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 déesse de la pauvreté– on £30,000 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 à rire,
Moi je l'ai-t-à pleurer.
Tu as le coeur à rire,
Moi j'e l'ai-t-à pleurer:
J'ai perdu ma maîtresse
Sans l'avoir mérité.
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 maîtresse
Sans l'avoir mérité.
Pour un bouquet de roses
Que je lui refusai.
Pour un bouquet de roses
Que je lui refusai.
Je voudrais que la rose
Fût encore au rosier.
Je voudrais que la rose
Fût encore au rosier,
Et moi et ma maîtresse
Dans les mem's amitiés.
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."
CHAPTER VIII.
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 £100,000? 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 maîtresse, sans l'avoir mérité … 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!"