CLAIRE FONTAINE.
But something far more strange and wonderful happened to him the next
morning; and that was his first _tete-a-tete_ conversation with Maisrie
Bethune. It was quite unexpected, and even unsought; nay, when he
stepped outside and found that she was alone on deck, he would have
shrank back, had that been possible, rather than break in upon her
solitude. For even here at Henley, during the regatta-time, which may
be regarded as the High Festival of Joyance and Flirtation, there was no
thought of pretty and insidious love-making in this young man's head or
heart. There was something mysteriously remote and reserved about this
isolated young creature, whose very beauty was of a strangely pensive
and wistful kind. Even the gentle self-possession and the wisdom beyond
her years she showed at times seemed to him a pathetic sort of thing; he
had a fancy that during her childhood she never had had the chance of
playing with young children.
But it was too late to retreat; and indeed she welcomed him with a
pleasant smile as she bade him good morning. It was he who was
embarrassed. He talked to her about the common things surrounding them,
while anxiously casting about for something better fitting such a rare
opportunity. And at last he said--
"Yes, I am sure your grandfather and I get on very well. And I have
been wondering whether, when you and he make that pilgrimage through
Scotland, he would let me accompany you."
In her beautiful and child-like eyes there was a swift flash of joy that
made his heart leap, so direct and outspoken an expression it was of her
gladness to think of such a thing; but instantly she had altered her
look, and a faint flush of colour had overspread her face--the pale
wild-rose had grown pink.
"Your way of travelling and ours are so different," the said, gently.
"Oh, but," said he, with eagerness, "you don't understand how the idea
of a long wandering on foot has fascinated me: why, that would be the
whole charm of it! You don't know me at all yet. You think I care for
the kind of thing that prevails here--that I can't get on without
pine-apples and chairs with gilt backs? Why--but I don't want to talk
about myself at all: if you would let me come with you on that
pilgrimage you would find out a little. And what an opportunity it will
be, to go with your grandfather: history, poetry, and romance all
brought together: Scotland will be a wonderful country for you before
you have done with it. And--and--you see--I have gone on pedestrian
excursions before--I have a pretty broad back--I can carry things. You
might engage me as porter; for even when you send your luggage on, there
will be a few odds and ends to fill a knapsack with; and I can tramp
like any gaberlunzie."
She smiled a little, and then said more seriously--
"I am glad to have the chance of speaking to you about that scheme of my
grandfather's; because, Mr. Harris, you must try to dissuade him from it
as much as possible."
"Dissuade him?"
"Yes," said she, quietly. "You must have seen how completely my
grandfather lives in a world of imagination, and how one thing
captivates him after another, especially if it is connected with
Scotland and Scottish song. And I have no doubt he would write a
beautiful book about such a tour as that; for who knows more about all
the places and the legends and ballads? It would be a pleasure for me
too--I have dreamed of it many a time. But it is impossible for the
present; and it will be a kindness to me, Mr. Harris, if you will not
encourage him in it. For the fact is," she continued, with a little
embarrassment, "my grandfather has undertaken to write something
else--and--and he is under personal obligations about it--and he must
not be allowed to forget them."
"Oh, yes, I quite understand," Vincent said. "I have heard of that
volume about the Scotch poets in America. Well, you know what your
grandfather says, that he would have to go to the other side to collect
materials; while, being here in this country just now, he might as well
take you to those scenes and places that would make up another book, to
be written subsequently. However, I have no doubt you are right. The
possibility of my going along with you two on such an excursion has been
a wonderful thing for me to speculate on; but whatever you wish, that is
enough. I am against the Scotch trip now, so far as I have any right to
speak."
She was looking at him enquiringly, and yet diffidently, as if she were
asking herself how far she might confide in him.
"Perhaps you have not noticed it, Mr. Harris," she added, still
regarding him, "but my grandfather has a strange faculty for making
himself believe things. I daresay, if he only planned the American
book, he could convince himself that he had written it, and so got rid
of those--those obligations. Well, you will help me, will you not?--for
I am anxious to see it done; and he may say I am too young and too
ignorant to give advice--as I am--"
"Why," said Vincent, almost indignantly, "do you think I cannot see how
you guide and lead him always, and with such a tact and wisdom and
gentleness as I never beheld anywhere!"
Maisrie flashed downright red this time; but she sought to conceal her
confusion by saying quickly--
"Then again you must not misunderstand me, Mr. Harris; you must not
think I am saying anything against my grandfather; I am only telling you
of one little peculiarity he has. Saying anything against him!--I think
I could not well do that; for he has been goodness itself to me since
ever I can remember anything. There is nothing he would not sacrifice
for my sake; sometimes it is almost painful to me to see an old man, who
should be the petted one and the cared for, so ready to give up his own
wants and wishes, to please a mere girl who is worthy of no
consideration whatever. And consideration is not the word for what I
have received from my grandfather always and always; and if I could
forget all he has done for me and been to me--if I could be so
ungrateful as to forget all those years of affection and sympathy and
constant kindness--"
She never finished the sentence. He fancied her eyes were moist as she
turned her head away; anyhow he dared not break in upon the silence;
these confidences had been sacred things. And indeed there was no
opportunity for further speech on this subject; for presently old George
Bethune made his appearance, radiant, buoyant, high-spirited, with a
sonorous stanza from Tannahill to greet the awakening of the new day.
Now no sooner had Lord Musselburgh arrived on board the _Villeggiatura_
on the same morning than Mrs. Ellison went to him and told him all her
story, which very much surprised him, and also concerned him not a
little, for it seemed as though he was in a measure responsible for what
had happened to Vincent.
"My dear Mrs. Ellison," said he, "I can assure you of one thing: it is
quite true that your nephew was in the room when Mr. Bethune and his
granddaughter called on me, but I am positively certain that there was
no introduction and that he did not speak a single word to them there.
How he got to know them I cannot imagine; nor how they could have become
so intimate that he should ask them to be his guests down here at
Henley. And his sole guests, you say?--Yes, I admit, it looks queer. I
hope to goodness there is no kind of entanglement--"
"Oh," said Mrs. Ellison, in sudden alarm; "don't imagine anything from
what I have told you I There may be nothing in it: he as good as
declared there was nothing in it: and he is so fiery and sensitive--on
this one point--why, that is the most serious feature of it all! He
looks you straight in the face, and dares you to suspect anything. But
really--really--to have those two companions--and no others--on a
house-boat at Henley: it is a challenge to the world!"
"Looks rather like it," said Lord Musselburgh; and then he added: "Of
course you know that Vin has always been a Quixotic kind of chap--doing
impossible things if he thought them right--and all that sort of thing.
But it's very awkward just at this moment. There must be some powerful
attraction, of one kind or another, to have made him give himself over
so completely to these new friends; for he has not been near me of late;
and yet here I have in my pocket a letter that concerns him very
closely, if only he would pay attention to it. I don't mind telling
you, Mrs. Ellison, for you are discretion itself--"
"I think you may trust me, Lord Musselburgh," she said, with a smile.
"Very well, then," said he, lowering his voice. "I hear that there will
be a vacancy at Mendover--certainly at the next General Election, but
more probably much sooner: old Gosford has become such a confirmed
hypochondriac that he will hardly leave his room; and his constituents
are grumbling as much as they dare--for he has got money, you know, and
the public park he gave them wants further laying out, and statues, and
things. Very well; now I have in my pocket a darkly discreet letter
from the Committee of the Mendover Liberal Association asking me to go
down and deliver an address at their next meeting, and hinting that if I
could bring with me an acceptable candidate--"
He paused, and for a second a cynical but perfectly good-humoured laugh
appeared in his eyes.
"My dear Mrs. Ellison," said he, "I am deeply grateful. I thought you
might express some astonishment at my being consulted in so important an
affair. But the fact is, I, also, am expected to do something for that
park; and perhaps this invitation was only a little hint to remind me of
my local responsibilities. However, that is how the case stands; and I
had thought of taking your nephew down with me--
"A vacancy at Mendover," said Mrs. Ellison, in awe-struck tones, "where
you are simply everybody! Oh, Lord Musselburgh, what a chance for Vin!"
"And then, you know," continued the young peer, "I want to bring him out
as a Tory Democrat, for that is a fine, bewildering sort of thing, that
provokes curiosity: you call yourself a Tory and can be as revolutionary
as you like, so that you capture votes all round. Why, I've got Vin's
programme all ready for him in my pocket: a graduated income-tax, free
education, leasehold enfranchisement, compulsory insurance, anything and
everything you like except disestablishment--disestablishment won't work
at Mendover. Now, you see, Mrs. Ellison, if I could get Vin properly
coached, he has all the natural fervour that unhappily I lack; and after
I had made my few little jokes which they kindly take for a speech, I
could produce him and say 'Here, now, is the young politician of the new
generation; here's your coming man; this is the kind of member the next
quarter-of-a-century must return to the House of Commons.' But if there
is any Delilah in the way--"
Mrs. Ellison crimsoned.
"No, Lord Musselburgh," she said. "No. You need have no fear."
However, she seemed perturbed--perhaps in her anxiety that her nephew
should not miss this great opportunity. Presently she said--
"Tell me, what do you know of this old man?--I can't make him out at
all."
"I? I know nothing, or next to nothing," he said, lightly, as he gazed
abroad on the busy river. "I remember Vin asking me the same
question--I suppose out of curiosity about the girl. My recollection of
her is that she was extremely pretty--refined-looking--lady-like, in
fact--"
"She is, indeed," said Mrs. Ellison, with decision, "and that is what
makes the situation all the more dangerous--assuming, of course, that
there is any ground for one's natural suspicions. No, Vin is the last
man in the world to be captured by any vulgar adventuress; he is at once
too fastidious and too proud. But then, you see, he is well known to be
the son of a very wealthy man; and there might be a design--" She
hesitated for a moment: then she said, half impatiently: "Lord
Musselburgh, tell me how you came to know this old man: he could not
have sprung out of the earth all of a sudden."
He told her, as briefly as might be.
"That was all?" she repeated, eyeing him shrewdly.
"Yes."
"You are sure?"
"What do you mean? That is really all I know of the old gentleman:
isn't that what you asked?"
"But was that the whole of the interview, if I may be so impertinent as
to inquire?" she demanded again.
"Ob, yes, it was," Lord Musselburgh said; and then he added,
indifferently: "Of course I subscribed something towards the publication
of a book he mentioned--he had written to me before about the project."
"Oh, there was money?" she said.
A slight tinge on Lord Musselburgh's forehead showed that he had not
intended to make this admission.
"Oh, nothing--a trifle--it is usual when a book is coming out by
subscription."
Mrs. Ellison sate silent for a little while: there was plenty going on
on the river to interest her companion. Then by-and-bye she said
slowly--
"Well, I had intended to keep clear of these new friends of Vin's. I
thought it would be more prudent for me to know nothing. It is true, I
was introduced to them yesterday afternoon; but I wished that to be all;
I thought I would rather withdraw; and let things take their course.
But I don't know that that would be honest and right. Vin is a young man
with many fine and noble qualities--perhaps a little too fine and noble
for the ordinary work-a-day world; and I think he ought to have the
benefit of my sadly-earned experience and callous nature--"
Lord Musselburgh laughed: he did not take her too seriously.
"He is my own boy," she continued, "I would do anything for him. And
I'm not going to let him be entrapped--if that is what all this means.
I know he is very angry with me just now; probably he would not speak to
me if he were to meet me this minute; but that won't prevent my speaking
to him. I'm going to put my pride in my pocket, Lord Musselburgh. I'm
going to find out something more about this picturesque old gentleman,
who talks so grandly about the Beatons, and the de Bethunes, and their
coats of arms, and who accepts a L10 note--or perhaps only a L5
note?--on account of a book that is not yet published. And if there is
any sort of scheme on foot for getting hold of the son of so notoriously
wealthy a man as Harland Harris, then I want to make a little inquiry.
Yesterday Vin indignantly complained that I was prejudiced, and that I
had no right to form any opinion about those friends of his because I
would not go along and dine with him and them last evening. Very well,
I will go to him, and make up the quarrel, and ask him to repeat the
invitation for this evening--"
"For this evening?" repeated Lord Musselburgh, in tones of deep
disappointment. "You don't mean you are going to leave all your friends
here and go and dine somewhere else?"
"If I can procure an invitation. It is my duty. I'm not going to let my
boy be made a fool of, even if I have to sacrifice a little of my own
personal comfort."
"Yes, that's all very well," said Lord Musselburgh, gloomily, "but I did
not bargain for your going away like that on the only evening I shall be
here. If I had known--"
He was on the point of saying he would not have come down: but that
would have been too bold an avowal. He suddenly hit upon another happy
suggestion.
"You said that Vin had only those two on board with him? Well, if he
asks you to dine with him, won't he ask me too?"
Mrs. Ellison laughed, and shook her head.
"No, no. Another stranger would put them on their guard. I must manage
my Private Investigation all by myself. But you need not look so
disconsolate. There are some really nice people here, as you'll find
out by-and-bye; and the Drexel girls are driving over from Great
Marlow--they are Americans, so you will be properly appreciated: they
will try their best to make you happy."
"How late shall you stay on board Vin's boat?" he asked, heedless of
these smaller attractions.
"I shall be back here by ten--perhaps by half-past nine."
"Is that a promise?"
"Yes, it is--ten at latest."
"Otherwise I should go back to town in the afternoon," said he, frankly.
"What nonsense!" the young widow exclaimed (but she did not seem
resentful). "Well, now, I must go along to the _White Rose_, and make
my peace, and angle for an invitation; and then, if I get it, I must
concoct my excuses for Mrs. Lawrence. Anyhow I shall be on board the
_Villeggiatura_ all the afternoon; and then I hope to have the pleasure
of introducing you to Louie Drexel--that is the young lady I have
designed for Vin, when he has shaken off those adventurers and come to
his right mind."
Almost immediately thereafter Mrs. Ellison had secured a boatman to pull
her along to the _White Rose_; and as she drew near, she perceived that
Maisrie Bethune was alone in the stern of the house-boat, standing
upright on the steering-thwart, and with both hands holding a pair of
field-glasses to her eyes--an unconscious attitude that showed the
graceful figure of the girl to the best advantage.
The observant visitor could also remark that her costume was simplicity
itself: a blouse of white soft stuff, with wide sleeves and tight cuffs;
a belt of white silk round her waist; and a skirt of blue serge. She
wore no head-covering; and her neatly-braided hair caught several
soft-shining hues from the sun--not a wonder and glory of hair, perhaps,
(as Vin Harris would have deemed it) but very attractive all the same to
the feminine eye, and somehow suggestive of girlhood, and making for
sympathy. And then, when a "Good-morning!" brought round a startled
face and a proud, clear look that was nothing abashed or ashamed, Mrs.
Ellison's conscience smote her that she had made use of the word
adventuress, and bade her wait and see.
"Good-morning!" Maisrie Bethune answered; and there came a touch of
colour to the fine and sensitive features as she knew that the young
matron was regarding her with a continuation of the curiosity of the
preceding afternoon.
"Have the gentlemen deserted you? Are you all alone?" Mrs. Ellison
said.
"Oh, no; they are inside," was the response. "Would you like to see Mr.
Harris? Shall I call him?"
"If you would be so kind!"--and therewith Maisrie disappeared into the
saloon, and did not return.
It was Vincent that came out--with terrible things written on his brow.
"Don't look at me like that, Vincent Harris!" Mrs. Ellison exclaimed,
half-laughing and half-annoyed. "What have I done? It is you who are
so hasty and inconsiderate. But I've come to make it all up with you;
and to ask you to ask me to dine with you to-night."
"No, thank you, aunt," he said, civilly enough. "You are very kind; but
the fact is you would come with a prejudice; and so you'd better not
come at all."
Well, she had to be circumspect; for not only was her own boatman behind
her, but there was a possibility of some stray sentence penetrating into
the saloon.
"Come," she said, in a sort of undertone, to him; and she had a pretty,
coaxing, goodnatured way with her when she chose, "I am not going to
allow you to quarrel with me, Vin; and I bring a flag of truce; and
honourable proposals. I saw you were offended with me last evening; and
perhaps I was a little selfish in refusing your invitation; but you see
I confess the error of my ways, for here I am begging you to ask me
again."
"Oh, if you put it that way, aunt--"
"Oh, no, I don't put it that way!" she said. "Not if you speak like
that. Come, be amiable! I've just been talking to Lord Musselburgh--"
"And, of course, you crammed all your wild ideas into his head!" he
exclaimed.
"Whoever heard of poor me having ideas!" she said, with a winning
good-humour to which he could not but yield. "It isn't for me to have
ideas; but I may have prejudices; and I'm going to leave them, all on
board the _Villeggiatura_ this evening, if you say yes."
"Of course I say yes--when you are like yourself, aunt," he responded at
once, "and I shall be very glad indeed. And what is more," said he, in
a still lower tone, "when you have really met--certain people--and when
you have to confess that you have been unjust, I don't mean to triumph
over you. Not a bit. If you have done any injustice, you know yourself
how to make it up--to them. Now that's all right and settled: and I'm
really glad you're coming. Seven o'clock; and the dress you've got on."
"Oh, but, mind you," said she, "you don't seem to appreciate my goodness
in humbling myself so as to pacify your honourable worship. Do you know
what I shall have to do besides? How am I to explain to the Lawrences
my running away from their party? And here is Lord Musselburgh come
down; and the Drexel girls are expected; so you see what I am doing for
you, Vin--"
"You're always good to me, aunt--when you choose to be reasonable and
exercise your common-sense--"
"Common-sense!" she retorted, with a malicious laugh in her eyes. Then
she said, quite seriously: "Very well, Vin: seven o'clock: that is an
excellent hour, leaving us all a nice long evening; for I must get back
to the _Villeggiatura_ early."
And so that was all well and amicably settled. But Master Vin, though
young in years, had not tumbled about the world for nothing; and a
little reflection convinced him that his pretty aunt's change of
purpose--her abandonment of her resolve to remain discreetly aloof--had
not been prompted solely, if at all, by her wish to have that little
misunderstanding between him and her removed. That could have been done
at any time; a few words of apology and appeal, and there an end. This
humble seeking for an invitation which she had definitely refused the
day before meant more than that; it meant that she had resolved to find
out something further about these strangers. Very well, then, she was
welcome: at the same time he was resolved to receive this second visit
not as he had received the first. He was no longer anxious about the
impression these two friends of his might produce on this the first of
his relatives to meet them. She might form any opinion she chose: he
was indifferent. Nay, he would stand by them on every point; and
justify them; and defy criticism. If he had dared he would have gone to
Maisrie and said: "My aunt is coming to dinner to-night; but I will not
allow you to submit yourself to any ordeal of inspection. You shall
dress as you like, as carelessly or as neatly as you like; you shall
wear your hair hanging down your back or braided up, without any thought
of her; you shall be as silent as you wish--and leave her, if she
chooses, to call you stupid, or shy, or sulky, or anything else." And
he would have gone to the old man and said: "Talk as much and as long as
ever you have a mind; you cannot babble o' green fields too discursively
for me; I, at all events, am sufficiently interested in your claims of
proud lineage, in your enthusiasm about Scotland and Scottish song, in
your reminiscences of many lands. Be as self-complacent and pompous as
you please; fear nothing; fear criticism least of all." And perhaps, in
like manner, he would have addressed Mrs. Ellison herself: "My dear
aunt, it is not they who are on their trial, it is you. It is you who
have to show whether you have the courage of honest judgment, or are the
mere slave of social custom and forms." For perhaps he, too, had
imbibed a little of the "Stand Fast, Craig Royston!" spirit? Bravado may
be catching--especially where an innocent and interesting young creature
of eighteen or so is in danger of being exposed to some deadly approach.
Of course this carelessly defiant attitude did not prevent his being
secretly pleased when, as seven o'clock drew near, he perceived that
Maisrie Bethune had arranged herself in an extremely pretty, if clearly
inexpensive, costume; and also he was in no wise chagrined to find that
Mrs. Ellison, on her arrival, appeared to be in a very amiable mood.
There was no need to ask her "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in
war?": her manner was most bland; in particular she was adroitly
flattering and fascinating towards old George Bethune, who accepted
these little attentions from the charming widow with a grave and
consequential dignity. The young host refused to sit at the head of the
table; he had the places arranged two and two--Mrs. Ellison, of course,
as the greater stranger and the elder woman, on his right, and Maisrie
opposite to him. During the general dinner-talk, which was mostly about
the crowd, and the races, and the dresses, Mrs. Ellison casually
informed her nephew that she had that afternoon won two bets, and also
discovered that she and Lord Musselburgh were to meet at the same house
in Scotland the coming autumn: perhaps this was the explanation of her
extreme and obvious good humour.
And if any deep and sinister design underlay this excessive amiability
on her part, it was successfully concealed; meantime all was
pleasantness and peace; and the old gentleman, encouraged by her artless
confidences, spoke more freely and frankly about the circumstances of
himself and his granddaughter than was his wont.
"I see some of the papers are indignant about what they call the vulgar
display of wealth at Henley regatta," the young widow was saying, in a
very unconcerned and easy fashion; "but I wish those gentlemen would
remember that there is such a thing as imputation of motives, and that
imputing motives is a common resource of envy. If I have a house-boat,
and try to make it as pretty as ever I can, both inside and out, why
should that be considered display of wealth--display of any sort? I
like nice things and comfortable things around me; I don't mind
confessing it; I am a selfish woman--"
"There are some who know better, aunt," her nephew interposed.
"Young gentleman," said she, promptly, "your evidence isn't worth
anything, for you have expectations. And I am not to be flattered. I
admit that I am a selfish and comfort-loving woman; and I like to see
pretty things around me, and an abundance of them; and if I can only
have these at the cost of being charged with ostentation and display,
very well, I will pay the price. If it comes to that, I never saw
anything beautiful or desirable in poverty. Poverty is not beautiful;
never was, never is, never will be beautiful; it is base and squalid and
sordid; it demeans men's minds, and stunts their bodies. I dare say
poverty is an excellent discipline--for the rich, if they would only
submit to a six mouths' dose of it now and again; but it is not a
discipline at all for the poor; it is a curse; it is the most cruel and
baleful thing in the world, destroying self-respect, destroying hope,
ambition, everything. Oh, I know the heresy I'm talking. There's Master
Vin's papa: he is never done preaching the divine attributes of poverty;
and I have no doubt there are a good many others who would be content to
fall down and worship _la bonne deesse de la pauvrete_--on L30,000 a
year!"
Master Vin sniggered: he was aware that this was not the only direction
in which the principles of the philosopher of Grosvenor Place were
somewhat inconsistent with his practice. However, it was old George
Bethune who now spoke--as one having experience.
"I quite agree," said he to Mrs. Ellison. "I can conceive of nothing
more demoralising to the nature of man or woman than harsh and hopeless
poverty, a slavery from which there is no prospect of escape. My
granddaughter and I have known what it is to be poor; we know it now;
but in our case every day brings possibilities--we breathe a wider air,
knowing that at any moment news may come. Then fancy plays her part;
and imagination can brighten the next day for us, if the present be dark
enough. Hopeless poverty--that is the terrible thing; the weary toil
leading to nothing; perhaps the unfortunate wretch sinking deeper and
deeper into the Slough of Despond. Maisrie and I have met with trials;
but we have borne them with a stout heart; and perhaps we have been
cheered--at least I know I have been--by some distant prospect of the
Bonnie Mill-dams o' Balloray, and a happier future for us both."
"Balloray?" she repeated, inquiringly.
"Balloray, in Fife. Perhaps you have never heard of the Balloray
law-suit, and I will not inflict any history of it upon you at present,"
he continued, with lofty complaisance. "I was merely saying that
poverty is not so hard to bear when there are brighter possibilities
always before you. If, in our case, we are barred in law by the Statute
of Limitations, there is no Statute of Limitations in the chapter of
accidents. And some remarkable instances have occurred. I remember one
in which a father, two sons, and a daughter were all drowned at once by
the sinking of a ship, and the property went bodily over to the younger
branch of the family, who had been penniless for years. It is the
unexpected that happens, according to the saying; and so we move from
day to day towards fresh possibilities; and who can tell what morning
may not bring us a summons to make straight for the Kingdom of Fife?
Not for myself do I care; I am too old now; it is for my granddaughter
here; and I should pass happily away and contented if I could leave her
in sole and undisputed possession of the ancient lands of the Bethunes
of Balloray."
What pang was this that shot through Vincent's heart? He suddenly saw
Maisrie removed from him--a great heiress--unapproachable--guarded by
this old man with his unconquerable pride of lineage and birth. _She_
might not forget old friends; but _he_? The Harris family had plenty of
money; but they had nothing to add to the fesse between three mascles,
_or_, and the otter's head; nor had any of their ancestors, so far as
was known, accompanied Margaret of Scotland on her marriage with the
Dauphin of France, or taken arms along with the great Maximilien de
Bethune, duc de Sully. In imagination the young man saw himself a
lonely pedestrian in Fifeshire, regarding from a distance a vast
baronial building set amid black Scotch firs and lighter larches, and
not daring even to draw near the great gate with the otter's head in
stone over the archway. He saw the horses being brought round to the
front entrance--a beautiful white Arab and a sturdy cob: the hall door
opens--the heiress of Balloray descends the wide stone steps--she is
assisted to mount, and pats that beautiful white creature on the neck.
And will she presently come cantering by--her long hair flowing to the
winds, as fair as it used to be in the olden days when the shifting
lights and mists of Hyde Park gave it ever-varying hues? Can he steal
aside somewhere?--he has no desire to claim recognition! She has
forgotten the time when, in the humble lodgings she used to sing "_Je ne
puis rien donner, qu' mon coeur en mariage_"; she has wide domains now;
and wears an ancient historic name. And so she goes along the white
highway, and under the swaying boughs of the beeches, until she is lost
in a confusion of green and gold...
"And in the meantime," said Mrs. Ellison (Vincent started: had that
bewildering and far-reaching vision been revealed to him all in one
brief, breathless second?) "in the meantime, Mr. Bethune, you must
derive a great deal of comfort and solace from your literary labours."
"My literary labours," said the old man, slowly and absently, "I am
sorry to say, are mostly perfunctory and mechanical. They occupy
attention and pass the time, however; and that is much. Perhaps I have
written one or two small things which may survive me for a year or two;
but if that should be so, it will be owing, not to any merit of their
own, but to the patriotism of my countrymen. Nay, I have much to be
thankful for,", he continued, in the same resigned fashion. "I have
been spared much. If I had been a famous author in my younger days, I
should now be reading the things I had written then with the knowledge
that I was their only reader. I should be thinking of my contemporaries
and saying 'At one time people spoke of me as now they are speaking of
you.' It is a kind of sad thing for a man to outlive his fame; for the
public is a fickle-minded creature, and must have new distractions; but
now I cannot complain of being forgotten, for I never did anything
deserving of being remembered."
"Grandfather," said Maisrie, "surely it is unfair of you to talk like
that! Think of the many friends you have made through your writings."
"Scotch friends, Maisrie, Scotch friends," he said. "I admit that. The
Scotch are not among the forgetful ones of the earth. If you want to be
made much of," he said, turning to Mrs. Ellison, "if you want to be
regarded with a constant affection and gratitude, and to have your
writings remembered and repeated, by the lasses at the kirn, by the
ploughman in the field, by gentle and simple alike, then you must
contrive to be born in Scotland. The Scottish heart beats warm, and is
constant. If there is a bit of heather or a blue-bell placed on my
grave, it will be by the hand of a kindly Scot."
Dinner over, they went out and sate in the cool twilight and had coffee,
while the steward was clearing away within. Mrs. Ellison, faithful to
her promise to Lord Musselburgh, said she had not long to stay; but her
nephew, having a certain scheme in his mind, would not let her go just
yet; and by and bye, when the saloon had been lit up, he asked her, in a
casual kind of fashion, whether before she went she would not like to
hear Miss Bethune sing something.
"Oh, I should like it of all things!" she replied instantly, with a
reckless disregard of truth.
Maisrie glanced at her grandfather.
"Yes, certainly--why not?" said he.
"Then," said their young host, "I propose we go in to the saloon again;
it will be quieter." For there was still a plash of oars on the river,
and an echoing call of voices in the meadows beyond.
When they had returned into the saloon, Maisrie took up her violin; and
Mrs. Ellison bravely endeavoured to assume an air of interested
expectancy. The fact was she disliked the whole proceeding; here would
be some mere exhibition of a schoolgirl's showy accomplishments; she
would have to say nice things; and she hated telling lies--when nothing
was to be gained. Maisrie made some little apology; but said that
perhaps Mrs. Ellison had not heard the _Claire Fontaine_, which is a
favourite song of the Canadians. Then she drew her bow across the
strings.
Vincent need not have been so anxious. Hardly had Maisrie begun with
"_A la claire fontaine,_
_M'en allant promener--_"
than Mrs. Ellison's air of forced attention instantly vanished; she
seemed surprised; she listened in a wondering kind of way to the low,
clear tones of the girl's voice that were so curiously sincere and
penetrating and simple. Not a schoolgirl's showing off, this; but a
kind of speech, that reached the heart.
"_Sur la plus haute branche_
_Le rossignol chantait._
_Chante, rossignol, chante,_
_Toi qui as le coeur gai._
_Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,_
_Jamais je ne t'oublierai._"
Did she notice the soft dwelling on the _r_'s, Vincent asked himself;
and had she ever heard anything so strangely fascinating? Then the
simple pathos of the story--if there was any story--
"_Chante, rossignol, chante,_
_Toi qui as le coeur gai;_
_Tu as le coeur a rire,_
_Moi je l'ai-t-a pleurer._
_Tu as le coeur a rire,_
_Moi j'e l'ai-t-a pleurer:_
_J'ai perdu ma maitresse_
_Sans l'avoir merite._
_Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,_
_Jamais je ne l'oublierai._"
"That is enough," said Maisrie, with a smile, and she laid the violin in
her lap. "It is too long. You never hear it sung altogether in
Canada--only a verse here and there--or perhaps merely the refrain--"
"But is there more?--oh, please sing the rest of it--it is
delightful--so quaint, and simple, and charming!" Mrs. Ellison
exclaimed; and Master Vin was a proud and glad young man; he knew that
Maisrie had all unaided struck home.
The girl took up her violin again, and resumed:
"_J'ai perdu ma maitresse_
_Sans l'avoir merite._
_Pour un bouquet de roses_
_Que je lui refusai._
_Pour un bouquet de roses_
_Que je lui refusai._
_Je voudrais que la rose_
_Fut encore au rosier._
_Je voudrais que la rose_
_Fut encore au rosier,_
_Et moi et ma maitresse_
_Dans les mem's amities._
_Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,_
_Jamais je ne t'oublierai!_"
Well, when the singing, if it could be called singing, was over, Mrs.
Ellison made the usual little compliments, which nobody minded one way
or the other. But presently she had to leave; and while she was being
rowed up the river by her nephew she was silent. When they reached the
_Villeggiatura_ (the people were all outside, amid the confused light of
the lanterns in the dusk) she said to him, in a low voice, as she bade
him good-bye--
"Vin, let me whisper something to you--a confession. _Claire Fontaine_
has done for me. That girl is a good girl. She is all right, any way."