AN ALARM.
On a certain still, clear, moonlight night a dog-cart containing two
young men was being driven away from the little town of Mendover, out
into the wide, white, silent country. The driver was Lord Musselburgh,
and he seemed in high spirits, talking to his companion almost
continuously, while he kept the stout little cob going at a rattling
pace.
"I am more pleased than I can tell you," he was saying. "Quite a
triumph! Why, you took to it as a duck takes to water. Of course
there's something in having a responsive audience; and you can always
get a noble band of patriots to cheer your proposal for a progressive
income-tax when not one in ten of them has any income-tax to pay. I'm
afraid they weren't quite so enthusiastic about your scheme of
compulsory insurance; indeed they seemed a little disappointed and
offended; the Champion of the Proletariat was playing it a little low
down on them; but a heavily increasing income-tax--oh, yes, that was
splendid!--they saw the Rothschilds caught at last, and had visions of a
land in which there shall be no more poor-rates or police-rates, perhaps
not even water-rates or gas-rates. But it was your confounded coolness
that surprised me--no beating about the bush--walking straight into
it--and without preparation, too--"
"I knew what I had to say," Vincent interposed, with a becoming modesty,
"and it seemed simple enough to say it."
"Yes, and so it is--when you have acquired the knack of forgetting
yourself," said the young nobleman, oracularly. "And that appears to
have come naturally to you, my boy. However, this is why I am so
particularly pleased with your successful first appearance," Lord
Musselburgh proceeded, as the dog-cart went bowling along the silent,
white highway, between the black hedges. "I am about to unfold to you a
great idea, Vin--perhaps prematurely, but you will be discreet. The
project is mine; but I want help to carry it through; you and I must
work together; and years and years hence we shill be recognised as the
Great Twin Brethren, who saved the falling fortunes of England."
Was he in jest or earnest? Vincent, knowing his friend's sub-cynical
habit of speech, listened without interposing a word.
"We shall earn for ourselves a deathless renown, at very little cost--to
us; it's the other people who will have to pay, and we shall have all
the glory. Now what I propose is briefly this: I propose to give all
those good folk who profess a warm regard for their native country a
chance of showing what their patriotism is worth. I don't want them to
fight; there isn't any fighting going on at present to speak of; and in
any case the rich old merchants, and maiden ladies, and portly bishops,
and ponderous judges--well, they'd make an awkward squad to drill; but I
mean to give them an opportunity of testifying to their affection for
the land of their birth; and you, my blazing young Tory-Democrat, if you
can speak as freely as you spoke to-night, you must carry the fiery
torch north, south, east, and west--till you've secured Westminster
Abbey for both of us, or at least a tablet in St. Paul's. Then look
what a subject for your eloquence you have--the guarding of England from
any possible combination of her foes--the island-citadel made
impregnable--'compass'd by the inviolate sea'--defence not defiance--you
understand the kind of thing. But really, Vin, you know, there is going
to be an awful stramash, as my old nurse used to say, in Europe before
the century is out; and England's safety will lie in her being strong
enough to remain aloof. And how? Why, by trebling her present navy."
"Trebling her present navy!" Vincent repeated, in a vague sort of way.
"Yes," Musselburgh went on, coolly. "And it can easily be done, without
involving a single farthing of taxation. I want the people of this
country to show what they can do voluntarily; I want them to make a
tremendous effort to render Great Britain secure from attack for a
century at least; and the manner of doing it is to form a National
Patriotic Fund, to which everybody, man and woman, merchant and
apprentice, millionaire and club-waiter, can subscribe, according to
their means and the genuineness of their patriotism. Here is a chance
for everybody; here is a test of all those professions of love of
country. Why, it would become a point of honour, with the very meanest,
if the nation were thoroughly aroused, and if a splendid example were
set in high places. The Queen, now--who is more directly interested in
the safety of the country than she is?--why should she not head the list
with L100,000? I would call the fund the Queen's Fund; and I should not
wonder if we were to get two or three maniacs--very useful
maniacs--patriots they would have been called in other days--to cut
their possessions in half, and hand the one half bodily over to Her
Majesty: that would be something like an example!"
"But is it all a wild speculation, Musselburgh?" asked Vincent, who was
puzzled. "Or do you mean it seriously?"
"Ha and hum," said the young peer, significantly. "That depends. I
should want to sound some of the dukes about it. And first of all I
must have some sort of scheme ready, to get rid of obvious objections.
They might say 'Oh, you want to treble the Navy? Then in twenty years
you'll find yourself with a crowd of obsolete ships, and all your money
gone.' That is not what I mean at all. I mean the formation of an
immense voluntary national fund, which will keep the Navy at double or
treble its present strength, not by a sudden multiplication of ships,
but by gradually adding vessels of the newest construction, as
improvements are invented. An immense fund, doubtless; for of course
there would be maintenance; but what couldn't a rich country like
England do if she chose? And that's what I'm coming to, with regard to
you, my young Demosthenes. It would be infinitely better--it would be
safer--it would be building on securer foundations--if the demand for
such a movement came from the country itself. If the Queen, and the
dukes, and the millionaires were to subscribe as if in answer to an
appeal from the people, the enthusiasm would be tremendous; it would be
such a thing as never happened before in the history of England: talk
about noble ladies flinging their jewels into the public treasury?--why,
every school-girl would bring out her hoarded pocket-money, with her
lips white with patriotic fervour. England can subscribe on all
possible occasions for the benefit of other countries: for once let her
subscribe on her own behalf!" Lord Musselburgh went on, though it might
have been hard to say what half-mocking bravado intermingled with his
apparent enthusiasm. "And that's where you would come in. You would be
the emissary, the apostle, the bearer of the fiery torch. You've done
very well with the grocers' assistants of Mendover; but fancy having to
wake up England, Canada, Australia, and the Cape to the necessity for
making the Mother Country once for all invulnerable, in the interests of
peace and universal freedom. Why, I could become eloquent about it
myself. They cheered your graduated income-tax; but what would they say
to this? Fancy what could be done if every man in this country were to
pledge himself to give a year's income! We don't ask him to go out and
have his legs or his arms amputated, or his head shot off; we only ask
for a year's income--to secure peace and prosperity for himself and his
children and his children's children. If there is any patriotism in the
country at all, who would say no? And then when there is an iron belt
round England, and when there is a floating mass of iron that could be
sent at any moment to form a wall round any of her dependencies, then, I
suppose, there might be a splendid assemblage in Westminster Hall; and
you and I--as the instigators of this great national movement--but my
imagination stops short: I don't know what they will make of us."
He himself had to stop short, for he was passing through a wide gateway
into the grounds surrounding the Bungalow, and the carriage-drive was
almost invisible under the overshadowing trees. Presently they had drawn
up in front of the long, low, rambling house; and here were lit windows,
and an open door, and servants. The two young men descended, and
entered, and went into the billiard-room, where cigars and soda-water
and similar things had been set out in readiness for them; and here Lord
Musselburgh, lying back in a cane-bottomed chair, proceeded to talk in a
less random fashion about this project of his, until he had almost
persuaded his companion that there was something reasonable and
practicable in it, if only it could be properly initiated.
"Anyhow," said he to his guest, as they were both retiring for the
night, "it is some big movement like that, Vin, my lad, that you want to
get identified with, if your aim is to make a position in English public
life. You have advantages. You can speak well. You will have plenty
of money. You are beginning with the proletariat--that is laying a
foundation of popularity. You have youth and heaps of strength on your
side. Then ---- is known to be your friend. What more?"
What more, indeed? The future seemed to smile on this young man; and if
his dreams, waking or sleeping, had been of great achievements and
public triumphs, who could have wondered? But curiously enough, just at
this time, the forecasts that came to him in moments of quiet were apt
to be sombre. He dreaded he hardly knew what. And these vague
forebodings of the day took a more definite shape in the far-reaching
visions of the night; for again and again there recurred to him that
phantasmal picture that had suddenly startled him when old George
Bethune was talking of the possibilities that might be lying in store
for his granddaughter. Vin Harris had never seen Balloray--did not know
where it was, in fact; but night after night he beheld with a strange
distinctness the big baronial building, and the black firs, and the gate
with the otter's head in stone. Had that been all! But as regularly
there came forth the tall young girl with the long-flowing hair; and he
was a poor wanderer, cowering away from recognition; and again she would
ride by, along the white road, until she was lost in the dappled sun and
shadow under the beeches. Then there was a song somewhere--perhaps it
was the trembling leaves that whispered the refrain--but it was all
about separation, and loneliness, and the sadness of remembrance and of
loss. _Chante, rossignol, chante, toi qui as le coeur gai_--this was
what he heard, or seemed to hear, away in that distant land, where he
had been left alone ... _J'ai perdu ma maitresse, sans l'avoir merite_
... It was strange that no birds sang in these woods, that no lark hung
quivering in those skies: all was silence--save for that continuous
murmur of farewell.... _Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne
t'oublierai_. And sometimes the murmur rose into a larger monotone; the
big grey building, and the black firs, and the highway, and the beeches,
disappeared; and behold in their stead was a great breadth of sea,
desolate, and rain-swept, and void of all sign of life. And was this
the barrier now between him and her? Not merely that she was the
heiress of Balloray, under the guardianship of her implacably proud old
grandfather, but that she was away in some far land, beyond those
never-ending myriad voices of the deep? ... _Pour un bouquet de roses,
que je lui refusai_ ... What wrong had he done her? What had he denied
her, in the time when they were as boy and girl together--when there was
no thought of her being the heiress of Balloray--when she used to walk
down through Hyde Park, in her simple dress, and sit on the bench, while
her grandfather read his newspaper? Then the grey dawn would come; and
he would awake to the knowledge that he had been tortured by mere
phantasies; and yet these left something in his mind, even during the
actual and practical daylight hours. He begun to wish that there was
some bond--of what nature he had not determined--for it was all a vague
longing and wistful desire--a bond that could so bind Maisrie and him
together that that great width of sea should not intervene. For it was a
sorrowful kind of thing--even when the white hours of the daylight told
him he had only seen it in a dream.
But apart from all these dim anxieties and this haunting unrest, came
the strictly matter-of-fact consideration that within an appreciable
time old George Bethune and his granddaughter would be returning to the
United States. That was no spectral ocean that would then lie between
Maisrie and him, but three thousand miles of the Atlantic; and who could
tell when the two wanderers might ever see England again? Nay, had not
he himself been implored to help in bringing about this separation?
Maisrie had begged of him to urge upon her grandfather the necessity of
getting the American book done first, before setting out on the poetic
pilgrimage through Scotland which was to yield fruit of another kind;
and, of course, if the old man consented, the first step to be taken was
a voyage to New York. Vincent had drawn many a fancy picture of a little
group of three, wandering away through the rich-hued autumn days, by
"lone St. Mary's silent lake," or by the banks of the silver Tweed; but
now all that was to be sacrificed; and he himself was to do what he
could towards sending the old man back to America, and Maisrie with him.
Then there would be no more of the long, quiet days of study, made happy
by anticipations of the evening; no more of the pleasant little dinners
in this or that restaurant; no more of those wonderful twilights in the
little parlour, with their enchantments of music and happy converse.
London, with Maisrie Bethune three thousand miles away: that would be a
strange thing--that he could even now hardly imagine to himself.
Nay, it was a thing that he looked forward to with such an unreasoning
dread and dismay that he began to construct all sorts of mad schemes for
defeating any such possibility; and at last he hit upon one that seemed
more or less practicable, while it would in the meantime virtually
absolve him from his promise to Maisrie. On the morning after the
meeting of the Mendover Liberal Association, the two young men were
returning to town by train; and Vincent said to his companion--
"You were telling me the other night of the Scotch newspaper-man whom
you got to know in New York: what did you say his name was?"
"Oh, you mean Hugh Anstruther? I hope I spoke no ill of him; for an
enthusiastic patriotism such as his is really something to admire in
these days. A capital fellow, Hugh; until I fell across him in New York
I did not know that I had one virtue transcending all the other virtues,
and that was simply my being a brother Scot."
"What did you say was the name of the paper that he edits?"
"The _Western Scotsman_."
"And it was he who gave Mr. Bethune a letter of introduction to you?"
But here Lord Musselburgh's manner instantly changed: he had been
answering these questions in a careless way, looking out of the carriage
window most of the time: now he turned to his companion, and regarded
him with some scrutiny.
"Why do you ask, Vin?" he said. "Do you want to find out something
further about the old man?"
Vincent's forehead flushed; and his eyes gloomed dark.
"I do not," he made answer, in distinct tones. "I thank goodness my
nature is not so suspicious. It seems to me extraordinary that two
human beings who have done nothing in the world to deserve it should be
regarded with a constant mistrust and doubt. Why? Do you suspect
everybody else in the same way?"
"Oh, don't say that I suspect them," Lord Musselburgh exclaimed at
once--for he was an exceedingly good-natured young man and had no wish
to offend. "I don't know them well enough--don't know anything at all
about them, in fact."
"You told me yourself that my aunt and you had been talking them over;
and I gathered enough from what you said," was the younger man's retort.
"Mrs. Ellison is naturally anxious about anything that concerns your
future, Vin--or seems likely to concern it," Musselburgh said. "And you
should be the last to object."
"But I do object," he said, stiffly. "I object altogether to her
canvassing the character of any friends of mine; and to her putting her
doubts and suspicions and hints about them into any third person's
imaginations. Oh, yes, I could make out quite clearly what she had been
saying. That night at Henley she came on a visit of inspection; it was
perfectly obvious. And what is more, she came with the hope of having
her suspicions confirmed; and I suppose she was horribly disappointed
that Maisrie Bethune did not drop her _h_'s, and that Mr. Bethune did
not beg the loan of a sovereign from her!"
"Why so passionate, Vin--why so indignant?" his companion put in,
glancing at him curiously.
"Because I say it is a shame--a monstrous shame," the young man said,
with flaming eyes, "that anyone should be insulted so! Is it their
fault that they have no friends, that they are unknown, that they are
poor? To be wealthy is to be virtuous, of course; if you have a long
balance at your bankers', you are above suspicion then; if you have
house-boats, and four-in-hands, and gold plate, you're all right. I
suppose," said he, altering his tone, "that it was on that very
evening--the evening of her inspection--that my aunt was kind enough to
talk over those two friends of mine with you, and tell you of all the
portentous things she suspected of them. But I presume she did not
repeat to you the very last words she used to me as she said
good-night?"
"About what?"
"About Miss Bethune," said Vincent--though it cost him an indescribable
effort to pronounce her name.
"Well, I believe she did," Lord Musselburgh admitted. "For she had just
come away from hearing Miss Bethune sing some Canadian song or another;
and she was very much struck; and she said she had confessed as much to
you. Oh, more than that--I don't precisely remember the words. But
really, Vin, when you come to think of it, you must acknowledge that
there is not much guidance as to character, or antecedents, or any thing
else, in the mere singing of a song. Mrs. Ellison, who is always posing
as a callous woman of the world, is really very sympathetic and
generous, and warm-hearted; and she was quite taken captive by the charm
and simplicity of this _Claire Fontaine_--is that the name of it?--but
at the same time I should not place too great a value--"
"I quite agree with you," the younger man said, interrupting without
apology. "I place no more value on my aunt's acquittal and commendation
than on her previous suspicions. And--and--if you don't mind,
Musselburgh, I would rather not have the question discussed further, nor
Miss Bethune's name mentioned in any way whatsoever."
"Oh, but remember I said nothing against her," Lord Musselburgh finally
added, in perfect good humour. "How could I? I hope your new friends
are all you think them; and as for the young lady, it is difficult to
believe any harm of so refined and sweet a face. But I hope you won't
concern yourself too much with them, Vin; you have other, and perhaps
more serious, interests in life; and it seems to me that everything
promises well for you. Why, at this moment, man, don't you know what
ought to be occupying all your attention?"
"What?" his companion asked--perhaps glad enough to get away from that
delicate topic.
"At least I know what I should be thinking of if I were in your shoes.
I should be wondering how much space the editor of the _Mendover Weekly
Guardian_ was going to give me on Saturday morning next."
It was another editor whom Vincent had in his mind at that moment. As
soon as he got back to London he wrote and despatched the following
letter, which was addressed to "Hugh Anstruther, Esq., _Western
Scotsman_ Office, New York, U.S.A."
"DEAR SIR,
"I hope you will be so kind as to consider the contents of this note as
strictly private and confidential. In a recent conversation with Lord
Musselburgh he informed me that it was you who had given a letter of
introduction to him to Mr. George Bethune; and from Mr. Bethune himself
I learn that he, Mr. Bethune, is about to bring out a volume on the
Scottish poets in America, as soon as he can conveniently get the
materials together. But to this end it would appear that he must
revisit the United States and Canada, to obtain particulars of the lives
of the various poets and verse-writers, and perhaps, also, examples of
their work. Now I wish to ask you, as a friend of Mr. Bethune's,
whether all this fatigue and travel might not be spared him, supposing
there were some person or persons in this country willing to defray the
cost of having those materials collected for him. To speak plainly, do
you, sir, know of any writer, connected with the press or otherwise, who
would undertake, for a sufficient consideration, to bring together
biographical memoranda of the authors in question, along with specimens
of their work, which could be sent over here to Mr. Bethune, for him to
put into shape and issue in book-form? Mr. Bethune, as you know, is an
old man, who must surely have had enough of travelling; moreover he has
in mind a leisurely ramble through Scotland which, while also leading to
literary results, would involve much less fatigue than a voyage to the
United States and Canada. I should be greatly obliged if you would tell
me whether you consider it practicable to collect those materials by
deputy; also, if you know of anyone capable of undertaking the task; and
what remuneration he would probably require. I beg you to forgive me, a
stranger, for thus appealing to you; but I know you will not grudge a
little trouble for the sake of a friend and a fellow Scotchman.
"Yours faithfully and obediently,
"VINCENT HARRIS."
After sending off that letter the young man's spirits lightened
considerably; he saw there was still a chance that Maisrie Bethune, her
grandfather, and himself might together set out on that coveted
perambulation of the legend-haunted districts of the North. And now he
and they had returned to their ordinary mode of life--which perhaps
pleased him better than the ostentatious festivities of Henley. Here
was no staring crowd, here were no suspicious friends, to break in upon
their close and constant companionship. He rejoiced in this isolation;
he wished for no fourth person at the quiet little dinners in the
restaurants; he had no desire that anyone should share the privacy of
the hushed small parlour where old George Bethune loftily discoursed of
poetry and philosophy, of ancient customs and modern manners, and where
Maisrie played pathetic Scotch airs on the violin, or sang in her low
clear voice of _le pont d'Avignon_ or perhaps of _Marianson, dame
jolie_. Moreover, he could not fail to perceive, and that with an
ever-increasing delight, that her old expression of sad and wistful
resignation was gradually being banished from her eyes; and not only
that, but a quite fresh colour was come into her cheeks, so that the
pale sun-tinge was less perceptible. Perhaps it was the companionship
of one nearer to her own age that had made a difference in her life; at
all events much of her former shyness was gone; she met his look
frankly, sometimes with a touch of gratitude, sometimes with simple
gladness, as if his mere presence was something that pleased her. When
she was watering the flowers in the little balcony, and caught sight of
him over the way, she nodded and smiled: he wondered whether it was that
faint-sun-tinge of the complexion that made her teeth seem so clearly
white. He began to forget those dreams of a wide intervening sea: this
present existence was so peaceable, and contented, and happy. And in
spite of Maisrie's injunction, those dreams of Scotland would recur: he
saw three newly-arrived strangers walking along Princes Street,
Edinburgh, in the silver glare of the morning; and the middle one of the
three--looking away up to the dusky shadows of the Castle rock--was no
other than Maisrie Bethune herself, with light and gladness shining in
her eyes.
And what had old George Bethune to say to this constant association and
this fast friendship between the two young people? Well, old George
Bethune had an admirable capacity for enjoying the present moment; and
so long as the dinner was fairly cooked and the claret to his taste, so
long as he had a small and faithful audience to listen to his rhapsodies
about Scottish song and Scottish heroism, and so long as Maisrie's
violin was in tune and her hand as sensitive as ever on the trembling
strings, he did not seem to pay much heed to the future. Perhaps it was
but natural that one who had wandered so far and wide should welcome a
little peace at last; and perhaps he intentionally blinded his eyes; at
all events the young people were allowed the utmost freedom of
companionship--it was as if these three formed but one family.
One night, as Vincent was about to leave, the old gentleman said to
him--
"About to-morrow evening: I presume we dine at Mentavisti's?"
"Oh, yes, certainly: we've tried a good many places, and we can't do
better than Mentavisti's," the young man answered--as if it mattered one
brass farthing to him what sort of dinner there was, or where he got it,
so long as Maisrie was at the same table!
"Ah, very well. For this is how I am situated," said Mr. Bethune,
gravely and grandly as befitted the seriousness of the theme. "I have
an appointment in Jermyn-street at six o'clock. I may be detained. Now
I can undertake to be at Mentavisti's Restaurant at seven--and when the
dinner-hour is once fixed, to play shilly-shally with it seems to me
abominable--but I am not so sure that I shall have time to return home
first. It will be better, therefore, and everyway safer, for Maisrie to
come down by herself in a cab--"
"But mayn't I call for her?" the young man suggested at once. "You know
she would much rather walk down than drive."
"Oh, very well, very well, if you don't mind," said Mr. Bethune, with a
lofty condescension--or indifference; while Maisrie, instead of being in
the least confused by this proposal, looked up with perfectly frank and
pleased eyes, apparently giving him a little message of thanks.
Nor was she in the least embarrassed on the following evening, when he
was ushered upstairs by the landlady's daughter. Maisrie was alone in
the little parlour, ready-dressed except as regarded her gloves, and she
was putting a final touch to the few flowers with which she had adorned
the table.
"Good evening," said she, quite placidly. "I will be with you in a
moment, as soon as I have dried my fingers."
She disappeared for a second, and returned. He hesitated before
accompanying her to the door.
"Won't you give me one of those flowers?" said he, rather breathlessly.
She seemed a little surprised.
"Now that I think of it," she said, "I have never seen you wear a flower
in your coat, as other gentlemen do. And I'm afraid there isn't one
here nearly fine enough--"
"If you were to give me a flower, I should not destroy it by wearing it
in my coat!" said he.
"Oh, merely a flower?" she asked. She went to the table. "Will this
one do?"
It was a white geranium that she handed him, simply enough: he took out
his pocket-book, and carefully placed it between the leaves. For the
briefest instant she regarded him as if in wonder that he should seek to
preserve so worthless a trifle; but she made no remark; and then
unconcernedly and cheerfully she led the way downstairs, and together
they passed out into the open street.
It was a marvellous and bewildering thing to think that he should be in
sole and complete charge of her, here in the midst of the great and busy
world of London. Did these hurrying people guess at his proud elation,
his new-found sense of guardianship and responsibility, his anxiety that
all things should be pleasant to her; or had they hardly time even to
notice this beautiful young creature, her step light as a fawn, fresh
colour in her fair cheeks, happiness radiant in her eyes? Perhaps they
heeded her and the tall and handsome youth by her side as little as she
heeded them; for indeed she seemed to be entirely engrossed in her
companion, talking, smiling, replying to him without a shadow of
self-consciousness or restraint. To him this new relationship was an
amazing kind of thing: she did not seem even to perceive it. To him it
was an epoch in his life, to be for ever remembered: to her--well,
nearly every evening she walked out in similar fashion with her
grandfather, and she did not appear to notice any difference: at least
she showed no sign.
But all at once Maisrie altered her manner; and that was when he in the
lightness of his heart informed her that there was still a chance of
their setting out on that long contemplated pilgrimage to the various
poetic shrines of Scotland.
"Mr. Harris," she said, proudly, "you made me a promise--"
"Yes, I know I did," he said; "but things have changed, and I'm going to
explain to you; and I think you'll find everything satisfactory. But
first of all, before I begin, I wish you wouldn't call me 'Mr. Harris.'
It sounds detestable. You who are so natural and straightforward in all
your ways--why don't you call me Vincent?"
"Don't you think that Mr. Vincent might be a fair compromise?" she asked
gently, and with her eyes lowered.
"I've called you Maisrie once or twice, by accident, and you didn't seem
to mind," he pointed out.
"I am sure I did not notice," she made answer at once. "How should I?
I am used to nothing else."
"Then I am to be allowed to call you Maisrie?" said he, clutching
eagerly at this new-found privilege. "And you will call me
Vincent--when you find Mr. Vincent become too formal: is it a compact?"
"Yes, it is--Mr. Vincent--if you like," said she, with a smile. "But
why do you make it so very serious?"
"Because," said he, gravely, "when any solemn bargain is completed,
people shake hands to make it secure."
"Not in the middle of Oxford-street?" she said.
"We will postpone the ceremony, if you prefer it; and now I will begin
and tell you how it is still possible we may have that long ramble
through Scotland together. You were anxious that before anything of the
kind were attempted, your grandfather should go back to the United
States to get materials for his book on the Scottish poets in America.
Well, now, it seems a pity to make such a long voyage if it can be done
without; and so I have taken the liberty of sending over to New York to
see if there isn't some handy young fellow there--some clerk or
reporter--who would undertake to collect all the necessary materials,
and send them over here for your grandfather to work up. Then we could
go to Scotland all the same--that is, if you will let me accompany you."
"Someone to collect the materials and send them over?" she repeated; and
then she said: "But would that be fair, Mr. Harris--Mr. Vincent--would
that be honest? Surely not! The book would not be my grandfather's
book at all; properly it would belong to the young man in New York."
"I beg your pardon," said he, with decision. "He only supplies the
bricks; he does not build the house. When a Chancellor of the Exchequer
produces his budget, of course he claims it as his own; but he has got
his facts from the heads of departments, and most likely his quotations
have been hunted out for him by his private secretary. It would be your
grandfather's book, solely and wholly."
"But the cost?" she said, after a second. "Supposing it were
practicable, the expense--"
"Oh, never mind about that," said he, lightly. "It will be next to
nothing--you needn't mind about that. Our deputy in New York will find
very little difficulty in getting the memoranda that he wants. There is
no sort of unnecessary modesty about minor poets; they will be glad
enough to give him specimens of their work, as soon as it is known what
he aims at. And in Scotland," he continued (grown suddenly bold),
"don't you see how it would work? Your grandfather must have an
occasional morning to give to his MSS; then you and I could leave him in
absolute peace and quiet; and we might go away for a stroll up to
Arthur's Seat, or round the ramparts of the Castle, and return to him by
lunch-time. Wouldn't that be an excellent arrangement?"
"Yes, that would be very nice indeed," said she, with a pleased
expression: she seemed to look forward to this close and constant
companionship as the most natural thing in the world.
And in fact so sanguine was the young man about the success of his new
scheme that, when the three of them were seated at a small table in
Mentavisti's Restaurant, he ventured to hint to old George Bethune his
fond hope that he might be allowed to join in that prolonged excursion
through Scotland; and the old man at once acquiesced.
"Yes, yes, why not?" he said; and then he went on, absently: "Yet my
nerve is not what it was. Sometimes I hesitate. It would grieve me more
than I can say if Maisrie here were to be disappointed. It is a long
time since I was in the country; perhaps I remember only the beautiful
things; and it is only of these she has heard me talk. When Sturrock
thinks of the old home, the dappled hills shine for him: you remember,
Maisrie?--
'Oh native land! Oh cherished home,
I've sailed across the sea,
And, though my wandering footsteps roam,
My heart still turns to thee!
My thoughts and dreams are sweet and bright
With dew which love distils;
While every gleam of golden light
Falls on the Scottish hills.'
He forgets the mists and the rain and the darkened days. And you,
Maisrie, you have been brought up under fair blue skies; you have never
learnt how sombre days and wild and driving clouds stir the imagination;
perhaps, if you stood in the very street where the 'bonnie Earl o' Moray
came sounding through the town,' you would see only the wet pavements
and the dull windows; and you might turn to me and say 'Is this what you
have talked about to me, grandfather?'" Then all of a sudden he seemed
to throw off this despondent fit as by a violent effort. "No, no!" said
he, in quite a different tone. "I will not believe but that there are
still yellow cornfields and silver lakes in bonnie Scotland, and the
lark singing as high in the heavens as when Tannahill, or Hogg, or
Motherwell paused to listen. I will show you the red rowans hanging
from the mountain crag, and the golden bracken down by the side of the
burn; and if we go still further away--to the lonely islands of the
western seas--then you must learn to forget the soft prettiness of the
sunnier south, and to let the mysterious charm of isolation hold you,
and the majesty of the darkened mountains, and the pathetic beauty of
the wandering veils of rain. I would sooner forget the mother that bore
me," he said, with a proud ring in his voice, "than believe that bonnie
Scotland had lost her glamour and wonder and fascination. And you would
be no holiday-tourist, Maisrie; you belong by blood to the 'land of wild
weather'; and imagination is part of the dowry of youth. No, no; I do
not fear. I--I made a mistake when I said I was afraid--I am not afraid
of you, Maisrie--not afraid of you--you have the fine sympathy, the
intelligence, the quick imagination that I can trust--I am not afraid of
you, Maisrie----"
"You need not be afraid, grandfather," the girl said, gently--for she
saw that he was somewhat disturbed. "Why should you be afraid,
grandfather? I shall be looking with your eyes."
But the curious thing was that despite all this talking about the
projected pilgrimage, it never seemed to come any nearer. No mention of
a date or even of any approximate time, was ever made. In like manner,
their return to America, though the old gentleman spoke of it now and
again as a fixed and definite and necessary thing, kept receding
backwards and backwards into a perfectly nebulous future. The present
moment was everything to old George Bethune, whether he was engaged with
a roe-deer cutlet at a restaurant in Regent-street, or lighting his pipe
and mixing his toddy on his return home, while he was descanting on
Barbour, and Drummond, and Sir David Lindesay, or Ramsay, and Ferguson,
and Burns. People were beginning to leave town; Vincent had received,
and declined, an invitation to join a big house-party in Argyllshire,
notwithstanding that it was to the same house that Mrs. Ellison and Lord
Musselburgh were going; but old George Bethune and his granddaughter
appeared to pay no heed to the changing times and seasons; their placid,
uneventful life seemed quite enough for them. And was it not enough for
this young man also, who had been admitted to be their constant
associate and friend? Why should he vex himself about literary schemes
that were none of his devising? Day by day he waved a good-morning to
Maisrie as she came to water her flowers, and an answer came from her
smiling eyes; sometimes he walked out into the parks in the afternoon,
with her grandfather and herself, and ever he rejoiced to see that the
fine peach-bloom on her cheek was surmounting the sun-tinge that had
been left there by travel; then in the evening they had all London to
choose from, as to where they should dine, with a quiet stroll homeward
thereafter, to music, and dominoes, and careless talk. What more? The
great outer world might go on its way, and welcome.
But Master Vin was about to be startled out of this dreamful ease. At
last there came an answer to the communication he had sent to the editor
of the Western Scotsman, with many apologies for unavoidable delay: Mr.
Anstruther, it appeared, had been in Canada, taking his annual holiday
among his kinsmen and countrymen there.
"I must say your letter has astonished me beyond measure," the writer
went on, "and I would fain believe that there is some great mistake
somewhere, which is capable of explanation. It is quite true that when
I gave my venerable friend Mr. Bethune a note of introduction to Lord
Musselburgh, I was aware that he had in view various literary
projects--in fact, his brain teems with them as if he were a young man
of five-and-twenty--the _perfervidum ingenium Scotorum_ in his case has
taken hold of his imagination; but I cannot understand how he could have
included in these the publication of a volume on the Scottish poets in
America, for the simple reason that he must have known that such a work
was not only in progress here, but that it was near completion. Why, I
myself showed Mr. Bethune proofs of the early sheets of this volume; for
the author is a particular friend of mine; and as it was being set up,
he used to send me the sheets as they were printed; and Mr. Bethune
being in the habit of calling at my office, I not only showed them to
him, but I fancy I let him take some of them away, that he might read
them at his leisure. How he should now propose to bring out a similar
work--and bespeak Lord Musselburgh's patronage for it, as I presume he
did--passes my comprehension, except on the ground that, being an old
man, he may have suffered from some temporary attack of mental
aberration and forgetfulness. I would rather believe this than that a
man whom I had taken for a thorough Scot, loyal and true to the
backbone, and proud of his country and of his own name and lineage,
should be endeavouring to supplant another worker who is already in
possession of the field. However, no actual harm can be done; for the
volume I speak of is on the eve of publication, and no doubt it will be
issued simultaneously in England. That is all I have to say, on a
subject which at present seems to me to have something of a painful
aspect--though I hope a satisfactory explanation may be forthcoming. In
conclusion may I beg of you to keep this letter private? The facts are
as I have stated; but I would rather Mr. Bethune did not know you had
them from me.
"Yours faithfully,
"HUGH ANSTRUTHER."
For some time Vincent sat with this letter in his hand, in a sort of
stupefaction. Curiously enough his first question to himself was--What
if Mrs. Ellison should get to know?--would she not triumphantly declare
that her worst suspicions had been confirmed? That was but a first
thought. There must be some explanation! He had not associated so
continually with George Bethune--he had not heard the old man's voice
thrill with proud emotion as he spoke of Scotland's hills and dales--he
had not seen his eyes fill with unbidden tears as he talked of his
granddaughter and the loneliness that might be in store for her--all for
nothing: not at once could he be convinced that this old man was a mere
charlatan, a thief, a begging-letter impostor. But he had been
startled; and when he reached his lodgings in that small thoroughfare,
he hardly dared look across the way: he knew not what to think.
END OF VOL. I.
LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.