. Will you
believe me, Vincent!--Will you believe, always, that I loved you--that I
loved you too well to do what you ask--to become a drag on you--and a
shame." The tears were running down her cheeks; but she kept her eyes
fixed bravely and piteously on him, as she uttered her wild, incoherent
sentences. "My dearest--my dearest in all the world--will you
remember--will you believe that always? Will you say to yourself,
'Wherever Maisrie is at this moment, she loves me--she is thinking of
me.' Promise me, Vincent, that you will never doubt that! No--you need
not put it into words: your heart tells you that it is true. And now,
Vincent, kiss me!--kiss me, Vincent!--and then good-bye!"
She held up her face. He kissed her lips, that were salt with the
sea-foam. The tangles of her wind-blown hair touched his cheek--and
thrilled him.
He did not speak for a moment. He was over-awed. This pure confession
of a maiden soul had something sacred about it: how could he reply with
commonplace phrases about his friends and the future? And yet, here was
Maisrie on the point of departure; she only waited for a word of
good-bye; and her eyes, that were now filled with a strange sadness and
hopelessness, no longer regarded him. The farewell had been spoken--on
her side.
"And you think I will let you go, after what you have just confessed?"
he said to her--and his calm and restrained demeanour was a sort of
answer to her trembling vehemence and her despair. "You give me the
proudest possession a man may have on this earth: and I am to stand idly
by, and let it be taken away from me. Is that a likely thing?"
He took her hand, and put her back into the sheltered corner.
"Sit down there, Maisrie, out of the wind. I want to talk to you. I
was a fool when I mentioned those stories the other day: I could have
cut my tongue out the next moment. And indeed I thought you took no
notice. Why should you take any notice? Insensate trash! And who
escapes such things?--and who is so childish as to heed them? Then
again I remember your saying that I knew nothing about your grandfather
or yourself. Do you think that is so? Do you think I have been all this
time constantly in your society--watching you--studying you--yes, and
studying you with the anxiety that goes with love--for, of course, you
want the one you love to be perfect--do you imagine, after all this that
I do not know you and understand you? Degradation!--very well, I accept
that degradation: I welcome all the degradation that is likely to be
associated with you. If I were to wash my hands in that sort of
degradation, I think they would come out a little whiter! I know you to
be as pure and noble as the purest and noblest woman alive; and what do
I care about your--your circumstances?"
"Don't, Vincent!--don't be kind to me, Vincent!" she said, piteously.
"It will be all the harder to think of when--when we are separated--and
far away from each other."
"Yes, but we are not going to separate," said he briefly. "Your
grandfather has left you to decide for yourself; and surely after what
you have said to me this morning, surely I have the right to decide for
you. I tell you, we are not going to separate, Maisrie--except for a
few days. When I am up in London I mean to look round and see what
dispositions can be made with regard to the future. Oh, I assure you I
am going to be very prudent and circumspect; and I am ready to turn my
hand to anything. Then, in another direction, Maisrie, you might give
me a hint," he went on, with much cheerfulness, but watching her to see
how she would take it. "What part of London do you think you would like
best to live in? If we could get a small house with a garden up
somewhere about Campden Hill--that would be pleasant; and of course
there must be a library for your grandfather, for we should want the
privacy of the morning-room for ourselves."
She shook her head.
"Dreams, Vincent, dreams!" she murmured.
"But sometimes dreams come true," said he, for he was not to be daunted.
"And you will see how much dream-work there will be about it when I get
things put into trim in London. Now I'm not going to keep you here any
longer, Maisrie; for I fancy there is some rain coming across; and you
mustn't be caught. I will go in and say good-bye to your grandfather,
if I may; and the next you will hear of me will be when I send you some
news from town. In the meantime, hearts up, Maisrie!--surely the
granddaughter of your grandfather should show courage!"
When, that afternoon, Vincent arrived in London, he did not go to his
temporary lodgings (what charm had the slummy little street in Mayfair
for him now?) but to Grosvenor Place, where he shut himself up in his
own room, and managed to get on somehow with that detested lecture. And
next day he went down to Mendover: and next evening he made his
appearance before the Mendover Liberal Association; and there were the
customary votes of thanks to wind up the proceedings. There was nothing
in all this worthy of note: what was of importance happened after, when
the President of the Association, who had occupied the chair in the
absence of Lord Musselburgh, accompanied Vincent home to the Red Lion.
This Mr. Simmons was a solicitor, and a great political power in
Mendover; so, when he hinted that the Red Lion had a certain bin of port
that was famous all over the county--and, indeed, was powerful enough to
draw many a hunt-dinner to this hostelry by its own influence alone--be
sure that Master Vin was not long in having a decanter of the wine
placed on the table of the private parlour he had engaged. Mr. Simmons,
who was a sharp, shrewd-looking little man, with a pale face and
intensely black hair and short-cropped whiskers, suggested a cigar, and
took the largest he could find in his host's case. Then he proceeded to
make himself important and happy--with his toes on the fender, and his
shoulders softly cushioned in an easy chair.
"Yes," said he, complacently, when the cigar was going well, "I think I
can predict some good fortune for you, and that without having my hand
crossed with a shilling. I hope I am breaking no confidence; we lawyers
are supposed to be as mum as a priest after confessional; but of course
what is said between gentlemen will go no further than the four walls of
this room."
"I think you may trust me for that," Vincent said.
"Very well, then," continued Mr. Simmons, with an air of bland
consequence. "I will say this at least--that in January you may fairly
expect to be offered a very pretty New Year's present."
"Oh, really," said Vincent, without being much impressed: he fancied the
Liberal Association were perhaps going to pass a vote of
thanks--possibly inscribed on vellum--with the names of all the
officials writ large.
"A very pretty present: the representation of Mendover."
But at this he pricked up his ears; and Mr. Simmons smiled.
"Mr. Richard Gosford is my client, as I think you know," the
black-a-viced little lawyer went on, "but what I am telling you does not
come direct from him to me. I need not particularise my sources of
information. But from what I can gather I am almost certain that he
means to resign at the end of the year--he did talk of waiting for the
next General Election, as Lord Musselburgh may have told you; but his
imaginary troubles have grown on him; and as far as I can see there will
be nothing for you but to slip easily and quietly into his shoes next
January. A very pretty New Year's present!"
"But of course there will be a contest!" Vincent exclaimed.
"Not a bit," Mr. Simmons made answer, regarding the blue curls of smoke
from the cigar. "The snuggest little seat in England. Everybody knows
you are Lord Musselburgh's nominee; and Lord Musselburgh has promised to
do everything for our public park that Mr. Gosford ought to have done
when he presented the ground. See? No bribery on your part. Simple as
daylight. We'll run you in as if you were an infant on a wheelbarrow."
"It's very kind of you, I'm sure," said Vincent. "Is there anything you
would recommend me to do----?"
"Yes; I would recommend you to go and call on old Gosford to-morrow,
before you leave for town."
"Wouldn't that look rather like undue haste in seizing a dead man's
effects?" Vincent ventured to ask.
"A dead man?" said Mr. Simmons, helping himself to another glass of
port. "He is neither dead nor dying, any more than you or I. And
that's what you've got to remember to-morrow, when you go to see him.
For goodness' sake, don't tell him he's looking well--as you've got to
say to most invalids. Tell him he's looking very poorly. Be seriously
concerned. Then he'll be off to bed again--and delighted. For what he
suffers from is simply incurable laziness--and nervous timidity; and so
long as he can hide himself under the blankets, and read books, he's
happy."
"But what excuse am I to make for calling on him?" Vincent asked again.
"Oh," said Mr. Simmons, carelessly, "one public character visiting
another. You were here delivering a lecture; and of course you called
on the sitting member. You won't want any excuse if you will tell him
he should take extraordinary care of himself in this changeable
weather."
"And should I say anything about the seat?" Vincent asked further.
"I must leave that to your own discretion. Rather ticklish. Perhaps
better say nothing--unless he introduces the subject: then you can talk
about the overcrowding of the House, and the late hours, and the nervous
wear and tear of London. But you needn't suggest to him, in set terms,
that as he is retiring from business he might as well leave you the
goodwill: perhaps that would be a little too outspoken."
As luck would have it, a day or two after Vin's return to town, Mr.
Ogden came to dine at Grosvenor Place. It was a man's dinner--a dinner
of political extremists and faddists; but so far from Master Vincent
retiring to his own room and his books, as he sometimes did, he joined
the party, and even stipulated for a place next the great electioneerer
and wire-puller of the North. Further than that, he made himself most
agreeable to Mr. Ogden: was most meek and humble and good-humoured (for
to what deeps of hypocrisy will not a young man descend when he is madly
in love?), and seemed to swallow wholesale the long-resounding list of
Reforms--Reforms Administrative, Reforms Electoral, Reforms Fiscal,
Reforms Social and Political. For all the while he was saying within
himself: 'My dear sir, perhaps what you say is quite true: and we're all
going headlong to the devil--with the caucus for drag. And I could wish
you to have a few more A's: still, many excellent men have lived and
died without them. The main point is this--if one might dare to ask--Is
your Private Secretaryship still open; and, if so, what salary would you
propose to give?' But, of course, he could not quite ask those
questions at his own father's dinner-table; besides, he was in no hurry;
he wanted a few more days to look round.
The guests of this evening did not go up to the drawing-room; they
remained in the dining-room, smoking, until it was time for them to
leave: then Harland Harris and his son found themselves alone together.
Now the relations between father and son had been very considerably
strained since the morning on which the former had brought his
allegations against old George Bethune and his granddaughter; but on
this occasion Vincent was in a particularly amiable and generous mood.
He was pleased with himself for having paid court to Mr. Ogden; he
looked forward with some natural gratification to this early chance of
getting into Parliament; and, again, what was the use of attaching any
importance to those preposterous charges? So he lit another cigarette;
stretched out his legs before the fire; and told his father--but with
certain reservations, for on one or two points he was pledged to
silence--what had happened down at Mendover.
"I am heartily glad to hear it," said the communist-capitalist, with a
certain cold severity of tone. "I am glad to hear that you begin to
realise what are the serious interests of life. You are a very
fortunate young man. If you are returned for Mendover, it will be by a
concurrence of circumstances such as could not easily have been
anticipated. At the same time I think it might be judicious if you went
down again and hinted to Mr.----what did you say?--Simmons?--Mr. Simmons
that in the event of everything turning out well, there would be no need
to wait for Lord Musselburgh's contribution towards the completion of
the public park. What Lord Musselburgh is going to gain by that passes
my comprehension. I can hardly suppose that he made such a promise in
order to secure your election: that, indeed, would be a wild freak of
generosity--so wild as to be incredible. However," continued Mr.
Harris, in his pedantic and sententious manner, "it is unnecessary to
seek for motives. We do not need to be indebted to him. I consider
that it is of the greatest importance that you should enter Parliament
at an early age; and I am willing to pay. Mendover ought to be a secure
seat, if it is kept warm. Promise them what you like--I will see to the
rest. There are other things besides a park, if they prefer to keep Lord
Musselburgh to his promise: a free library, for example--if they have
one already, another one: a clubhouse for the football club--a pavilion
for the cricketers--a refreshment tent for the tennis ground--a band to
play on the summer evenings--a number of things of that kind that you
could discover from your friend the solicitor."
Vincent could have laughed, had he dared. Here he was invited to play
the part of a great local magnate, plutocrat, and benefactor; and it was
less than half-an-hour ago that he had been anxiously wondering whether
L200 a year, or L250 a year, would be the probable salary of Mr. Ogden's
private secretary. Harland Harris went on:
"It is so rarely that such an opportunity occurs--in England at
least--that one must not be niggardly in welcoming it. Simmons--did you
say Simmons? is clearly of importance: if you make him your agent in
these negotiations, that will be enough for him--he will look after
himself. And he will keep you safe: the elected member may steal a
horse, whereas as a candidate he daren't look over the hedge. And once
you are embarked on a career of public usefulness----"
"Bribery, do you mean?" said Vincent, meekly.
"I refer to the House of Commons: once you have your career open to you,
you will be able to show whether the training you have undergone has
been the right one, or whether the ordinary scholastic routine--mixed up
with monkish traditions--would have been preferable. At all events you
have seen the world. You have seen men, and their interests, and
occupations: not a parcel of grown-up schoolboys playing games." And
therewithal he bade his son good-night.
A day or two passed: Vincent was still making discreet inquiries as to
how a young man, with some little knowledge of the world, and a trifle
of capital at his back, but with no specific professional training,
could best set to work to earn a moderate income for himself; and also
he was sounding one or two editors for whom he had done some occasional
work as to whether employment of a more permanent kind might be
procurable. Moreover, he had ordered the little brooch for Maisrie--a
tiny white dove this was, in mother-of-pearl, on a transverse narrow
band of rubies; and besides that he had picked up a few things with
which to make her room a little prettier, when she should return to
town. Some of the latter, indeed, which were fit for immediate
installation, he had already sent home; and one afternoon he thought he
might as well go up and see what Mrs. Hobson had done with them.
It was the landlady's husband who opened the door; and even as he
ushered the young man up to the parlour, he had begun his story, which
was so confused and disconnected and inclined to tears that Vincent
instantly suspected gin.
"Lor bless ye, sir, we ev bin in such a sad quandary, to be sure, and
right glad I am to see you, sir, with them things a comin ome, and you
was so particular about not a word to be said, and there was the missis,
a angin of em up, and the beautiful counterpane, all spread out so neat
and tidy, 'why,' says she, 'the Queen on the throne she aint got nothin
more splendid, which he is the most generous young genelman, and jest as
good as he's ansome'--beggin' your pardon, sir, for women will talk, and
then in the middle of it hall, here comes the old genelman as we were
not expecting of im, sir--ah, sir, a great man, a wonderful man, sir, in
sorrowful sikkumstances--and the young lady, too, and hall to be settled
up reglar--oh, heverythink, sir--like a genelman----"
"What the mischief are you talking about?" said Vincent, in his
bewilderment. "Do you mean to say that Mr. Bethune and Miss Bethune
have been in London?"
"Yesterday, sir, yesterday, more's the pity, sir, to give up their rooms
for good and hall, for never again shall we 'ev sich lodgers in this
poor ouse. A honour, sir, as was least knowed when it was most
appreciated, as one might say, sir, a man like that, sir, a great man,
sir, though awaitin his time, like many others, and oldin is ead igh
against fate and fortune whatever the world might say. And the young
lady--beautiful she was, as you know, sir--as you know, sir--and as good
as gold--well, never again--in this poor ouse----"
"Look here," said Vincent, impatiently--for this rigmarole threatened at
any moment to dissolve in maudlin weeping, "will you answer me one
question: am I to understand that Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter are
not coming back here?"
"Indeed, no, sir, more's the pity, sir, it was a honour to this pore
ouse, and heverythink paid up like a genelman, though many's the time I
was sayin to the missis as she needn't be so ard----"
"Where have they gone, then?" the younger man demanded, peremptorily.
"Lor bless ye, sir, it took me all of a suddent--they didn't say nothin
about that, sir--and I was that upset, sir----"
Vincent glanced at his watch: five minutes past four was the time.
"Oh, I see," he said, with a fine carelessness (for there were wild and
alarming suspicions darting through his brain). "They're going to
remain in Brighton, I dare say. Well, good-bye, Hobson! About those
bits of things I sent up--you keep them for yourself--tell Mrs. Hobson I
make her a present of them--you needn't say anything about them to
anybody."
He left the house. He quickly crossed the street, and went up to his
own rooms: the table there was a blank--he had almost expected as much.
Then he went out again, hailed a hansom, drove down to Victoria-station,
and caught the four-thirty train to Brighton. When he reached the
lodging-house in German Place, he hardly dared knock: he seemed to know
already what was meant by this hurried and stealthy departure. His
worst fears were immediately confirmed. Mr. Bethune--Miss Bethune--had
left the previous morning. And did no one know whither they had gone?
No one. And there was no message--no letter--for any one who might
call? There was no message--no letter.
The young man turned away. It was raining: he did not seem to care.
Out there in the dark was the solitary light at the end of the pier:
why, how many days had gone by since she had said to him, with tears
running down her cheeks--'Vincent, I love you!--I love you!--you are my
dearest in all the world!--remember that always!' And what was this
that she had done?--for that it was of her doing; he had no manner of
doubt. Enough: his heart, that had many a time been moved to pity by
her solitariness, her friendlessness, had no more pity now. Pride rose
in its place--pride, and reproach, and scorn. There was but the one
indignant cry ringing in his ears--"False love--false love--and
traitress!"
END OF VOL. II.
LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.