FAIRY LAND.
It was a soft summer night, cool and fragrant after the heat of the long
July day; and here, under an awning in the stern of the house-boat
_White Rose_, were George Bethune, his granddaughter Maisrie, and
Vincent Harris, looking out upon the magic scene that stretched away
from them on each hand up and down the river. All the dusk was on fire
with illuminations; the doors and windows of the house-boats sent forth
a dull golden glow; there were coloured lamps, crimson, blue, and
orange; there were strings of Chinese lanterns that scarcely moved in
the faint stirring of wind; and now and again an electric launch would
go by--stealthily and silently--with brilliant festoons of fierce white
lights causing it to look like some gigantic and amazing insect
irradiating the dark. The smooth surface of the stream quivered with
reflections; here and there a rowing boat glided along, with a cool
plash of oars; a gondola came into view and slowly vanished--the
white-clad gondolier visionary as a ghost. Everywhere there was a scent
of flowers; and on board this particular house-boat there was but the
one prevailing perfume; for the sole decoration of the saloon consisted
of deep crimson roses--a heavy splendour against the white and gold
walls. From some neighbouring craft came the tinkle of a banjo; there
was a distant hum of conversation; the unseen reeds and waterlilies
could be imagined to be whispering in the silence. Among the further
woods and meadows there was an occasional moving light; no doubt the
campers-out were preparing to pitch their tents.
"Mr. Talkative of Prating-row is hardly wanted here to-night," old
George Bethune was saying, unmindful of his own garrulous habits.
"Music is better. What is that they are singing over there, Maisrie?"
"'The Canadian Boat Song,' grandfather."
"Oh, yes, of course: I thought it was familiar. And very pretty it
sounds, coming across the water--though I do not know whether the air is
modern or old. What I am certain of," he continued, raising his voice
slightly as he usually did when he was about to discourse, "is that the
finest national airs are ancient beyond the imagination of man to
conceive. No matter when words may have been tacked on to them; the
original melodies, warlike, or pathetic, or joyous, were the voice of
millions of generations that passed away leaving us only these
expressions of what they had felt. And if one could only re-translate
them!--if one could put back into speech all the human suffering that
found expression in such an air as 'The Last Rose of Summer,' wouldn't
that electrify the world? I wonder how many millions of generations
must have suffered and wept and remembered ere that piteous cry could
have been uttered; and when I come to Tom Moore's wretched
trivialities--"
"Grandfather," interposed Maisrie Bethune, quickly (for there were
certain subjects that angered him beyond endurance) "you must not forget
to show Mr. Harris that old play you found--with the Scotch airs, I
mean--"
"Yes, that is curious," said the old man, yielding innocently.
"Curious, is it not, that long before either Burns or Scott was born, a
Scotchman named Mitchell should have collected over fifty of the
best-known Scotch airs, and printed them, with words of his own; and
that he should have chosen for the scene of his play the Borders of the
Highlands, so as to contrast the manners and customs of the Highland
chieftains and their fierce clansmen with those of the Lowland lairds
and the soldiery sent to keep the peace between them. The _Highland
Fair_ was produced at Drury Lane about 1730, if I remember aright; but I
cannot gather whether Ewen and Colin, and Alaster and Kenneth, impressed
the Londoners much. To me the book is valuable because of the
airs--though I could wish for the original songs instead of
Mitchell's--"
Here Maisrie, seeing that her grandfather was started on a safer
subject, quietly rose; and at the first pause she said--
"I see some of them are putting out their lights, and that is a hint for
me to be off. I suppose we shall be wakened early enough to-morrow
morning by the boats going by. Good-night, Mr. Harris! Good-night,
grandfather!"
She shook hands with both, and kissed her grandfather; then she passed
into the glow of that wonderful rose-palace, and made her way along to
the ladies' cabin, into which she disappeared. Vincent now lit a
cigar--the first during this day.
But when old George Bethune resumed his monologue, it was neither
Highland clans nor Lowland songs that concerned him; it was something
that proved to be a good deal more interesting to his patient listener.
It was of Maisrie's youth that he spoke, and that in a far more simple
and natural way than was his wont. There were no genealogical
vauntings, no exalted visions of what she should be when she came in for
her rights; there were reminiscences of her earlier years, and of his
and her wanderings together; and there was throughout a certain
wistfulness in his tone. For once he talked without striving for
effect, without trying oratorically to convince himself; and it is to be
imagined how entirely Vincent was engrossed by this simple recital. Not
that there was any consecutive narrative. The young man could only
vaguely gather that Maisrie's father had been a railway-engineer; that
he had married a young Scotch lady in Baltimore before going out west;
that Maisrie had been born in Omaha; that shortly thereafter her mother
died; then came the collapse of certain speculations her father had been
led into, so that the widower, broken in heart and fortune, soon
followed his young wife, leaving their child to the care of her only
surviving relative. Whether there were some remains of the shattered
fortune, or whether friends subscribed to make up a small fund for them,
it appeared that the old man and his granddaughter were not quite
penniless; for he took credit to himself that he had spent nearly all
their little income, arising from this unspecified source, on Maisrie's
education.
"I wish to have her fitted for any sphere to which she might be called,"
he went on, in a musing kind of way. "And I hope I have succeeded. She
has had the best masters I could afford; and something of her teaching I
have taken upon myself. But, after all, that is not of the greatest
importance. She has seen the world--far more than most of her years;
and she has not been spoiled by the contact. I could have wished her,
perhaps, to have had more of the companionship of her own sex; but that
was not often practicable, in our wandering life. However, she has an
intuitive sympathy that stands for much; and if in society--which is not
much in our way--she might show herself shy and reserved, well, I, for
one, should not complain: that seems to me more to be coveted than
confidence and self-assertion. As for outward manner she has never
wanted any school-mistress other than her own natural tact and her own
refinement of feeling; she is a gentlewoman at heart; rudeness,
coarseness, presumption would be impossible to her--"
"The merest stranger can see that," Vincent ventured to say, in rather a
low voice.
"And thus so far we have come through the world together," the old man
continued, in the same meditative mood. "What I have done I have done
for the best. Perhaps I may have erred: what could I tell about the
uprearing of a young girl? And it may be that what she is now she is in
spite of what I have done for her and with her--who knows such
mysteries? As for the future, perhaps it is better not to look to it.
She is alone; she is sensitive; the world is hard."
"I know many who would like to be her friends," the young man said,
breathlessly.
"Sometimes," old George Bethune continued, slowly and thoughtfully, "I
wonder whether I have done my best. I may have built on false
hopes--and taught her to do the same. I see young women better equipped
for the battle of the world, if it is to come to that. Perhaps I have
been selfish too; perhaps I have avoided looking to the time when she
and I must in the natural course of things be separated. We have been
always together; as one, I might say; the same sunlight has shone on us,
we have met the same storms, and not much caring, so long as we were the
one with the other. But then--the years that can be granted me now are
but few; and she has no kinsman to whom she can go, even to glean in the
fields and ask for a pitcher of water. And when I think of
her--alone--among strangers--my Maisrie--"
His voice choked--but only for a moment. He suddenly sprang to his
feet, and flung his arms in the air, as if he would free himself from
this intolerable burden of despondency and doubt.
"Why," said he, in accents of scornful impatience, "have I gone mad, or
what pestilent thing is this! _Sursum corda_! We have faced the world
together, she and I, and no one has ever yet found us downhearted.
'We've aye been provided for, and sae will we yet': I do not mean as
regards the common necessities of life--for these are but of small
account--but the deeper necessities of sympathy and hope and confidence.
Stand fast, Craig-Royston!--'this rock shall fly, from its firm base as
soon as I!' Well, my young friend," he continued, quite cheerfully and
bravely, "you have seen me in a mood that is not common with me: you
will say nothing about it--to her, especially. She puts her trust in me;
and so far, I think, I have not failed her. I have said to her 'Come
the three corners of the world in arms, and we shall shock them'; ill
fortune buffets uselessly against 'man's unconquerable mind.' She knows
the race she comes of, and the motto of that race: Craig-Royston holds
its front! Well, well, now, let me thank you for this beautiful
evening; and on her behalf too; she is at the time when the mind should
be stored with pleasant memories. Perhaps I have been
over-communicative, and made you the victim of idle fears; but there
will be no more of that; to-morrow you shall find me in my right mind."
He held out his hand. The young man did not know what to say--there was
so much to say! He could only make offer of some further little
hospitalities, which Mr. Bethune declined; then the steward was
summoned, to put out the lamps and make other preparations, so that the
_White Rose_ should fold its petals together, for the slumber of the
night. And presently a profound peace reigned from stem to stern; and
the last plashing of the oars outside had died away.
But it was not to sleep that Vincent devoted the early hours of this
night and morning. His mind was tossed this way and that by all kinds
of moods and projects, the former piteous and the latter wildly
impracticable. He had never before fully realised how curiously
solitary was the lot of these two wanderers, how strange was their
isolation, how uncertain was their future. And while the old man's
courage and bold front provoked his admiration, he could not help
looking at the other side of the shield: what was to become of her, when
her only protector was taken from her? He knew that they were none too
well off, those two; and what would she do when left alone? But if on
the very next day he were to go to Mrs. Ellison and borrow L10,000 from
her, which he would have mysteriously conveyed to old George Bethune?
He could repay the money, partly by the sacrifice of his own small
fortune, and partly by the assigning over of the paternal allowance;
while he could go away to Birmingham, or Sheffield, or wherever the
place was, and earn his living by becoming Mr. Ogden's private
secretary. They need never know from whom this bounty came, and it
would render them secure from all the assaults of fortune. Away up
there in the Black Country he would think of them; and it would lighten
the wearisome toil of the desk if he could imagine that Maisrie Bethune
had left the roar and squalor of London, and was perhaps wandering
through these very Thames-side meadows, or floating in some
white-garnitured boat, under the shade of the willows. There would be
rest for the pilgrims at last, after their world-buffetings. And so he
lay and dreamed and pitied and planned, until in the window of the small
state-room there appeared the first blue-gray of the dawn, about which
time he finally fell asleep.
But next morning all was briskness and activity around them--flags
flying, coloured awnings being stretched, pale swirls of smoke rising
from the stove-pipes, the pic-nickers in the meadows lighting their
spirit-lamps for the breakfast tea. The sun was shining brightly, but
there was a cool breeze to temper the heat; the surface of the stream
was stirred into silver; the willows and rushes were shivering and
swaying; a scent of new-mown hay was in the air. Already there were
plenty of craft afloat, on business or on pleasure bent; early visits
being paid, or masses of flowers, ferns, and palms being brought along
for purchasers. Maisrie was the first to be up and out; then old George
Bethune could be heard gaily singing in his state-room, as an
accompaniment to his toilet--
"Hey, Jonnie Cope, are ye waukin yet,
And are your drums a-beatin yet,
If ye were waukin, I would wait
To meet Jonnie Cope in the morning?"
Finally when Vincent, with many apologies for being late, made his
appearance outside, he found the old man comfortably seated in the
stern-sheets, under the pink and white awning, reading a newspaper he
had procured somewhere, while Maisrie was on the upper-deck of the
house-boat watering the flowers with a can that she had got from the
steward.
And indeed to this young man it appeared a truly wonderful thing that
these three, some little while thereafter, in the cool twilight of the
saloon, should be seated at breakfast together; they seemed to form a
little family by themselves, isolated and remote from the rest of the
world. They forgot the crowded Thames outside and the crowded meadows;
here there was quiet, and a charming companionship; a band that was
playing somewhere was so distant as to be hardly audible. Then the
saloon itself was charming; for though the boat was named the _White
Rose_, there was a good deal of pale pink in its decorations: the
flutings and cornice were pink where they were not gold, and pink were
the muslin curtains drawn round the small windows; while the profusion
of deep crimson roses all round the long room, and the masses of grapes
and pineapples on the breakfast-table made up a picture almost typical
of summer, in the height of its luxuriance and shaded coolness.
"This seems very nice," said the young host, "even supposing there were
no river and no racing. I don't see why a caravan like this shouldn't be
put on wheels and taken away through the country. There is an idea for
you, Mr. Bethune, when you set out on your pilgrimage through Scotland;
wouldn't a moveable house of this kind be the very thing for Miss
Bethune and you?--you could set it afloat if you wanted to go down a
river, or put it on a lorry when you wanted to take the road."
"I'm afraid all this luxury would be out of place in 'Caledonia, stern
and wild,'" the old man said. "No, no; these things are for the gay
south. When Maisrie and I seek out the misty solitudes of the north,
and the graves of Renwick and Cargill, it will be on foot; and if we
bring away with us some little trifle to remind us of Logan's streams
and Ettrick's shaws, it will be a simple thing--a bluebell or a bit of
yellow broom. I have been thinking that perhaps this autumn we might
begin--"
"Oh, no, grandfather," Maisrie interposed at once. "That is impossible.
You know you have the American volume to do first. What a pity it would
be," she went on, with an insidious and persuasive gentleness which the
young man had seen her adopt before in humouring her grandfather, "if
some one else were to bring out a book on the same subject before you.
You know no one understands it so thoroughly as you do, grandfather: and
with your extraordinary memory you can say exactly what you require; so
that you could send over and get the materials you want without any
trouble."
"Very well, very well," the old man said, curtly. "But we need not talk
business at such a time as this."
Now there was attached to the _White Rose_ a rowing boat; and a very
elegant rowing-boat it was, too, of varnished pine; and by and bye
Vincent proposed to his two guests that they should get into the
stern-sheets, and he would take a short pair of sculls, and pull them up
to the bridge, to show them the other house-boats, and the people, and
the fun of the fair generally.
"But wouldn't you take the longer oars," said Maisrie, looking down into
the shapely gig, "and let me have one?"
"Oh, would you like that?" he said, with pleasure in his eyes. "Yes, by
all means, if you care to row. It is a light boat though it's long; you
won't find it hard pulling. By the way, I hunted about everywhere to
get a gondola for you, and I couldn't."
"But who told you I had ever tried an oar in a gondola?" she asked, with
a smile.
"Why, you yourself: was I likely to forget it?" he said reproachfully.
And oh! wasn't he a proud young man when he saw this rare and radiant
creature--clad all in white she was, save for a bunch of yellow
king-cups in her white sailor hat, and a belt of dull gold satin at her
waist--when he saw her step down into the boat, and take her place, and
put out the stroke oar with her prettily shaped hands. Her grandfather
was already in the stern-sheets, in possession of the tiller-ropes.
When they moved off into mid-stream, it was very gently, for the river
was already beginning to swarm; and he observed that she pulled as one
accustomed to pulling, and with ease; while, as he was responsible for
keeping time, they had nothing to be ashamed of as they slowly moved up
the course. Indeed, they were only paddling; sometimes they had to call
a halt altogether, when there was a confusion; and this not unwelcome
leisure they devoted to an observation of the various crews--girls in
the lightest of summer costumes, young men in violent blazers--or to a
covert inspection of the other house-boats, with their parterres and
festoons of flowers, their huge Japanese sun-shades and tinted awnings,
and the brilliant groups of laughing and chatting visitors.
"Oh, Mr. Harris, do look--isn't that a pretty one!" Maisrie exclaimed,
in an undertone.
He glanced in the direction indicated, and there beheld a very handsome
house-boat, all of rich-hued mahogany, its chief decoration being
flowerboxes in blue tiles filled with marguerites. At the same instant
he found that a pair of eyes were fixed on him--eyes that were
familiar--and the next moment he knew that Mrs. Ellison, from the upper
deck of that mahogany house-boat, was regarding him and his companions
with an intense curiosity. But so swift was her scrutiny, and so
impassive her face, that ere he could guess at the result of her
investigation she had made him a formal little bow and turned away to
talk to her friends. Of course, with one hand on the oar he raised his
hat with the other: but the effect of this sudden recognition was to
leave him rather breathless and bewildered. It is true, he had half
expected her to be there; but all the same he was not quite prepared;
and--and he was wondering what she was thinking now. However, the
officials were beginning to clear the course for the first race; so the
gig was run in behind one of the tall white poles; and there the small
party of three remained until the rival crews had gone swiftly by, when
it was permitted them to return to the _White Rose_.
After luncheon he said he would leave his guests to themselves for a
little while, as he wished to pay a visit to a friend he had seen on one
of the other house-boats; then he jumped into the gig, made his way
along to the _Villeggiatura_, got on board, went up the steps, and found
himself among a crowd of people. Mrs. Ellison, noticing him, discreetly
left the group she was with, and came to him, taking him in a measure
apart.
"Wait a moment, Vin," she said, regarding the young man. "If you wish
it--if you prefer it--I have seen nothing."
"What do you mean, aunt!" he said, with some haughty inclination to
anger. "Why should I seek any concealment? I want you to come along
that I may introduce to you two friends of mine."
Instinctively she seemed to draw back a little--almost as if she were
afraid.
"Oh, no, thanks, Vin. No, thanks. Please leave me out."
"Why?" he demanded.
The pretty young widow was embarrassed and troubled; for she knew the
fiery nature of young men; and did not want to provoke any quarrel by an
unguarded expression.
"Well--it is simply this, you know--they are strangers--I mean--I
suppose that neither your father nor any of the family have met
them--they seemed somehow like strangers--unusual looking--and--and I
shouldn't like to be the first. Leave me out, there's a good boy!"
"Why?" he demanded again.
So she was driven to confession.
"Well, look here, Vin; I may be wrong; but aren't these new friends
somehow connected with your being so much away from home of late--with
your being in those lodgings? Was it there you made their
acquaintance?"
"If you want to know, I saw them first at Lord Musselburgh's," said he
with an amazing audacity; for although the statement was literally true,
it was entirely misleading.
And apparently it staggered the pleasant-eyed young widow.
"Oh, at Lord Musselburgh's?" said she, with a distinct (but cautious)
change of manner. "Oh, really. Lord Musselburgh's. But why should you
want to introduce me to them, Vin?"
"Because," said he, "they have never met any member of our family: and
as you are the most goodnatured and the prettiest, I want to produce a
favourable impression at the outset."
She laughed and was not displeased.
"There are some other qualities that seem to characterise our
family--impudence for one," she observed. "Well, come along, then, Vin:
where are your friends?"
"In a house-boat down there--the _White Rose_."
"The _White Rose_? I noticed it yesterday--very pretty--whose is it?"
"Mine for the present; I rented it for the week," he replied.
"Who are the other members of your party?"
"None--only those two."
But here she paused at the top of the steps; and said in an undertone--
"Really, Vin, this is too much! You, a young man entertaining those
two--and no lady chaperon--"
He turned and looked at her, with straight eyes.
"Oh, it's quite right," she said, hastily. "It's quite right, of
course--but--but so much _en evidence_--so prominent--people might
talk--"
"I never try to hinder people from talking," said he, with a certain
scorn. "And if they busy themselves with my small affairs, they are
welcome to ring their discoveries from the tops of the steeples. I did
not ask anybody's permission when I invited two friends of mine, who had
never been to Henley before, to be my guests during the regatta-week."
"Of course not, of course not," she said, gently; "but you are doing it
in such a marked way--"
"Come, come, aunt," said he, "it isn't like you to niggle about nothing.
You are not a prude; you have too much goodnature--and too much common
sense. And I don't want you to go on board the _White Rose_ with any
kind of prejudice in your mind."
They could not get away just then, however, for the course was being
cleared for the next race; so they lingered there until they saw, far
away on the open river, two small objects like water-insects, with
slender quick-moving legs, coming rapidly along. The dull murmur of the
crowd became a roar as the boats drew nearer. Then the needle-like
craft shot by, almost neck and neck; and loud were the shouts that
cheered this one or that; while straining eyes followed them along to
the goal. The sudden wave of enthusiasm almost immediately subsided;
the surface of the river was again being crowded by the boats that had
been confined behind the white poles; and now Vincent got his fair
companion down into the gig and, with some little difficulty and delay,
rowed her along to the _White Rose_.
He was very anxious as he conducted her on board; but he affected a
splendid carelessness.
"Mr. Bethune," said he, "let me introduce you to my aunt, Mrs.
Ellison--Miss Bethune, Mrs. Ellison: now come away inside, and we'll get
some tea or strawberries or something--racing isn't everything at
Henley--
"It isn't anything at all, as far as I have seen," said Mrs. Ellison,
goodhumouredly, as she followed her nephew into the saloon. "Well, this
is very pretty--very pretty indeed--one of the simplest and
prettiest--so cool-looking. I hear this is your first visit to Henley,"
she continued addressing the old man, when they had taken their seats:
Vincent meanwhile, bustling about to get wine and biscuits and fruit,
for the steward had gone ashore.
"It is," said he, "and I am glad that my granddaughter has seen it in
such favourable circumstances. Although she has travelled much, I doubt
whether she has ever seen anything more charming, more perfect in its
kind. We missed the Student's Serenade at Naples last year; but that
would have been entirely different, no doubt; this is a vast water
picnic, among English meadows, at the fairest time of the year, and with
such a brilliancy of colour that the eye is delighted in every
direction."
He was self-possessed enough (whatever their eagerly solicitous young
host may have been); and he went on, in a somewhat lofty and sententious
fashion, to describe certain of the great public festivals and
spectacles he had witnessed in various parts of the world. Mrs. Ellison
was apparently listening, as she ate a strawberry or two; but in reality
she was covertly observing the young girl (who sate somewhat apart) and
taking note of every line and lineament of her features, and even every
detail of her dress. Vincent brought Mr. Bethune a tumbler of claret
with a lump of ice in it; he drained a deep draught; and resumed his
story of pageants. Maisrie was silent, her eyes averted: the young man
asked himself whether the beautiful profile, the fine nostrils, the
sensitive mouth, would not plead for favour, even though she did not
speak. It seemed a thousand pities that her grandfather should be in
this garrulous mood. Why did not Mrs. Ellison turn to the girl
direct?--he felt sure there would be an instant sympathy between those
two, if only Maisrie would appeal with her wonderful, true eyes. What
on earth did anyone want to know about the resplendent appearance of the
White Cuirassiers of the Prussian Guard, as they rode into Prague a week
or two after the battle of Koeniggraetz, with their dusty and swarthy
faces and their copper-hued breastplates lit up by the westering sun?
But, on the other hand, Mrs. Ellison was not displeased by this
one-sided conversation; quite the contrary; she wanted to know all about
these strange people with whom her nephew had taken up; and the more the
old man talked the better she resented the intervention of a race which
Master Vin dragged them all away to see; and as soon as it was
over--they were now seated in the stern-sheets of the boat--she turned
to Mr. Bethune with a question.
"I understand," she said, in a casual sort of way, "that you know Lord
Musselburgh?"
At this Maisrie looked up startled.
"Oh, yes," said her grandfather, in his serene and stately fashion.
"Oh, yes. A most promising young man--a young man who will make his
mark. Perhaps he is riding too many hobbies; and yet it might not be
prudent to interfere and advise; a young man in his position is apt to
be hot-headed--"
"Mrs. Ellison," interposed Maisrie, "we are only slightly acquainted
with Lord Musselburgh--very slightly indeed. The fact is, he was kind
enough to interest himself in a book, that my grandfather hopes to bring
out shortly."
"Ob, really," said the pretty widow with a most charming smile (perhaps
she was glad of this opportunity of talking to the young lady herself)
"and may I ask--pardon my curiosity--what the subject is."
"It is a collection of poems written by Scotchmen living in America and
Canada," answered Maisrie, quite simply. "My grandfather made the
acquaintance of several of them, and heard of others; and he thought
that a volume of extracts, with a few short biographical notices, might
be interesting to the Scotch people over here. For it is about Scotland
that they mostly write, I think, and of their recollections--perhaps
that is only natural."
"And when may we expect it?" was the next question.
Maisrie turned to her grandfather.
"Oh, well," the old man made answer, with an air of magnificent
unconcern, "that is difficult to say. The book is not of such great
importance; it may have to stand aside for a time. For one thing, I
should most likely have to return to the other side to collect
materials; whereas, while we are here in the old country, there are so
many opportunities for research in other and perhaps more valuable
directions, that it would be a thousand pities to neglect them. For
example, now," he continued, seeing that Mrs. Ellison listened meekly,
"I have undertaken to write for my friend Carmichael of the _Edinburgh
Chronicle_ a series of papers on a branch of our own family that
attained to great distinction in the Western Isles during the reign of
the Scotch Jameses--the learned Beatons of Islay and Mull."
"Oh, indeed," said Mrs. Ellison, affecting much interest.
"Yes," resumed old George Bethune, with much dignified complacency, "it
will be a singular history if ever I find time to trace it out. The
whole of that family seem to have been regarded with a kind of
superstitious reverence; all their sayings were preserved; and even now,
when a proverb is quoted in the Western Isles, they add, 'as the sage of
Mull said' or 'as the sage of Islay said.' For _ullahm_, I may inform
you, Mrs.--Mrs.--"
"Ellison," she said, kindly.
"Mrs. Ellison--I beg your pardon--my hearing is not what it was.
_Ullahm_, in the Gaelic tongue means at once a Doctor of Medicine and a
wise man--"
"They distinguish between the terms in English," put in Vincent.
"--and doctors most of them appear to have been," continued the old man,
quite oblivious of interruption: indeed he seemed to be reading
something out of his memory, rather than addressing particularly any one
of his audience. "A certain Hector Beaton, indeed, got a considerable
grant in Islay for having cured one of the Jameses when all the
Edinburgh Faculty had failed; and I myself have seen in the island of
Iona the tombstone of the last of the Mull doctors of the name, who died
so late as 1657. _Hic jacet Johannes Betonus Maclenorum familiae
Medicus_: no doubt there must be some mention of those Beatons in the
archives of the various families of Maclean in Mull. Then I daresay I
could get a drawing of the tombstone--though I can remember the
inscription well enough. The coat of arms, too, has the three mascles of
the Bethunes--"
"Of the Bethunes?--then you are of the same family?" said Mrs. Ellison,
this time with a little genuine curiosity.
But the interruption had the effect of rousing him from his historical
reverie.
"I would rather say," he observed, with some stiffness, "that they were
originally of our family. The Norman de Bethune would easily be changed
into the Scotch Beaton."
"Then there was Mary Beaton, of the Queen's Maries," Mrs. Ellison
suggested.
But at this the old man frowned: he did not wish any fictitious
characters brought into these authentic annals.
"An idle tale--a popular rhyme," said he. "There is no real foundation
for the story of Mary Hamilton that ever I could get hold of. Of course
there may have been a Mary Beaton at Queen Mary's court--what more
likely?--and Mary Beaton would come trippingly to the popular tongue in
conjunction with Mary Seton; but that is all. It is with real people,
and important people, I shall have to deal when I get to the Advocates
Library in Edinburgh."
"Oh, yes, certainly--of course--I quite understand," she said, humbly.
And then she rose. "Well, I must be getting back to my friends, Vin, or
they will think I have slipped over the side and been drowned."
"But won't you stay to dinner, aunt?" said he. "I wish you would!"
"Oh, no, thanks, I really couldn't," she answered with a sudden
earnestness that became more intelligible to him afterwards. "I
couldn't run away from my hosts like that." Then she turned to Mr.
Bethune and his granddaughter. "By the way," she said, "Lord
Musselburgh is coming down to-morrow--merely for the day--and he will be
on board the _Villeggiatura_. Would you all of you like to come along
and have a look over the boat; or shall I send him to pay you a visit
here?"
It was Maisrie who replied--with perfect self-composure.
"Our acquaintance with Lord Musselburgh is so very slight, Mrs.
Ellison," said she, "that it would hardly be worth while making either
proposal. I doubt whether he would even remember our names."
Whereupon the young widow bade good-bye to Maisrie with a pretty little
smile; the old gentleman bowed to her with much dignity; and then she
took her seat in the stern of the gig, while her nephew put out the
sculls. When they were well out of hearing, Mrs. Ellison said--with a
curious look in her eyes of perplexity and half-frightened amusement--
"Vin, who is that old man?"
"Well, you saw, aunt," he made answer.
"Ob, yes, I saw. I saw. But I am none the wiser. I could not make him
out at all. Sometimes I thought he was a self-conceited old donkey, who
was simply gabbling at random; and again he seemed really to believe
what he was saying, about his connection with those Beatons and de
Bethunes and the Scotch kings. But there's something behind it all,
Vin; I tell you there is; and I can't make it out. There's something
mysterious about him--"
"There's nothing mysterious at all!" he exclaimed, impatiently.
"But who is he, then?" she persisted. "What is he? Where is his
family? Where are his relatives?"
"I don't think he has any, if it comes to that, except his
granddaughter," her nephew replied.
"What does he do, then? How does he exist?"
He was beginning to resent this cross-examination; but yet he said
civilly enough--
"I am not in the habit of making inquiries about the income of everyone
I meet; but I understand they have some small sum of money between
them--not much: and then he has published books; and he writes for the
_Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle_. Is that enough?"
"Where does he live?"
"In Mayfair."
"I don't believe a word of it!" she said, and she even ventured to laugh
in a half-embarrassed way. "I believe he dwells in a cave--he is a
troglodyte--he comes out at dusk--and wanders about with a lantern and a
pickaxe. Really, when I looked at his shaggy eyebrows, and his piercing
eyes, and his venerable beard, I thought he must be some Druid come to
life again--or perhaps one of those mythical island-doctors surviving
from the fourteenth century--"
"At all events, aunt," Vincent said, with an ominous distinctness of
tone, "his age and what he has come through might procure for him a
little respect. It isn't like you to jeer and jibe simply because a man
is old--"
"My dear boy, I am not jibing and jeering!" she protested. "I tell you
I am puzzled. There's something about that old man I can't make out."
"How could you expect to understand anybody--in half-an-hour's talk at
Henley Regatta!" he said, indignantly. "I gave you the opportunity of
getting to know them both, if only you had come along this evening, and
spent some time with them. I am not aware that either of them wants to
conceal anything. They are not ashamed of their poverty. Perhaps the
old man talks too much: you, at least, pretended to find what he said
interesting. And as for the girl, no doubt she was silent: she isn't
used to be stared at and examined by critical and unsympathetic eyes."
The young widow elevated her brows: here was something unexpected!
"Vin Harris," she said, solemnly, "are you quarrelling with me
because--because I am not glamoured? Is it as bad as that? If so, then
I am extremely glad I did not accept your invitation for this evening.
I am compromised far enough already--"
"What do you mean by compromised?" he demanded.
But just at this moment she had to call to him to look out, for they had
almost arrived at the _Villeggiatura_. He glanced over his shoulder,
pulled a stroke with his right oar, shipped the other, and then, having
gripped the stern of the house-boat, he affixed the painter of the gig,
and, letting her back fall into the stream, returned to the thwart he
had occupied.
"I wish to ask you, aunt," said he, in a sufficiently stiff and formal
tone, "how you consider you have been compromised through meeting any
friends of mine."
"Oh," said she, half inclined to laugh, yet a little bit afraid too,
"don't ask me. It isn't as serious as that--I mean, I didn't think you
would take it seriously. No doubt it's all right, Vin, your choosing
your own friends; and I have nothing to say against them; only I would
rather you left me out, if you don't mind. You see, I don't know your
intentions--"
"Supposing I have none?" he demanded again.
"Well, no one can say what may happen," the young widow persisted; "and
I should not like to be appealed to--Now, now, Vin, don't be so
passionate!--have I said a single word against your new friends? Not
one. I only confess that I'm a selfish and comfort-loving woman, and I
don't wish to be drawn into any family strife. There may be no family
strife? Very well; so much the better. But my having no further
acquaintance with Mr. Bethune and Miss Bethune--my having no knowledge
of them whatever, for it practically comes to that--cannot injure them;
and leaves me free from responsibility. Now don't quarrel with me, Vin;
for I will not allow it; I have been talking common sense to you--but I
suppose that is what no man of twenty-five understands."
He hauled up the gig to the stern of the house-boat, as an intimation
that she could step on board when she chose.
"There," said she, as she gave him her hand in parting, "I see I have
offended you; but what I have said has been for your sake as well as
mine."
Well, he was vexed, disappointed, and a little inclined to be angry.
But all that darkness fled from his spirit--he forgot all about Mrs.
Ellison's friendly monitions--he had no care for any speculations as to
the future--when he was back again in the _White Rose_, sitting by
Maisrie Bethune, he and she together looking abroad on the gay crowd,
and the boats, and the trembling willows, and the slow-moving skies now
growing warmer with the afternoon sun. Then, when the last of the races
was over, came dinner; and as twilight stole over the river and the
meadows, the illuminations began, the rows of coloured lanterns showing
one after the other, like so many fire-flies in the dusk. Of course
they were sitting outside now--on this placid summer night--in
fairyland.