STALLED OX AND A DINNER OF HERBS.
But on this particular evening, as it happened, Vincent had promised to
dine at home; for his aunt was returning to Brighton on the following
day; and there was to be a little farewell banquet given in her honour.
Of course aunt and nephew sate together; Mrs. Ellison had arranged that;
knowing that at these semi-political dinner-parties the company was
frequently a trifle mixed, she took care that on one side at least she
should have a pleasant neighbour. And indeed when the guests had taken
their places--there were about thirty in all--the table presented a
pretty sight. From end to end it was a mass of flowers; at intervals
there were pyramids of ice, draped with roses, blush-red and yellow; but
the candles in the tall candelabra were not lit--the softly-tinted
globes of the electric light shed a sufficient and diffused lustre. It
was a sumptuous entertainment; and yet there prevailed an air of
elegance and refinement. When soup was served, it was not the
aldermanic turtle, but a clear golden fluid with gems of crimson and
green; and it was handed round in silver dishes. No one thought of a
thick soup on this hot June night.
As soon as the hum of conversation became general, the tall and handsome
young widow turned to her companion--who was only a year or two her
junior, by the way--and with her demure and mischievous eyes grown full
of meaning she said--
"Vin, what has happened to you to-day?"
"What do you mean, aunt?" he answered, with some surprise.
"Something has happened to you to-day," she went on, confidently. "You
can't hoodwink me. Why have you been so radiant, so complaisant, this
afternoon--why are you here, for example--when you haven't shown up at
this dinner-table for weeks past?"
"And you going away to-morrow, aunt!" he exclaimed.
"No use, Vin. All of a sudden you want to be magnanimous to the whole
human race; your amiability becomes almost burdensome; your eyes are
full of pride and joy; and you think you can hide the transformation
from me! Well, then, I will tell you, since you won't tell me: to-day
you were introduced to her."
He was startled--and no wonder: had his aunt, by some extraordinary
chance, witnessed that interview in Hyde Park? Mrs. Ellison's shrewd,
quick eyes noticed his alarm, and laughed.
"The story is as clear as noonday," she continued, in the same
undertone. "You come home every night between nine and ten. Why?
Because she is an actress, playing in the first piece only; and of
course the theatre loses its attraction for you the moment she has left.
Now, my dear Vin, that is not the kind of thing for you at all! You'd
better stop it--even although you have experienced the wild joy of being
introduced to her. What do you know about her? You have been investing
her with all the charming qualities of her stage heroines; you haven't
learnt yet that she is a little slatternly in her dress, that her tastes
in eating and drinking are rather coarse, that her tastes in literature
and art aren't any--worse still, that she is already provided with a
husband, a lounger about Strand public-houses, only too ready to accept
your patronage and the price of a glass of gin--"
He was immensely relieved.
"Oh, you're all wrong, aunt!" he said, cheerfully. "I haven't been
inside a theatre for six months!"
"You haven't?" she said, glancing at him with a kind of amused
suspicion. "You are really playing the good boy with Parliamentary
reports and blue books? A very admirable diligence. Other young men
would be strolling in the Park, in this hot weather." And then all of a
sudden she asked: "What subject were you studying to-day, Vin?"
"Thompson's Distribution of Wealth," he made answer, with equal
promptitude.
"Oh. What does he say?"
"You don't want to know, aunt!"
"Yes, I do: I'm used to hearing all sorts of theories at this
table--though I seldom see them put in practice."
Well, he on his side was glad enough to get away from that other and
dangerous topic; and whether or not he believed in her innocent desire
for knowledge, he began to discourse on the possibility of universal
human happiness being reached by a voluntary equality in the
distribution of the products of labour.
"Voluntary, do you see, aunt?--that is the very essence of the scheme,"
he rambled on, while she appeared to be listening gravely. "Thompson
will have nothing to do with force; he himself points out that if you
once bring in force to redress the inequalities of wealth, you leave it
open for every succeeding majority to employ the same means, so that
industry would be annihilated: the capitalists would not lend, the
workers would not work. No, it is all to be done by mutual consent.
Those who have wealth at present are not to be disturbed; what they have
amassed is but a trifle compared with what the millions can produce; and
it is this product of universal co-operation that is to constitute the
real wealth of the world. Well, I suppose it is only a dream," he
proceeded. "On the other hand, take my father's way of looking at it.
He is all for State interference; the State is to appropriate everything
and manage everything; and to keep on managing it, I suppose, or else
things would revert to their former condition. That's where the trouble
comes in, of course. The moment you allow anything like freedom of
contract, how can you prevent the former condition of affairs coming
into existence again? You know, after all, aunt, there is generally a
reason for the institutions and social arrangements of any country; they
don't spring out of nothing; they grow, and their growth is a
necessity--"
"Vincent Harris," said the young widow, solemnly, "I perceive the seeds
of a rabid Toryism beginning to sprout in your young mind. Wouldn't
your father say that the reason for the monstrous condition of affairs
now existing--I don't consider them monstrous; not I; I'm pretty well
content, thank you--but wouldn't he say the reason was simply the
ignorance of the people who produce and the unscrupulous greed of the
other people who take the lion's share of the profits? Of course he
would; and so he wants to educate the producer; and protect him by the
State; and see that he isn't swindled. Go to; thou art Didymus, and an
unbeliever; I suspect Lord Musselburgh has been corrupting you. Tell
me," she said, irrelevantly, "who is the woman with the black curls--I
did not catch her name when she was introduced to me--"
He was delighted that she showed no sign of returning to that awkward
topic.
"Goodness gracious me, aunt," said he, glancing in the direction
indicated, where sat an elderly lady, thin and gaunt and pale, with
large lustrous black eyes, and black hair clone up in the fashion of a
generation ago, "do you mean to say you don't know Madame Mikucsek?"
"Who is Madame--What-is-it?"
"You never even heard of her!" he exclaimed, in affected astonishment.
"Madame Mikucsek--the discoverer of the Mystery of the East--the
Prophetess of the New Religion--who has her followers and disciples all
over the world--from Syria to the Himalayas--from New York to
Sacramento. Really, aunt, you surprise me: you will be saying next you
never heard of _Bo_."
"What is Bo--or who is he?" she demanded, impatiently.
"_Bo_," he repeated, as if he were too puzzled by her appalling
ignorance to be able to explain, "why, _Bo_--_Bo_ is the equivalent of
the Chinese _Ta_. It is the principle of life; it is the beginning and
the end of all things; it is the condition of the soul--and yet not
quite the condition of the soul, for the soul can live outside _Bo_
until the miracle of initiation happens. Then the soul is received into
_Bo_, and finds that the present is non-existent, and that only the past
and the future exist, the future being really the past, when once the
soul has entered _Bo_--"
"Vin, I believe you are making a fool of me," the pretty Mrs. Ellison
said, severely.
"Oh, I assure you, aunt," he said, with eyes innocent of guile, "it is
the great discovery of the age--the great discovery of all time--the
Sacred--the Ineffable. When you enter into _Bo_ you lose your
individuality--or rather, you never had any individuality--for
individuality was a confusion of thought, a product of the present, and
the present, as I have explained to you, my dear aunt, ceases to exist
when you have entered _Bo_. Did I tell you that _Bo_ is sentient? Yes,
but yet not a being; though there are manifestations, mysterious and
ecstatic; and the disciples write to each other on the first day of each
month, and tell each other what trances they have been in, and what
spiritual joy they have received. These reports are sent to Madame
Mikucsek; and they are published in a journal that circulates among the
initiated; but the phraseology is hieratic, the outside world could make
nothing of it. As for her, she is not expected to reveal anything--what
she experiences transcends human speech, and even human thought--"
"I saw the woman mopping up gravy with a piece of bread," said Mrs.
Ellison, with frowning eyebrows.
"_Bo_," continued the young man, very seriously, "as far as I have been
able to make it out, consists of a vast sphere; elliptical, however: the
zenith containing all human aspiration, the base consisting of forgotten
evil. When you once enter this magic circle, you are lost, you are
transformed, you are here and yet not here; to be does not signify to be
but not to be; and not to be is the highest good except not to have
been. _Bo_, when once you have received the consecration, and bathed in
the light, and perceived the altitudes and the essential deeps and
cognisances--"
"Ought to be written Bosh," said she, briefly. "I will not hear any more
of that nonsense. And I believe you are only humbugging me: Madame
What's-her-name looks more like the widow of a French Communist. Now
listen to me, Vin, for I am going away to-morrow. I am glad I was
mistaken about the actress; but take care; don't get into scrapes. I
shan't be happy till I see you married. Ordinarily a man should not
marry until he is thirty or five-and-thirty--if he is five-and-forty so
much the better--but even at five-and-thirty, he may have acquired a
little judgment; he may be able to tell how much honesty there is in the
extreme amiability and unselfishness and simplicity that a young woman
can assume, or whether she is likely to turn out an ill-conditioned,
cross-grained, and sulking brute. Oh, you needn't laugh: it's no
laughing matter, as you'll find out, my young friend. But you--you are
different; you are no schoolboy; you've seen the world--too much of it,
for you've learnt disrespect for your elders, and try to bamboozle them
with accounts of sham systems of philosophy or religion or whatever it
is. I say you ought to marry young; but not an elderly woman, as many a
young man does, for money or position. Good gracious, no! You'll have
plenty of money; your father isn't just yet going to sell this silver
dinner-service--which I detest, for it always looks more greasy than
china, and besides you feel as if you were scoring it with the edge of
your knife all the time--I say he isn't going to sell his silver and
distribute unto the poor just yet. As for position, you've got to make
that for yourself: would you owe it to your wife? Very well," proceeded
his pretty monitress, in her easy and prattling fashion; "come down to
Brighton for a week or two. I will ask the Drexel girls; you will have
them all to yourself, to pick and choose from, but Louie is my
favourite. You have no idea how delightful Brighton is in June--the
inland drives are perfect, so cool and shaded with trees, when you know
where to go, that is. If you come down I'll make up a party and take
you all to Ascot: Mrs. Bourke has offered me her house for the
week--isn't that good-natured, when she could easily have let it?--and I
have to telegraph yes or no to-morrow. I hadn't intended going myself;
but if you say you will come down, I will accept; and I know I can get
the Drexel girls."
"It is so kind of you, aunt; so very kind," he said; "but I really can't
get away. You know I don't care much about racing--
"But Louie Drexel isn't racing."
"I'm very sorry, but you must excuse me, aunt," he said contritely.
"Oh--distribution of wealth--supply and demand--sugar-bounties and
blue-books--is that it? Well, well, what the young men of the present
day are coming to--"
She could say no more; for at this moment her neighbour, an elderly and
learned gentleman from Oxford, addressed her. He had not hitherto
uttered a word, having paid strict attention to every dish and every
wine (albeit he was a lean and famished-looking person); but now he
remarked that the evenings were hot for the middle of June. He spoke of
the danger of having recourse to iced fluids. Then he went on to
compare the bathing of the Greeks and Romans with the ablutions of the
English--until he was offered strawberries, whereupon, having helped
himself largely, he fell into a business-like silence again.
When at length the ladies had gone upstairs, Lord Musselburgh came and
took the seat just vacated by Mrs. Ellison.
"I have a commission from your father, Vin," said he. "I am to persuade
you of the sweet reasonableness of his project--that you should for a
time become the private secretary of Mr. Ogden."
"The private secretary of a man who hasn't an _h_!" retorted Master Vin,
with scorn.
"What has that to do with it?" the young nobleman said, coolly. "No.
After all, there is something in what your father says. He believes
that the next great political and social movement will be the
emancipation of the wage-earner--the securing to the producer his fair
share of the products of his labour. If that is so, it will be a big
thing. It will be years before it comes off, no doubt; but then there
will be a great wave of public opinion; and if you are prepared--if you
are there--if you are identified with this tremendous social revolution,
why, that magnificent wave will peacefully and calmly lift you into the
Cabinet. I think that's about his notion. Very well. If you are
willing to take up this work, how could you begin better than by
becoming private secretary to Josiah Ogden? There you would come into
direct touch with the masses; you would get to know at first hand what
they are thinking of, what they are hoping for; subsequently, you could
speak with authority. Then there's another thing, Vin. If you want to
become a figure in public life in England, if you want to build a
splendid monument for yourself, you should begin at the base. Capture
the multitude; be as red-hot a Radical as they can desire; and they
won't mind what you do afterwards. You may accept office; you may be
petted by Royalty; but they will rather like it--they will look on it as
a compliment paid to one of themselves. And that is where Ogden would
come in. He, too, is one of themselves--though he has his hired
brougham when he comes to town, and his big dinners at the Menagerie
Club. What have you got to do with his _h_'s? If I want to back a
horse, or order a pair of boots, or have my hair cut, what does it
matter to me whether the man has an _h_, or a superfluity of _h_'s? You
make him useful to you; you get what you want; isn't that enough?"
"Oh, no, it is not," Vincent rejoined--but respectfully, for he never
forgot that Lord Musselburgh was his senior by very nearly five years.
"You see, you don't go into partnership with your hairdresser, and you
don't put your name over the bootmaker's shop. And I shouldn't learn
much from Mr. Ogden, for I don't believe in his machine-made
politics--everything to be done by committees, and resolutions, and
majorities. I expect to find him starting a Society for the Suppression
of Punch and Judy Shows, so that the infantile mind of England may not
be corrupted by exhibitions of brutality."
"He is a very able man, let me tell you that," said Musselburgh, with
decision. "And a capital speaker--a slogger, of course, but that is
wanted for big crowds. And sometimes he turns out a neat thing. Did
you notice what he said at Sheffield the other day--telling the working
men not to be too grateful for rich men's charities--for recreation
grounds, drinking fountains, and the like? What he said was this--'When
the capitalist has robbed Peter, it is easy for him to salve his
conscience by throwing a crust to Paul'--not bad. I think you might do
worse, Vin, than become Ogden's private secretary. Pretty hard work, of
course; but the modern young man, in politics, is supposed to be
thoroughly in earnest: if he isn't he will have to reckon with the
evening papers, for they don't like to be trifled with."
The subject was not a grateful one, apparently; Vincent changed it.
"Do you remember," he said, with some little diffidence, "that--that I
was in your house one afternoon a few weeks ago when an old gentleman
called--and--and his granddaughter--"
"The perfervid old Scotchman--yes!"
"How did you come to know him?" the young man asked, with downcast eyes.
"I hardly recollect. Let me see. I think he first of all wrote to me,
enclosing a note of introduction he had brought from a friend of mine in
New York--a brother Scot. Then, as you saw, he called, and told me
something further about a book he is going to bring out; and I gave him
some little assistance--I don't think he is above accepting a few
sovereigns from any one to help him on his way through the world."
Vin Harris flushed hotly--and he raised his head and looked his friend
straight in the face as he put the next question.
"But--but he is a gentleman!--his name--his family--even his bearing--"
"Oh, yes, yes, I suppose so," Lord Musselburgh said, lightly. "Poor old
fellow, I was glad to lend him a helping hand. I think his enthusiasm,
his patriotism, was genuine; and it is a thing you don't often meet with
nowadays."
"Yes--but--but---" Vincent said, with a good deal of embarrassment, and
yet with some touch of half-indignant remonstrance, "the money you gave
him--that was to aid him in bringing out the book, wasn't it?"
"Certainly, certainly!" the other made answer--he did not happen to
notice the expression on his friend's face. "Something about
Scotland--Scotch poetry--I think when he wrote he said something about a
dedication, but that is an honour I hardly covet."
"In any case," observed the young man, "you have no right to say he
would accept money from--from anyone--from a stranger."
Then Lord Musselburgh did look up--struck by something in his
companion's tone.
"Did I say that? I'm sure I don't know. Of course it was on account of
the book that I ventured to give him some little help--oh, yes,
certainly--I should not have ventured otherwise. If he had been
offended, I dare say he would have said so; but I fancy the old
gentleman has had to overcome his pride before now. He seems to have
led a curious, wandering life. By the way, Vin, weren't you very much
impressed by the young lady--I remember your saying something--"
Fortunately there was no need for Vincent to answer this question; for
now there began a general movement on the part of the remaining guests
to go upstairs to the drawing-room; and in this little bit of a bustle
he escaped from further cross-examination.
When at the end of the evening all the people had gone away, and when
Harland Harris had shut himself up in his study to finish his
correspondence--for he was going down the next morning to a Congress of
Co-operative Societies at Ipswich--Mrs. Ellison and her nephew found
themselves alone in the drawing-room; and the fair young widow must
needs return to the subject she had been discoursing upon at
dinner--namely, that this young man, in order to guard against pitfalls
and embroilments, should get married forthwith.
"You seem anxious that I should marry," said he, bluntly; "why don't you
get married yourself?"
"Oh, no, thank you!" she replied, with promptitude. "I know when I have
had--" Apparently she was on the point of saying that she knew when she
had had enough; but that would not have been complimentary to the memory
of the deceased; so she abruptly broke off--and then resumed. "It isn't
necessary for me to make any further experiments in life; but for you,
with such a splendid future before you, it is a necessity. As for me, I
mean to let well alone. And it is well--very well. I do believe, Vin,
that I am the only woman on this earth--"
"What?" he said.
"--who is really contented. I am too happy. Sometimes I'm afraid; it
seems as if I had no right to it. Why, when I come downstairs in the
morning, and draw an easy-chair to the open windows--especially when
there is a breeze coming off the sea, and the sun-blinds are out, and
the balcony nicely shaded, you know--I mean at home, in Brunswick
Terrace--well, when I take up the newspaper and begin to read about
what's going on--as if it was all some kind of a distant thing--I feel
so satisfied with the quiet and the coolness and the sea-air that I am
bound to do a little kindness to somebody, and so I turn to the columns
where appeals are made for charity. I don't care what it is; I'm so
well content that I must give something to somebody--distressed Irish
widows, sailors' libraries, days in the country, anything. I dare say I
sometimes give money where I shouldn't; but how am I to know?--and at
any rate it pleases me."
"But why shouldn't you be happy, aunt?" said the young man. "You are so
good-humoured, and so kind, and so nice to look at, that it is no wonder
you are such a favourite, with men especially."
"Oh, yes," she said, frankly. "Men are always nice to you--except the
one you happen to marry; and I'm not going to spoil the situation. At
present they're all sweetness, and that suits me: I'm not going to give
any one of them the chance of showing himself an ungrateful brute. When
I come downstairs at Brighton, I like to see only one cup on the
breakfast-table, and to feel that I have the whole room to myself.
Selfish?--then you can make amends by sending something to the
Children's Hospital or the People's Palace or something of that kind."
"Do you know, aunt," he observed, gravely, "what Mr. Ogden says of you?
He says that, having robbed Peter, you try to salve your conscience by
throwing a crust to Paul."
"When did I rob Peter?--what Peter?" she said, indignantly.
"You are a capitalist--you have more than your own share--you possess
what you do not work for--therefore you are a robber and a plunderer. I
am sorry for you, aunt; but Mr. Ogden has pronounced your doom--
"Mr. Ogden----!" she said, with angry brows--and then she stopped.
"Yes, aunt?" he said, encouragingly.
"Oh, nothing. But I tell you this, Vin. You were talking of the proper
distribution of wealth. Well, when you come to marry, and if I approve
of the girl, I mean to distribute a little of my plunder--of my
ill-gotten gains--in that direction: she shan't come empty-handed. That
is, if I approve of her, you understand. And the best thing you can do
is to alter your mind and come down to Brighton for a week or two; and
I'll send for the Drexel girls and perhaps one or two more. If you
can't just at present, you may later on. Now I'm going off to my room;
and I'll say good-bye as well as good-night; for I don't suppose I shall
see you in the morning.
"Good-night, then, and good-bye, aunt!" said he, as he held her hand for
a second; and that was the last that he saw of her for some considerable
time.
For a great change was about to take place in this young man's position
and circumstances, in his interests, and ambitions, and trembling hopes.
He was about to enter wonderland--that so many have entered, stealthily
and almost fearing--that so many remember, and perhaps would fain
forget. Do any remain in that mystic and rose-hued region? Some, at
least, have never even approached it; for its portals are not easily
discoverable, are not discoverable at all, indeed, except by the twin
torches of imagination and abolition of self.
When he went up to his chambers the next morning he was surprised to
find a card lying on the table; he had not expected a visitor in this
secluded retreat. And when he glanced at the name, he was still more
perturbed. What an opportunity he had missed! Perhaps Mr. Bethune had
brought an informal little invitation for him--the first overture of
friendliness? He might have spent the evening in the hushed, small
parlour over the way, with those violin strains vibrating through the
dusk; or, with the lights ablaze, he might have sate and listened to the
old man's tales of travel, while Maisrie Bethune would be sitting at her
needle-work, but looking up from time to time--each glance a world's
wonder! And what had he had in exchange?--a vapid dinner-party; some
talk about socialism; an invitation that he should descend into the
catacombs of North of England politics and labour mole-like there to no
apparent end; finally, a promise that if he would only marry the young
lady of Mrs. Ellison's choice--presumably one of her American
friends--his bride should have some additional dowry to recommend her.
What were all those distant schemes, and even the brilliant future that
everybody seemed to prophesy for him, to the bewildering possibilities
that were almost within his reach? He went to the window. The pots of
musk, and lobelia, and ox-eye daisies, in the little balcony over there,
and also the Virginia creeper intertwisting its sprays through the iron
bars, seemed fresh: no doubt she had sprinkled them with water before
leaving with her grandfather. And had they gone to Hyde Park as usual?
He was sorely tempted to go in search; but something told him this might
provoke suspicions; so he resolutely hauled in a chair to the table and
set to work with his books and annotations--though sometimes there came
before his eyes a nebulous vision, as of a sheet of silver-grey water
and a shimmering of elms.
In the afternoon he went out and bought a clothes-brush, a couple of
hair-brushes, some scented soap, and other toilet requisites--of which
he had not hitherto known the need in these chambers; and about five
o'clock or a little thereafter, having carefully removed the last speck
from his coat-sleeve, he crossed the way, and rather timidly knocked at
the door. It was opened by the landlady's daughter, who appeared at
once surprised and pleased on finding who this visitor was.
"Is Mr. Bethune at home?" he demanded--with some vaguely uncomfortable
feeling that this damsel's eyes looked too friendly. She seemed to
understand everything--to have been expecting him.
"Oh, yes, sir."
"May I go upstairs?"
He gave no name; but she did not hesitate for a moment. She led the way
upstairs; she tapped lightly; and in answer to Mr. Bethune's loud "Come
in!" she opened the door, and said--
"The young gentleman, sir,"--a form of announcement that might have
struck Vincent as peculiar if he had not been much too occupied to
notice.
"Ah, how do you do--how do you do?" old George Bethune (who was alone)
called out, and he pushed aside his book and came forward with extended
hand. "Nothing like being neighbourly; solitary units in the great sea
of London life have naturally some interest in each other: you would
gather that I looked in on you last night--"
"Yes," said the young man, as he took the proffered chair. "I am very
sorry I happened to be out--I had to dine at home last evening--"
"At home?" repeated Mr. Bethune, looking for the moment just a trifle
puzzled.
"Oh, yes," said his visitor, rather nervously. "Perhaps I didn't
explain. I don't _live_ over there, you know. I only have the rooms
for purposes of study; the place is so quiet I can get on better than at
home; there are no interruptions--"
"Except a little violin-playing?" the old man suggested, good-naturedly.
"I wish there were more of that, sir," Vincent observed, respectfully.
"That was only in the evenings; and I used to wait for it, to tell you
the truth, as a kind of unintentional reward after my day's work. But
of late I have heard nothing; I hope that Miss Bethune was not offended
that I ventured to--to open my piano at the same time--"
"Oh, not at all--I can hardly think so," her grandfather said, airily.
"She also has been busy with her books of late--it is Dante, I believe,
at present--and as I insist on her always reading aloud, whatever the
language is, she goes upstairs to her own room; so that I haven't seen
much of her in the evenings. Now may I offer you a cigar?"
"No, thank you."
"Or a glass of claret?"
"No, thanks."
"Then tell me what your studies are, that we may become better
acquainted."
And Vincent was about to do that when the door behind him opened.
Instinctively he rose and turned. The next instant Maisrie Bethune was
before him--looking taller, he thought, than he had, in Hyde Park,
imagined her to be. She saluted him gravely and without embarrassment;
perhaps she had been told of his arrival; it was he who was, for the
moment, somewhat confused, and anxious to apologise and explain. But,
curiously enough, that was only a passing phase. When once he had
realised that she also was in the room--not paying much attention,
perhaps, but listening when she chose, as she attended to some flowers
she had brought for the central table--all his embarrassment fled, and
his natural buoyancy and confidence came to his aid. She, on her side,
seemed to consider that she was of no account; that she was not called
upon to interfere in this conversation between her grandfather and his
guest. When she had finished with the flowers, she went to the open
window, and took her seat, opening out some needlework she had carried
thither. The young man could see she had beautiful hands--rather long,
perhaps, but exquisitely formed: another wonder! But the truly
extraordinary thing--the enchantment--was that here he was in the same
room with her, likely to become her friend, and already privileged to
speak so that she could hear!
For of course he was aware that he had an audience of two; and very well
he talked, in his half-excited mood. There was no more timidity; there
was a gay self-assertion--a desire to excel and shine; sometimes he
laughed, and his laugh was musical. He had skillfully drawn from the
old man a confession of political faith (of course he was a
Conservative, as became one of the Bethunes of Balloray), so all chance
of collision was avoided on that point; and indeed Vin Harris was ready
to have sworn that black was white, so eager was he to make an
impression, on this his first, and wondrous visit.
The time went by all too quickly; but the young man had become
intoxicated by this unexpected joy; instead of getting up and
apologising, and taking his hat, and going away, he boldly threw out the
suggestion that these three--these solitary units in the great sea of
London life, as George Bethune had called them--should determine to
spend the evening together. He did not seem to be aware of the audacity
of his proposal; he was carrying everything before him in a high-handed
fashion; the touch of colour that rose to Maisrie Bethune's cheek--what
of that? Oh, yes, maiden shyness, no doubt; but of little consequence;
here were the golden moments--here the golden opportunity: why should
they separate?
"You see," said he, "I don't care to inconvenience our people at home by
my uncertain hours; and so of late I have taken to dining at a
restaurant, just when I felt inclined; and I have got to know something
of the different places. I think we might go out for a little stroll,
as the evening will be cooler now, and wander on until we see a quiet
and snug-looking corner. There is something in freedom of choice; and
you may catch sight of a bay window, or of a recess with flowers in it,
and a bit of a fountain that tempts the eye--"
"What do you say, Maisrie?" the old gentleman inquired.
"You go, grandfather," the girl replied at once, but without raising her
head. "It will be a pleasant change for you. I would rather remain at
home."
"Oh, but I should never have proposed such a thing," Vincent interposed,
hastily, "if it meant that Miss Bethune was to be left here alone,
certainly not! I--I decline to be a party to any such arrangement--oh,
I could not think of such a thing!"
"You'd better come, Maisrie," said the old man, with some air of
authority.
"Very well, grandfather," she said, obediently; and straightway she rose
and left the room.
Master Vin's heart beat high; here were wonders upon wonders; in a short
space he would be walking along the pavements of London town with
Maisrie Bethune by his side (or practically so) and thereafter he and
she would be seated at the same table, almost within touch of each
other. Would the wide world get to hear of this marvellous thing?
Would the men and women whom they encountered in Oxford-street observe
and conjecture, and perhaps pass on with some faint vision of that
beautiful and pensive face imprinted on their memory? By what magic
freak of fortune had he came to be so favoured? Those people in
Oxford-street were all strangers to her, and would remain strangers; he
alone would be admitted to the sacred privacies of her companionship and
society; but a few minutes more, and he would be instructing himself in
her little ways and preferences, each one a happy secret to be kept
wholly to himself. But the entranced young man was hardly prepared for
what now followed. When the door opened again, and Maisrie Bethune
reappeared (her eyes were averted from him, and there was a
self-conscious tinge of colour in her pale and thoughtful face) she
seemed to have undergone some sudden transformation. The youthful look
lent to her appearance by the long and loose-flowing locks and by her
plain dress of blue and white linen had gone; and here was a young lady
apparently about twenty, tall, self-possessed (notwithstanding that
tinge of colour) and grave in manner. A miracle had been wrought!--and
yet she had only plaited up her hair, tying it with a bit of blue
ribbon, and donned a simple costume of cream-coloured cashmere. She was
putting on her gloves now; and he thought that long hands were by far
the most beautiful of any.
Well, it was all a bewilderment--this walking along the London streets
under the pale saffron of the evening sky, listening to the old man's
emphatic monologue, but far more intent on warning Miss Bethune of the
approach of a cab, when she was about to cross this or the other
thoroughfare. Once he touched her arm in his anxiety to check her; he
had not intended to do so; and it was he who was thunderstruck and
ashamed; she did not appear to have noticed. And then again he was
afraid lest she should be tired before they reached the particular
restaurant he had in mind; to which old George Bethune replied that his
granddaughter did not know what fatigue was; he and she could walk for a
whole day, strolling through the parks or along the streets, with
absolute ease and comfort, as became vagrants and world-wanderers.
"Though I am not so sure it is altogether good for Maisrie here," he
continued. "It may be that that has kept her thin--she is too thin for
a young lass. She is all spirit; she has no more body than a daddy
long-legs."
Vincent instantly offered to call a cab--which they refused; but he was
not beset by wild alarms; he knew that, however slight she might be, the
natural grace and elegance of her carriage could only be the outcome of
a symmetrical form in conjunction with elastic health. That conclusion
he had arrived at in the Park; but now he noticed another thing--that,
as she walked, the slightly-swaying arms had the elbow well in to the
waist, and the wrist turned out, and that quite obviously without set
purpose. It was a pretty movement; but it was more than merely
graceful; it was one mark of a well-balanced figure, even as was her
confident step. For her step could be confident enough, and the set of
her head proud enough--if she mostly kept her eyes to the ground.
It was an Italian restaurant they entered at last; and Vincent was so
fortunate as to find a recess-compartment, which he knew of, vacant.
They were practically dining in a private room; but all the same they
could when they chose glance out upon the large saloon, with its little
white tables, and its various groups of olive-complexioned or
English-complexioned guests. The young man assumed the management of
this small festivity from the outset. He ordered a flask of Chianti for
Mr. Bethune and himself; and then he would have got something
lighter--some sparkling beverage--for the young lady, but that she told
him that she drank no wine. Why, he said to himself, he might have
known!--
'for in her veins
Ran blood as pure and cool as summer rains.'
And as this modest little repast went on, perhaps Vincent was comparing
it with the banquet of the night before. Ah, there had been no
enhancement, no enthralling ecstacy and delight, about that
entertainment, sumptuous as it was. Here was some food--he hardly
looked at it--he did not know what it was, and did not care--which would
have to be paid for at the rate of 3/6 per head; but as compared with
this frugal festivity, the splendours of the preceding evening--the
masses of roses, the pyramids of ice, the silver candelabra, and all the
rest--shrank into insignificance. 'Here there was a nameless glamour
filling all the air; a palpitation of hope, and a curious dumb sense of
gratitude as if for favours unexpected and undeserved; all the coming
years of his life seemed to be shining there in her eyes--so that he
hardly dared to look, so full of fear, and yet of a breathless joy and
wonder, was the revelation, when she happened to glance towards him.
And on her side, she appeared to be a little less reserved and distant
than she had hitherto been. She seemed grateful for the trouble the
young man had taken on behalf of her grandfather and herself; sometimes,
when in his eager talk he said something that interested her, she raised
her head, with a smile in her eyes. A wonderful banquet, truly, though
not so imposing as that of the previous night. He learned that she was
immensely fond of propelling a gondola (the forward oar only; she wanted
another oar astern to steer) and here was another amazingly interesting
fact, to be for ever and ever remembered.
As for the old man (for the world was not created solely for young folk)
he was at once gay and oracular.
"These little breaks and diversions," he was saying, as he stirred his
coffee--the time of cigarettes having now arrived, "are useful
things--useful things; an affair of the moment, truly; but the wise man
makes of the passing moment as much as he possibly can. Why, the real
curse of modern life--the ineradicable disease--is the habit of
continually looking before and after. We none of us think enough of the
present moment; we are anxiously speculating as to the future; or, what
is worse still, fretting over the memory of past injuries and past
mistakes. That is where the uneducated, the unimaginative, have their
consolation; we are not half so happy and content as the stolid
ploughman or the phlegmatic bricklayer who thinks only of the present
heat, or the present cold, or, at furthest, of the next pint of beer,
and of the prospect of getting to bed, with the knowledge that he will
sleep sound. The actual and immediate things before them are the things
that interest them; not the unknown future, or the useless past. But I
have schooled myself, thanks in a great measure to Horace--and my
granddaughter knows her Horace too--and I think I keep as stout a heart
as most. _Dum loquimur_, of course, _fugerit invida aetas_; but even
while I know that the night presses down upon me, and the shadowy
fathers, and the empty halls of Pluto, I put the knowledge away from me;
I am content with the present moment; I am more than content, for
example, with this very excellent cigarette--"
"Would you allow me to send you a few boxes?" interposed Vincent, at
once and eagerly. "I think the cork mouthpiece is a great improvement.
I know where they are to be got. May I send you some?"
"I thank you; but they are not much in my way," the old man said, with a
certain loftiness of demeanour. "As I was remarking, the time has gone
by for unavailing regrets over what has been done to me and mine. I
think I may say that throughout we have shown a bold front. '_Stand
fast, Craig-Royston!_' has not been our watchword for nothing. And as
for the future--why, 'to the gods belongs to-morrow!' The anticipation
of evil will not remove it: the recalling of bygone injuries provides no
compensation. 'The present moment is our ain; the neist we never saw;'
and so, as we have had a pleasant evening so far, I think we may as well
get away home again; and, Maisrie, you will get out your violin, and
we'll have some Scotch songs, and my young friend and I will taste just
a drop of Scotch whisky; and if there's any better combination than that
in the world, I do not know of it."
But here a very awkward incident occurred. Old George Bethune, in his
grand manner, called to the waiter to bring the bill. Now Vincent had
intended to steal out and arrange this little matter without allowing
the young lady to have any cognisance of it; but of course the waiter,
when summoned, came up to the table, and proceeded to pencil out the
account.
"I think, sir," put in the young man, modestly, "you'd better let me
have that. It was my proposal, you know."
"Oh, very well," said Mr. Bethune, carelessly; and as carelessly he
handed over the slip of paper he had just taken from the waiter.
But the quick look of pain and humiliation that swept over the girl's
face stabbed the young man to the heart.
"Grandfather!" she said, with a burning flush.
"Oh, well," her grandfather said, petulantly; "I have just discovered
that I have left my purse behind. Some other time--it is all the
same--it is immaterial--the next time will be my turn--"
"Here is my purse, grandfather," she said; and she turned with an air of
quiet firmness to her younger neighbour, and merely said "If you
please!" He was too bewildered to refuse: there was something in her
manner that compelled him to accede without a word of protest. She
pushed her purse and the slip of paper across the table to her
grandfather; and then she rose, and turned to seek her sun-shade, which
Vincent forthwith brought to her. The curious mingling of simplicity
and dignity with which she had interposed impressed him strangely:
perhaps she was not so much of a school-girl as she had seemed when he
first saw her walking through Hyde Park? Then the three of them left
the restaurant together; and quietly made their way home through the
gathering twilight.
But he would not go in when they arrived at their door, though the old
man again put Scotch music and Scotch whisky before him as an
inducement. Perhaps he dreaded to outstay his welcome. He bade them both
good-night; and Maisrie Bethune, as she parted from him, was so kind as
to say "Thank you so much!" with the briefest, timid glance of her
all-too-eloquent eyes.
He went across to his own rooms--merely for form's sake. He did not
light the gas when he got upstairs. He carefully shut the window; then
he sate down to the piano; and very gently and quietly he played a
graceful little air. It was "_Dormez, dormez, ma belle!_"; and it was a
kind of farewell message for the night; but he had made sure that she
should not hear.