AN APPROACH.
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in!" called out old George Bethune.
There appeared a middle-aged man, of medium height, who looked like a
butler out of employment; he was pale and flabby of face, with nervous
eyes expressive of a sort of imbecile amiability.
"Ah, Hobson!" said Mr. Bethune, in his lofty manner. "Well?"
The landlady's husband came forward in the humblest possible fashion;
and his big, prominent, vacuous eyes seemed to be asking for a little
consideration and goodwill.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said he, in the most deplorable of Cockney
accents, "I 'umbly beg your pardon for making so bold; but knowing as
you was so fond of everything Scotch, I took the liberty of bringing you
a sample of something very special--a friend of mine, sir, recommended
it--and then says I to him, 'Lor bless ye, I don't know nothing about
Highland whiskey; but there's a gentleman in our 'ouse who is sure to be
a judge, and if I can persuade him to try it, he'll be able to say if
it's the real sort.'"
"All right, Hobson," said George Bethune, in his grand way. "Some other
time I will see what it is like."
"Thank you, sir, thank you!" said the ex-butler, with earnest gratitude;
and he went and placed the bottle on the sideboard. Then he came back,
and hesitatingly took out an envelope from his pocket. "And if I might
ask another favour, sir. You see, sir, in this 'ot weather people won't
go to the theatres; and they're not doing much; and my brother-in-law,
the theatrical agent, he's glad to get the places filled up, to make a
show, sir, as you might say. And I've got two dress-circle seats, if
you and the young lady was thinking of going to the theatre to-morrow
night. It's a great favour, sir, as my brother-in-law said to me as he
was a-giving me the tickets and arsking me to get 'em used."
He lied; for there was no brother-in-law and no theatrical agent in the
case. He himself had that very afternoon honestly and straightforwardly
purchased the tickets at the box-office, as he had done on more than one
occasion before, out of the money allowed him for personal expenses by
his wife; so that he had to look forward to a severe curtailment of his
gin and tobacco for weeks to come.
"Thanks--thanks!" said George Bethune, as he lit his long clay pipe. "I
will see what my granddaughter says when she comes in--unless you would
like to use the tickets yourself."
"Oh, no, sir, begging your pardon, sir," was the instant rejoinder.
"When I 'ave a evening out I go to the Oxbridge music-'all--perhaps it's
vanity, sir--but when Charley Coldstream gets a hangcore, I do like to
hear some on 'em call out, 'Says Wolseley, says he!' Ah, sir, that was
the proudest moment of my life when I see Charley Coldstream come on the
stage and begin to sing verse after verse, and the people cheering; and
I owed it all to you, sir; it was you, sir, as advised me to send it to
him----"
"A catching refrain--a catching refrain," said the old gentleman,
encouragingly. "Just fitted to get hold of the public ear."
"Why, sir," said Hobson, with a fatuous little chuckle of delight, "this
werry afternoon, as I was coming down Park-street, I 'eard a butcher's
boy a-singing it--I did indeed, sir--as clear as could be I 'eard the
words,
'Says Wolseley, says he,
To Arabi,
You can fight other chaps, but you can't fight me.'
--every word I 'eard. But would you believe it, sir, when I was in the
Oxbridge music-'all I could 'ardly listen, I was so frightened, and my
ears a-buzzin, and me 'ardly able to breathe. Lor, sir, that was a
experience! Nobody looked at me, and that was a mercy--I couldn't ha'
stood it. Even the chairman, as was not more than six yards from me, 'e
didn't know who I was, and not being acquainted with him, I couldn't
offer him somethink, which I should have considered it a proud honour so
to do on sich an occasion. And if I might make so bold, sir----"
He was fumbling in his breast-pocket.
"What--more verses?" said Mr. Bethune, good-naturedly. "Well, let's see
them. But take a seat, man, take a seat."
Rather timidly he drew a chair in to the table; and then he said with
appealing eyes:
"But wouldn't you allow me, sir, to fetch you a little drop of the
whiskey--I assure you it's the best!"
"Oh, very well--very well; but bring two tumblers; single drinking is
slow work."
In a few seconds those two curiously-assorted companions--the one
massive and strong-built, impressive in manner, measured and emphatic of
speech, the other feeble and fawning, at once eager and vacuous, his
face ever ready to break into a maudlin smile--were seated in
confabulation together, with some sheets of scribbled paper between.
"And if you will excuse my being so bold, sir," continued Hobson, with
great humility, "but I 'ave been reading the little volume of Scotch
songs you lent me, and--and----"
"Trying your hand at that, too?"
"Only a verse, sir."
Mr. Bethune took up the scrap of paper; and read aloud:
"O leese me on the toddy,
the toddy,
the toddy,
O leese me on the toddy,
We'll hae a willie-waught!"
"Well, yes," he said, with rather a doubtful air, "you've got the
phrases all right--except the willie-waught, and that is a common error.
To tell you the truth, my friend, there is no such thing as a
willie-waught. _Waught_ is a hearty drink; a richt gude-willie waught
is a drink with right good will. _Willie-waught_ is nothing--a
misconception--a printer's blunder. However, phrases do not count for
much. Scotch phrases do not make Scotch song. It is not the provincial
dialect--it is the breathing spirit that is the life"--and therewith he
repeated, in a proud manner, as if to crush this poor anxious poet by
the comparison,
"I see her in the dewy flower,
Sae lovely, sweet, and fair;
I hear her voice in ilka bird
Wi' music charm the air;
There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
Nor yet a bonnie bird that sings
But minds me o' my Jean."
"Beg pardon, sir--Miss Bethune?" said Hobson, enquiringly; for he
evidently thought these lines were of the old gentleman's own
composition. And then, as he received no answer, for Mr. Bethune had
turned to his pipe, he resumed, "Ah, I see, sir, I 'ave not been
successful. Too ambitious--too ambitious. It was you yourself, sir, as
advised me to write about what I knew; and--and in fact, sir, what I see
is that there is nothing like patriotism. Lor, sir, you should see them
young fellers at the Oxbridge--they're as brave as lions--especially
when they've 'ad a glass. Talk about the French! The French ain't in
it, when we've got our spirit up. We can stand a lot, sir, yes, we can;
but don't let them push us too far. Not _too_ far. It will be a bad
day for them when they do. An Englishman ain't given to boasting; but
he's a terror when his back's up--and a Scotchman too, sir, I beg your
pardon--I did not mean anything--I intended to include the Scotchman
too, I assure you, sir. There's a little thing here, sir," he continued
modestly, "that I should like to read to you, if I may make so bold. I
thought of sending it to Mr. Coldstream--I'm sure it would take--for
there's some fight in the Englishman yet--and in the Scotchman too,
sir," he instantly added.
"A patriotic poem?--Well?"
Thus encouraged the pleased poet moistened his lips with the whiskey and
water he had brought for himself and began--
"_Where's the man would turn and fly?_
_Where's the man afraid to die?_
_It isn't you, it isn't I._
_No, my lads, no, no!_"
Then his voice had a more valiant ring in it still:
"_Who will lead us to the fray?_
_Who will sweep the foe away?_
_Who will win the glorious day?_
_Of England's chivalry?_"
It is true he said, "Oo will sweep the foe awye?" but these little
peculiarities were lost in the fervour of his enthusiasm.
"_Roberts--Graham--Buller--Wood--_"
He paused after each name as if listening for the thunderous cheering of
the imaginary audience.
"And many another 'most as good:
They're the men to shed their blood
For their country!"
Then there was a touch of pathos:
"_Fare thee well, love, and adieu!_"
But that was immediately dismissed:
"_Fiercer thoughts I have than you;_
_We will drive the dastard crew_
_Into slavery!_"
And then he stretched forth his right arm, and declaimed in loud and
portentous tones--
"_See the bloody tented-field;_
_Look the foe--they yield!--they yield!_
_Hurrah! hurrah! our glory's sealed!_
_Three cheers for victory!_"
Suddenly his face blanched. For at this moment the door opened: a tall
woman appeared--with astonishment and indignation only too legible in
her angular features.
"Hobson!" she exclaimed; and at this awful sound the bold warrior seemed
to collapse into a limp rag. "I am surprised--I am _indeed_ surprised!
Really, sir, how can you encourage him in such impudence? Seated at
your own table and drinking too, I declare," she went on, as she lifted
up the deserted tumbler--for her bellicose husband had hastily picked up
his MSS. and vanished from the room. "Really, sir, such familiarity!"
"In the republic of letters, my good Mrs. Hobson," said Mr. Bethune with
a smile, "all men are equal. I have been much interested in some of
your husband's writings."
"Oh, sir, don't put sich things in his 'ead!" she said, as she proceeded
to lay the cloth for dinner. "He's a fool, and that's bad enough; but if
so be as you put things in his 'ead, and he giving of hisself airs,
it'll be hawful! What good he is to anybody, I don't know. He won't
clean a winder or black a boot even."
"How can you expect it?" George Bethune said, in perfect good humour.
"Manual labour would be a degradation. Men of genius ought to be
supported by the State."
"In the workus, I suppose," she said, sharply--but here Maisrie Bethune
came upstairs and into the room, carrying some parcels in her hand, and
instantly the landlady's face changed its expression, and became as
amiable and smiling as the gaunt features would allow.
At dinner the old man told his granddaughter that he had procured (he
did not say how) places at the ---- Theatre for the following evening,
and seemed to be pleased about this little break in their quiet lives.
"But why did you go to such expense, grandfather?" Maisrie said. "You
know I am quite happy enough in spending the evening at home with you.
And every day now I ask myself when I am to begin copying the poems--for
the volume, you know. You have sent for them to America, haven't you?
But really you have such a wonderful memory, grandfather, I believe you
could repeat them all--and I could write them down--and let the printers
have them. I was so glad when you let me help you with the book you
published in Montreal; and you know my writing is clear enough; you
remember what the foreman printer said? Don't you think we could begin
to-night, grandfather? It pleases you to repeat those beautiful
verses--you are so fond of them--and proud of them because they are
written by Scotchmen--and I am sure it would be a delight to me to write
them out for you."
"Oh, yes, yes," he said, fretfully, "but not to-night. You're always in
such a hurry, Maisrie." And then he added, in a gentler way, "Well, it
is a wonderful blessing, a good memory. I never want for a companion,
when I've a Scotch air or a Scotch song humming through my brain. On
the darkest and wettest day, here in this big city, what have you to do
but think of
'The broom, the yellow, yellow broom,
The broom o' the Cowdenknowes,'
and at once you have before you golden banks, and meadows, and June
skies, and all else is forgotten. Indeed, lass, Scotland has become for
me such a storehouse of beautiful things--in imagination--that I am
almost afraid to return to it, in case the reality might disappoint me.
No, no, it could not disappoint me: I treasure every inch of the sacred
soil: but sometimes I wonder if you will recognise the magic and
witchery of hill and glen. As for me, there is naught else I fear now;
there are no human ties I shall have to take up again; I shall not have
to mourn the 'Bourocks o' Bargeny.'"
"What is that, grandfather?"
"If you had been brought up in Scotland, Maisrie, you would know what
the bigging o' bourocks is among children--play-houses in the sand. But
sometimes the word is applied to huts or cottages, as it is in the title
of Hugh Ainslie's poem. That poem is one that I shall be proud to give
a place to in my collection," he continued, with an air of importance.
"Hugh Ainslie is no more with us; but his countrymen, whether in America
or at home, are not likely to forget the 'Bourocks o' Bargeny.'"
"Can you remember it, grandfather?"
"Can I not?" said he; and therewith he repeated the lines, never
faltering once for a phrase--
"I left ye, Jeanie, blooming fair
'Mang the bourocks o' Bargeny;
I've found ye on the banks o' Ayr,
But sair ye're altered, Jeanie.
I left ye like the wanton lamb
That plays 'mang Hadyed's heather;
I've found ye noo a sober dame--
A wife and eke a mither.
I left ye 'mang the leaves sae green
In rustic weed befittin';
I've found ye buskit like a queen,
In painted chaumer sittin'.
Ye're fairer, statelier, I can see,
Ye're wiser, nae doubt, Jeanie;
But oh! I'd rather met wi' thee
'Mang the bourocks of Bargeny!"
"It's very sad, grandfather," she said, wistfully.
"The way of the world--the way of the world," said he; and observing
that she had finished and was waiting for him, he forthwith rose and
went to the mantelpiece for his pipe. "There's many a true story of
that kind. Well, Maisrie, you'll just get your violin, and we'll have
the 'Broom o' the Cowdenknowes?'" And while she went to fetch the
violin, and as he cut his tobacco, he sang in a quavering voice--
"O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom,
The broom o' the Cowdenknowes,
I wish I were at hame again
Where the broom sae sweetly grows!"
And then he went to the window, to smoke his pipe in peace and quiet,
while Maisrie, seated further back in the shadow of the room, played for
him the well-known air. Did she guess--and fear--that she might have an
audience of more than one? At all events her doubts were soon resolved:
when she had ceased, and after a second or so of silence, there came
another sound into the prevailing hush--it was one of the Songs without
Words, and it was being played with considerable delicacy and charm.
"Hallo," said Mr. Bethune, when he heard the first low-rippling notes,
"have we a musical neighbour now?"
"Yes, grandfather," Maisrie replied, rather timidly. "Last night, when
you were out, some one played."
"Ah, a music-mistress, I dare say. Poor thing--perhaps all alone--and
wishing to be friendly in this sort of fashion."
They listened without further speech until the last notes had gradually
died away.
"Now, Maisrie, it is your turn!"
"Oh, no, grandfather!" she said, hastily.
"Why not?"
"It would be like answering--to a stranger."
"And are we not all strangers?" he said, gently. "I think it is a very
pretty idea, if that is what is meant. We'll soon see. Come, Maisrie;
something more than the plashing of a southern fountain--something with
northern fire in it. Why not 'Helen of Kirkconnell'?"
The girl was very obedient; she took up her violin; and presently she
was playing that strangely simple air that nevertheless is about as
proud and passionate and piteous as the tragic story to which it is
wedded. Perhaps the stranger over there did not know the ballad; but
George Bethune knew it only too well; and his voice almost broke into a
sob as he said, when she had finished--
"Ah, Maisrie, it was no music-master taught you that; it was born in
your nature. Sometimes I wonder if a capacity for intense sympathy
means an equal capacity for suffering; it is sad if it should be so; a
thick skin would be wholesomer--as far as I have seen the world; and few
have seen more of it. Well, what has our neighbour to say?"
Their unseen companion on the other side of the little thoroughfare
responded with a waltz of Chopin's--a mysterious, elusive sort of a
thing, that seemed to fade away into the dark rather than to cease.
Maisrie appeared disinclined to continue this _do ut des_ programme; but
her grandfather overruled her; and named the airs for her to play, one
by one, in alternation with those coming from the open window opposite.
At last she said she was tired. It was time for the gas to be lit, and
the hot water brought up for her grandfather's toddy. So she closed the
window and pulled down the blind; lit up the room; rang the bell for the
hot water; and then placidly sate down to her knitting, whilst her
grandfather, brewing himself an unmistakable gude-willie waught, and
lighting another pipe, proceeded to entertain her with a rambling
disquisition upon the world at large, but especially upon his own
travels and experiences therein, his philosophical theories, and his
reminiscences of the Scotch countryside ballads of his youth.
That mystic and enigmatic conversation with their neighbour over the way
was not continued on the following evening, for the old man and his
granddaughter went to the theatre; but on the next night again it was
resumed; and thereafter, on almost every evening, the two windows
replied to each other, as the twilight deepened into dusk. And Maisrie
was less reluctant now--she almost took this little concert _a deux_ as
a matter of course. For one thing, the stranger, whoever he or she
might be, did not seem in any way anxious to push the acquaintance any
further; no one ever appeared at that open window; nor had she ever
encountered any one coming out as she stood on the doorstep waiting for
her grandfather. As for him, he still maintained that the new occupant
of those rooms must be a woman--perhaps some shy creature, willing to
think that she had friendly neighbours, and yet afraid to show herself.
Besides, the music that came in response to Maisrie's Scotch airs was
hardly what a man would have chosen. The stranger over there seemed
chiefly fond of Mendelssohn, Chopin, and Mozart; though occasionally
there was an excursion into the _Volkslieder_ domain--"_Zu Strassburg
auf der Schanz_," "_Es ritten drei Reiter zum Thore hinaus_," "_Von
meinetn Bergli muss i scheiden_," or something of that kind; whereas, if
it had been a man who occupied those rooms, surely they would have
heard--during the day, for example--a fine bold ditty like "Simon the
Cellarer," "The Bay of Biscay," or "The Friar of Orders Gray," with a
strident voice outroaring the accompaniment? Maisrie answered nothing
to these arguments; but in spite of herself, when she had to cross the
room for something or other, her eyes would seek that mysteriously
vacant window, with however rapid and circumspect a glance. And always
in vain. Moreover, the piano was never touched during the day: the
stranger invariably waited for the twilight before seeking to resume
that subtle link of communication.
Of course this state of things could not go on for ever--unless the
person over there possessed the gift of invisibility. One morning as
Maisrie and her grandfather were going out as usual for a stroll in the
Park, she went downstairs first, and along the lobby, and opened the
door, to wait for him. At the very same instant the door opposite was
opened, and there, suddenly presented to her view, was a young man. He
was looking straight across; she was looking straight across; their eyes
met without the slightest chance of equivocation or denial; and each
knew that this was recognition. They regarded each other but for a
swift second; but as plainly as possible he had said to her "Do you
guess? Are you angry? No, do not be angry!"--and then his glance was
averted; he shut the door behind him; and slowly proceeded on his way.
Was she surprised? No. Perhaps she was startled by the unexpectedness
of the meeting; perhaps her heart was beating a little more quickly than
usual; but a profound instinct had already told her that it was no woman
who had spoken to her in those dusky twilights, evening after evening.
A woman would not have wrapped herself up in that mysterious secrecy. A
woman who wished to make friends with her neighbours over the way would
have come to the window, would have smiled, would have made some excuse
for calling. Maisrie did not ostensibly look after the young man--but
she could see him all the same, until he turned the corner. She was
vaguely troubled. The brief glance she had met had in it a kind of
appeal. And she wished to say in return that she was not offended;
that, being strangers, they must remain strangers; but that she had not
taken his boldness ill. She wished to say--she did not know what. Then
her grandfather came down; and they went away together; but she uttered
not a syllable as to what had just occurred. It was all a bewilderment
to her--that left her a little breathless when she tried to think of it.
That night, when the customary time arrived, she refused to take up her
violin; and when her grandfather remonstrated, she had no definite
excuse. She hesitated and stammered--said they had not played chess for
ever so long--or would he rather have a game of draughts?--anything but
the violin.
"Are you forgetting your good-natured neighbour over there?" her
grandfather asked. "It will be quite a disappointment for her. Poor
thing, it appears to be the only society she has; we never hear a sound
otherwise; there seems to be no one ever come to talk to her during the
day, or we should hear a voice now and again."
"Yes, but, grandfather," said Maisrie, who seemed much embarrassed,
"don't you think it a little imprudent to--to encourage this kind of--of
answering each other--without knowing who the other person is?"
"Why, what can be more harmless!" he protested, cheerfully, and then he
went on: "More harmless than music?--nothing, nothing! Song is the
solace of human life; in joy it is the natural expression of our
happiness--in times of trouble it refreshes the heart with thoughts of
other and brighter days. A light heart--a heart that can sing to
itself--that is the thing to carry you through life, Maisrie!" And he
himself, as he crossed the room to fetch a box of matches, was trolling
gaily, with a fine bravura execution--
"The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,
Fu' loud the wind blows frae the ferry;
The ship rides by the Berwick Law,
And I maun leave my bonnie Mary."
Maisrie was not to be moved; but she appeared down-hearted a little. As
time went on the silence in the little street seemed somehow to accuse
her; she knew she was responsible. She was playing draughts with her
grandfather, in a perfunctory sort of way. She remembered that glance
of appeal--she could not forget it--and this had been her answer. Then
all of a sudden her hand that hovered over the board trembled, and she
had almost dropped the piece that was in her fingers: for there had
sprang into the stillness a half-hushed sound--it was an air she knew
well enough--she could almost recognise the words--
"_Nachtigall, ich hoer' dich singen;_
_S'Herz thut mir im Leibe springen,_
_Komm nur bald und sag mir's wohl,_
_Wie ich mich verhalten soll._"
Her grandfather stopped the game to listen; and when the soft-toned
melody had ceased, he said----
"There, now, Maisrie, that is an invitation: you must answer."
"No, no, grandfather," she said, almost in distress. "I would rather
not--you don't know--you must find out something about--about whoever it
is that plays. I am sure it will be better. Of course it is quite
harmless, as you say--oh, yes, quite harmless--but I should like you to
get to know first--quite harmless, of course--but I am frightened--about
a stranger--not frightened, of course--but--don't ask me, grandfather!"
Well, it was not of much concern to him; and as he was winning all along
the line, he willingly returned to the game. It had grown so dark,
however, that Maisrie had to go and light the gas--having drawn down the
blinds first, as was her invariable habit. When she came back to the
table she seemed to breathe more freely; though she was thoughtful and
pre-occupied--not with the game. The music on the other side of the way
was not resumed that evening, as far as they could hear.
Several days passed; and each evening now was silent. Maisrie saw
nothing more of the young man; indeed, she studiously refrained from
glancing across to the other side of the street--except when she was
going out, and wanted to make sure there was no one there. But
something was now about to happen that entirely altered this disposition
of affairs.
One morning George Bethune and his granddaughter had gone for their
accustomed stroll in Hyde Park, and in course of time had taken their
places on a bench near the Serpentine, while the old man had pulled out
a newspaper and began to read it. The day was sultry, despite an
occasional stirring of wind; and Maisrie sitting there, and having
nothing to do but look at the water, and the trees, and the sky,
observed that all the world around them was gradually growing darker.
In the south, especially, the heavens were of a curious metallic hue--a
livid grey, as it were; while across that hung two horizontal belts of
deepest purple that remained motionless, while other and lighter tags of
vapour were inter-twisting with each other or melting away into
nothingness. Those two clouds were not of the usual cloud-form at
all--they were rather like two enormous torpedoes lying one above the
other; and there was a sombre deadness of hue about them that looked
ominous. Suddenly, as she was thus vaguely regarding those long purple
swathes, there ran across them--springing vertically upwards--a
quivering line of yellow flame--so thin it was, it appeared like a
thread of golden wire--and when that had vanished, there was a second or
two of silence, followed by a dull, low, rumbling noise that seemed to
come from a considerable distance. She was not much alarmed. There
were no signs of a terrific thunderstorm; probably a few more flashes
would serve to loosen and disperse those lowering clouds, and allow the
day to clear.
It was at this moment that a young man came up and addressed Mr.
Bethune--with a certain courteous hesitation, and yet in frank and
ingenuous tones.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said he, "but may I claim the privilege of a
neighbour to offer you this umbrella--I'm afraid there's a shower
coming--and the young lady may get wet."
It was a pleasant voice; George Bethune looked up well-disposed towards
the stranger, whoever he might be. And the face of the young man was
also prepossessing; it was something more than handsome; it was
intelligent and refined; and the honest and straightforward eyes had a
certain confidence in them, as if they were not used to having their
friendly advances repulsed.
"I thank you--I thank you," said George Bethune, with much dignity. "I
had not observed. But you will want the umbrella for yourself--we can
get shelter under one of the trees."
"Would that be wise, sir, in a thunderstorm?" said the young man. "Oh,
no, let me give you the umbrella--I don't mind a shower--and it won't be
more than that, I fancy."
George Bethune accepted the proffered courtesy.
"Here, Maisrie, since this young gentleman is so kind; you'd better be
prepared. A neighbour did you say, sir?" he continued.
"A very near neighbour," answered the young man, with a smile, and he
seated himself by the side of Mr. Bethune without more ado. "I have
often thought of speaking to you, and asking to be allowed to make your
acquaintance; for you seem to have very few visitors--you will pardon my
curiosity--while I have none at all."
"Oh, really, really," the old man said, somewhat vaguely; perhaps he was
wondering how so faultlessly attired a young gentleman (his
patent-leather boots, for example, were of the most approved pattern)
should have chosen lodgings in so humble a thoroughfare.
"It is a very quiet little corner, is it not?" the young man
said--almost as if answering that unspoken question. "That is why it
suits me so well; I can get on with my books without interruption. The
street is so small that it isn't worth an organ-grinder's while to waste
time in it."
"Music is a sad thing for interrupting study; I know that," the old
gentleman observed. "By the way, I hope we do not disturb you--my
granddaughter plays the violin sometimes--"
"I could listen to that kind of music all day long," was the response.
"I never heard such violin-playing--most beautiful!--most beautiful!"
"Then you are not far away from us?"
"Right opposite," was the straightforward answer.
George Bethune glanced at the young man with a look of quiet amusement;
he was thinking of the pale music-mistress--the solitary widow of his
imagination.
"And you--you also play a little in the evenings sometimes?"
"I hope you didn't think it rude, sir," the young man said, humbly. "I
thought it permissible, as between neighbours."
"Oh, they were pretty little concerts," said George Bethune,
good-naturedly. "Very pretty little concerts. I don't know why they
were stopped. I suppose Maisrie had some fancy about them--my
granddaughter Maisrie--"
It was a kind of introduction. The young man, modestly veiling the
quick flash of delight in his eyes at this unexpected happiness,
respectfully bowed. Maisrie, with her beautiful pale face suffused with
unusual colour, made some brief inclination also; then she seemed to
retire again from this conversation--though she could not but overhear.
"My name is Harris," the young man said, as though these confidences
were all as a matter of course between neighbours. "It isn't a very
distinguished name; but one has to take what is given one. It is not of
much consequence."
"I am not so sure about that," the older man rejoined, somewhat
sententiously. "A good name is a good thing; it is an honour not to be
purchased. It may be the only one of your possessions remaining to you;
but of that they cannot rob you."
"Oh, of course, of course," Vincent said, quickly, for he perceived the
mistake he had made. "An old historic name is certainly something to be
proud of. By the way, sir, did your family originally take their name
from Bethon on the Sarthe or from Bethune in the Department of Calais?"
"Bethune--Bethune," said the old man, who appeared to be pleased by this
question, which spoke of previous enquiries; and then he added, with a
lofty air: "The Duc de Sully, Marquis de Rosny, Sovereign Prince of
Enrichemont and Boisbel, Grand Master of the Artillery and Marshal of
France, was Maximilien de Bethune--Maximilien de Bethune."
"Oh, really," said the young man, who seemed much impressed.
"The name," continued old George Bethune, in the same oracular vein,
"was often spelt Beaton and Beton--especially in Scotland--as everybody
knows. Whether James, Archbishop of Glasgow, and his nephew David,
Archbishop of St. Andrews, had any immediate relationship with
France--beyond that David was consecrated Bishop of Mirepoix when he was
negotiating the marriage of James V. at the French Court--I cannot at
the moment precisely say; but of this there can be no doubt, that from
Bethune in the north came the original territorial designation of the
family, not from Bethon in the west. Maximilien de Bethune--Bethune in
the Department of the Straits of Calais."
"Oh really," the young man said again, quite humbly.
Now by this time it had become manifest that there was to be no
thunderstorm at all. There had been a few more of those quivering
strokes of yellow fire (that dwelt longer on the retina than in the
clouds) accompanied by some distant mutterings and rumblings; and at one
point it seemed as if the dreaded shower were coming on; but all passed
off gradually and quietly; the sky slowly brightened; a pale sunshine
began here and there to touch the greensward and the shivering elms.
This young man had no excuse for remaining here; but he seemed to
forget; he was so busy talking--and talking in a very pleased and
half-excited fashion, with an occasional glance across at the young
lady.
"Grandfather," said Maisrie Bethune, presently, handing him the umbrella
as a sort of hint.
But even when Vincent received his property back, he appeared to take no
heed. He had observed that the newspaper lying on the old man's knee
was the _Toronto Globe_; he drew attention to the circumstance; and now
all his conversation was of Queen's Park, Lake Ontario, of King Street,
Queen Street, Church Street, of the Exhibition Grounds, of Park Island,
and Block House Bay, and the Royal Canadian Yacht Club. So he had been
there too? Oh, yes, he had been all over Canada and America. He was as
familiar with Idaho as with Brooklyn. He had fished in the Adirondacks
and shot mountain sheep in the Rockies.
"You have been to Omaha, then?" the old man asked.
"Oh, yes, of course."
"For my granddaughter here," he continued, with a smile, "is an Omaha
girl."
"Oh, indeed," said Vincent, rather breathlessly, and again he ventured
to look across to Maisrie Bethune and her downcast eyes.
"Yes, but only by the accident of birth," said George Bethune,
instantly, as if he must needs guard against any misapprehension.
"Every drop of blood in her veins is Scotch--and of a right good quality
too. Well, you have heard--you have heard. Do you think any one could
understand those old Scotch airs who was not herself Scotch in heart and
soul?"
"I never heard anything so beautiful," the young man answered, in an
undertone; indeed, he seemed hardly capable of talking about her, any
more than he could fix his eyes steadily on her face. His forced
glances were timorous and fugitive. There was something sacred--that
kept him at a distance. It was enough to be conscious that she was
there; his only prayer was that she should remain; that he and she
should be together, if a little way apart, looking at the same skies and
water and trees, breathing the same air, hearkening to the same sounds.
So he kept on talking to the old man, in rather a nervous and eager
fashion, fearful all the time that either of them should propose to go.
And thus it came about that Vincent Harris seemed to have a good deal to
say for himself; he appeared to forget that he was speaking to two
strangers; rather he was chatting with two neighbours, whom he wished to
be his friends. And the old man, in his self-sufficient and dignified
way, was quite content to encourage this new acquaintance. His
conversation was something to pass the time withal; he was modest,
well-mannered, intelligent; there was an air of distinction about him
that showed good up-bringing as well as some decision of character. No
doubt he was of a wealthy family, or he could not have spent so much of
his time in travel; by accident he had mentioned one or two well-known
people as though he were in the habit of familiarly meeting with them;
from some passing hint as to the nature of his studies, Mr. Bethune
gathered that this pleasant-spoken, pleasant-smiling neighbour was
destined for a public career. There was even something interesting, to
one who had grown old and callous of the world's shows, in noting the
bright enthusiasm of the young man, the clear light in his eyes, the
general air of strength and ease and courage that sate lightly on him,
as befitting one who was in the very May-morn of his youth.
But at last, for shame's sake, Vincent had himself to rise and break up
this all too-attractive companionship. He said, with great humility:
"I am sure I ought to apologise to Miss Bethune for having taken up so
much of your time. Rather an unwarrantable intrusion; but I don't think
there is any chance of the rain coming now--and--and--so I will say
good-bye."
"Good-bye--glad to have made your acquaintance," said old George
Bethune, with a grave courtesy.
And Maisrie made him a little bow--for he was looking at her rather
supplicatingly--as he raised his hat and withdrew. Their eyes had met
once more: she could not well have avoided that. And of course she saw
him as he walked away southward, across the bridge, until he
disappeared.
"A very agreeable young man, that," said Mr. Bethune, with decision, as
he rose to his feet and intimated to his granddaughter that they had
better set forth again. "Frank in manner, gentle, courteous,
intelligent, too--very different from most of the young men of the day."
His granddaughter was silent as she walked by his side.
"What--don't you think so, Maisrie?" he said, with a touch of
impatience, for he was used to her assent.
"I think," she answered, a little proudly, "that he showed a good deal
of confidence in coming to speak to you without knowing you; and as for
his playing those airs in the evening, and in such a way--well, I don't
like to use the word impertinence--but still----"
He was surprised; perhaps a trifle vexed.
"Impertinence? Nonsense! Nonsense! Frankness and
neighbourliness--that was all; no intrusion, none: a more modest young
man I have never met. And as for his coming up to speak to me, why,
bless my life, that merely shows the humanizing effects of travel. It
is like people meeting at a table d'hote; and what is the world but a
big table d'hote, where you speak with your neighbour for a little
while, and go your way, and forget him?
Confidence?--impertinence?--nonsense! He was natural, unaffected,
outspoken, as a young man should be: in fact, I found myself on such
friendly terms with him that I forgot to thank him for the little
service he did us--did you, I should say. Bashfulness, Maisrie," he
continued, in his more sententious manner, "bashfulness and stiffness
are among the worst characteristics of the untravelled and untaught.
Who are we--whatever may be our lineage and pride of birth--that we
should fence ourselves round with a palisade of suspicion or disdain?"
And thus he went on; but he met with no response. And he did not like
it; he grew all the more emphatic about this young man; and even hinted
that women were curiously perverse creatures, who evinced no toleration,
or sympathy, or good nature in their judgment of their fellow beings.
What was her objection? To his appearance?--he was remarkably
good-looking, and refined in aspect, without a trace of effeminacy. To
his manner?--he was almost humble in his anxiety to please. To his
talk?--but he had shown himself most bright, good-humoured, alert, and
well-informed.
"He had no right to come up and speak to you, grandfather," was all she
would say, and that with a quite unusual firmness.
In the evening, after dinner, when the time came at which Maisrie was
accustomed to take up her violin, there was obviously a little
embarrassment. But George Bethune tried to break through that by a
forced display of geniality.
"Come, now, Maisrie," said he, in a gay fashion, "our neighbour over the
way was straightforward enough to come up and offer us his hand; and we
must return the compliment. One good turn deserves another. Get your
violin, and play something: he will understand."
"Grandfather, how can you ask me?" she said, almost indignantly; and
there was that in the tone of her voice that forbade him to press her
further.
But perhaps the universal stillness that prevailed thereafter conveyed
some kind of reproach to her; or perhaps her heart softened a little; at
all events she presently said, in rather a low voice, and with a
diffident manner--
"Grandfather, if you--if you really think the young gentleman wished to
be kind and obliging--and--and if you would like to show him some little
politeness in return--couldn't you step across the way--and--and see
him, and talk to him for a few minutes? Perhaps he would be glad of
that, if he is quite alone."
"A capital idea, Maisrie," the old man said, rising at once. "A capital
idea." And then he added, with an air of lofty complacency and
condescension, as he selected a couple of volumes from a heap of books
on the sideboard: "Perhaps I might as well take over the _Memoires_ with
me; it is not at all unlikely he may wish to know something further
about Maximilien de Bethune. I am not surprised--not at all
surprised--that a young man called Harris should perceive that there is
something in the grandeur of an old historical name."