For of course he was aware that he had an audience of two; and very well he talked, in his half-excited mood. There was no more timidity; there was a gay self-assertion – a desire to excel and shine; sometimes he laughed, and his laugh was musical. He had skillfully drawn from the old man a confession of political faith (of course he was a Conservative, as became one of the Bethunes of Balloray), so all chance of collision was avoided on that point; and indeed Vin Harris was ready to have sworn that black was white, so eager was he to make an impression, on this his first, and wondrous visit.
The time went by all too quickly; but the young man had become intoxicated by this unexpected joy; instead of getting up and apologising, and taking his hat, and going away, he boldly threw out the suggestion that these three – these solitary units in the great sea of London life, as George Bethune had called them – should determine to spend the evening together. He did not seem to be aware of the audacity of his proposal; he was carrying everything before him in a high-handed fashion; the touch of colour that rose to Maisrie Bethune's cheek – what of that? Oh, yes, maiden shyness, no doubt; but of little consequence; here were the golden moments – here the golden opportunity: why should they separate?
"You see," said he, "I don't care to inconvenience our people at home by my uncertain hours; and so of late I have taken to dining at a restaurant, just when I felt inclined; and I have got to know something of the different places. I think we might go out for a little stroll, as the evening will be cooler now, and wander on until we see a quiet and snug-looking corner. There is something in freedom of choice; and you may catch sight of a bay window, or of a recess with flowers in it, and a bit of a fountain that tempts the eye – "
"What do you say, Maisrie?" the old gentleman inquired.
"You go, grandfather," the girl replied at once, but without raising her head. "It will be a pleasant change for you. I would rather remain at home."
"Oh, but I should never have proposed such a thing," Vincent interposed, hastily, "if it meant that Miss Bethune was to be left here alone, certainly not! I – I decline to be a party to any such arrangement – oh, I could not think of such a thing!"
"You'd better come, Maisrie," said the old man, with some air of authority.
"Very well, grandfather," she said, obediently; and straightway she rose and left the room.
Master Vin's heart beat high; here were wonders upon wonders; in a short space he would be walking along the pavements of London town with Maisrie Bethune by his side (or practically so) and thereafter he and she would be seated at the same table, almost within touch of each other. Would the wide world get to hear of this marvellous thing? Would the men and women whom they encountered in Oxford-street observe and conjecture, and perhaps pass on with some faint vision of that beautiful and pensive face imprinted on their memory? By what magic freak of fortune had he came to be so favoured? Those people in Oxford-street were all strangers to her, and would remain strangers; he alone would be admitted to the sacred privacies of her companionship and society; but a few minutes more, and he would be instructing himself in her little ways and preferences, each one a happy secret to be kept wholly to himself. But the entranced young man was hardly prepared for what now followed. When the door opened again, and Maisrie Bethune reappeared (her eyes were averted from him, and there was a self-conscious tinge of colour in her pale and thoughtful face) she seemed to have undergone some sudden transformation. The youthful look lent to her appearance by the long and loose-flowing locks and by her plain dress of blue and white linen had gone; and here was a young lady apparently about twenty, tall, self-possessed (notwithstanding that tinge of colour) and grave in manner. A miracle had been wrought! – and yet she had only plaited up her hair, tying it with a bit of blue ribbon, and donned a simple costume of cream-coloured cashmere. She was putting on her gloves now; and he thought that long hands were by far the most beautiful of any.
Well, it was all a bewilderment – this walking along the London streets under the pale saffron of the evening sky, listening to the old man's emphatic monologue, but far more intent on warning Miss Bethune of the approach of a cab, when she was about to cross this or the other thoroughfare. Once he touched her arm in his anxiety to check her; he had not intended to do so; and it was he who was thunderstruck and ashamed; she did not appear to have noticed. And then again he was afraid lest she should be tired before they reached the particular restaurant he had in mind; to which old George Bethune replied that his granddaughter did not know what fatigue was; he and she could walk for a whole day, strolling through the parks or along the streets, with absolute ease and comfort, as became vagrants and world-wanderers.
"Though I am not so sure it is altogether good for Maisrie here," he continued. "It may be that that has kept her thin – she is too thin for a young lass. She is all spirit; she has no more body than a daddy long-legs."
Vincent instantly offered to call a cab – which they refused; but he was not beset by wild alarms; he knew that, however slight she might be, the natural grace and elegance of her carriage could only be the outcome of a symmetrical form in conjunction with elastic health. That conclusion he had arrived at in the Park; but now he noticed another thing – that, as she walked, the slightly-swaying arms had the elbow well in to the waist, and the wrist turned out, and that quite obviously without set purpose. It was a pretty movement; but it was more than merely graceful; it was one mark of a well-balanced figure, even as was her confident step. For her step could be confident enough, and the set of her head proud enough – if she mostly kept her eyes to the ground.
It was an Italian restaurant they entered at last; and Vincent was so fortunate as to find a recess-compartment, which he knew of, vacant. They were practically dining in a private room; but all the same they could when they chose glance out upon the large saloon, with its little white tables, and its various groups of olive-complexioned or English-complexioned guests. The young man assumed the management of this small festivity from the outset. He ordered a flask of Chianti for Mr. Bethune and himself; and then he would have got something lighter – some sparkling beverage – for the young lady, but that she told him that she drank no wine. Why, he said to himself, he might have known! —
'for in her veins
Ran blood as pure and cool as summer rains.'
And as this modest little repast went on, perhaps Vincent was comparing it with the banquet of the night before. Ah, there had been no enhancement, no enthralling ecstacy and delight, about that entertainment, sumptuous as it was. Here was some food – he hardly looked at it – he did not know what it was, and did not care – which would have to be paid for at the rate of 3/6 per head; but as compared with this frugal festivity, the splendours of the preceding evening – the masses of roses, the pyramids of ice, the silver candelabra, and all the rest – shrank into insignificance. 'Here there was a nameless glamour filling all the air; a palpitation of hope, and a curious dumb sense of gratitude as if for favours unexpected and undeserved; all the coming years of his life seemed to be shining there in her eyes – so that he hardly dared to look, so full of fear, and yet of a breathless joy and wonder, was the revelation, when she happened to glance towards him. And on her side, she appeared to be a little less reserved and distant than she had hitherto been. She seemed grateful for the trouble the young man had taken on behalf of her grandfather and herself; sometimes, when in his eager talk he said something that interested her, she raised her head, with a smile in her eyes. A wonderful banquet, truly, though not so imposing as that of the previous night. He learned that she was immensely fond of propelling a gondola (the forward oar only; she wanted another oar astern to steer) and here was another amazingly interesting fact, to be for ever and ever remembered.
As for the old man (for the world was not created solely for young folk) he was at once gay and oracular.
"These little breaks and diversions," he was saying, as he stirred his coffee – the time of cigarettes having now arrived, "are useful things – useful things; an affair of the moment, truly; but the wise man makes of the passing moment as much as he possibly can. Why, the real curse of modern life – the ineradicable disease – is the habit of continually looking before and after. We none of us think enough of the present moment; we are anxiously speculating as to the future; or, what is worse still, fretting over the memory of past injuries and past mistakes. That is where the uneducated, the unimaginative, have their consolation; we are not half so happy and content as the stolid ploughman or the phlegmatic bricklayer who thinks only of the present heat, or the present cold, or, at furthest, of the next pint of beer, and of the prospect of getting to bed, with the knowledge that he will sleep sound. The actual and immediate things before them are the things that interest them; not the unknown future, or the useless past. But I have schooled myself, thanks in a great measure to Horace – and my granddaughter knows her Horace too – and I think I keep as stout a heart as most. Dum loquimur, of course, fugerit invida ætas; but even while I know that the night presses down upon me, and the shadowy fathers, and the empty halls of Pluto, I put the knowledge away from me; I am content with the present moment; I am more than content, for example, with this very excellent cigarette – "
"Would you allow me to send you a few boxes?" interposed Vincent, at once and eagerly. "I think the cork mouthpiece is a great improvement. I know where they are to be got. May I send you some?"
"I thank you; but they are not much in my way," the old man said, with a certain loftiness of demeanour. "As I was remarking, the time has gone by for unavailing regrets over what has been done to me and mine. I think I may say that throughout we have shown a bold front. 'Stand fast, Craig-Royston!' has not been our watchword for nothing. And as for the future – why, 'to the gods belongs to-morrow!' The anticipation of evil will not remove it: the recalling of bygone injuries provides no compensation. 'The present moment is our ain; the neist we never saw;' and so, as we have had a pleasant evening so far, I think we may as well get away home again; and, Maisrie, you will get out your violin, and we'll have some Scotch songs, and my young friend and I will taste just a drop of Scotch whisky; and if there's any better combination than that in the world, I do not know of it."
But here a very awkward incident occurred. Old George Bethune, in his grand manner, called to the waiter to bring the bill. Now Vincent had intended to steal out and arrange this little matter without allowing the young lady to have any cognisance of it; but of course the waiter, when summoned, came up to the table, and proceeded to pencil out the account.
"I think, sir," put in the young man, modestly, "you'd better let me have that. It was my proposal, you know."
"Oh, very well," said Mr. Bethune, carelessly; and as carelessly he handed over the slip of paper he had just taken from the waiter.
But the quick look of pain and humiliation that swept over the girl's face stabbed the young man to the heart.
"Grandfather!" she said, with a burning flush.
"Oh, well," her grandfather said, petulantly; "I have just discovered that I have left my purse behind. Some other time – it is all the same – it is immaterial – the next time will be my turn – "
"Here is my purse, grandfather," she said; and she turned with an air of quiet firmness to her younger neighbour, and merely said "If you please!" He was too bewildered to refuse: there was something in her manner that compelled him to accede without a word of protest. She pushed her purse and the slip of paper across the table to her grandfather; and then she rose, and turned to seek her sun-shade, which Vincent forthwith brought to her. The curious mingling of simplicity and dignity with which she had interposed impressed him strangely: perhaps she was not so much of a school-girl as she had seemed when he first saw her walking through Hyde Park? Then the three of them left the restaurant together; and quietly made their way home through the gathering twilight.
But he would not go in when they arrived at their door, though the old man again put Scotch music and Scotch whisky before him as an inducement. Perhaps he dreaded to outstay his welcome. He bade them both good-night; and Maisrie Bethune, as she parted from him, was so kind as to say "Thank you so much!" with the briefest, timid glance of her all-too-eloquent eyes.
He went across to his own rooms – merely for form's sake. He did not light the gas when he got upstairs. He carefully shut the window; then he sate down to the piano; and very gently and quietly he played a graceful little air. It was "Dormez, dormez, ma belle!"; and it was a kind of farewell message for the night; but he had made sure that she should not hear.
CHAPTER V.
QU' MON COEUR EN MARIAGE
When Maisrie Bethune and her grandfather returned home after the little dinner at the restaurant she went upstairs to her own room, while he proceeded to summon the landlady's husband from the lower deeps. Forthwith the pallid-faced and nervous-eyed Hobson appeared; and he seemed to be more obsequious than ever towards the great man who had deigned to patronise his humble literary efforts, and had even got some of his verses printed in the Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle.
"Very hot evening, sir – yes, sir – would you like me to go and fetch you a little hice, sir?" said he, in his eager desire to please. "No trouble, sir, if agreeable to you – remarkably 'ot for June, sir – theatres doing nothing, sir – only the ballet: you see, sir, the young ladies have so little on that they look cool and airy-like, and I suppose, sir, that's why the ballet is so popular – yes, sir, my brother-in-law, the theatrical agent – "
"Look here, Hobson," Mr. Bethune observed, as if he had not heard a word, "you have no doubt noticed a young gentleman who occupies rooms over the way?"
"Oh, yes, sir – a very handsome young man," he answered – or rather, what he actually did say was "a werry ensome young men."
"I have just made his acquaintance." Mr. Bethune continued, in his lofty fashion, "and naturally I should like to know something more of him, though I could not be guilty of the rudeness of asking him questions about himself. For example, I should be glad to know where he lives – he only uses those rooms during the day, you understand; and I presume that would be a simple thing for you to ascertain – discreetly, I mean, discreetly – without any impertinent intrusion."
"Oh, yes, sir," said Hobson, his dull face lighting up with pleasure at the notion of being able to do his patron a service. "Yes, yes, sir; I can find out; what more simple?"
At this very moment there was the sound of a door being shut on the opposite side of the street. Hobson stepped to the open window; and instantly withdrew his head again.
"He has just gone out, sir – I will follow him."
"But discreetly, Hobson, discreetly," was the old gentleman's final injunction, as his humble and zealous emissary departed.
When Maisrie Bethune came downstairs again, she was in her ordinary dress of striped linen; and she seemed pleased with the evening's adventure; and was more talkative than usual.
"It will be very pleasant for you, grandfather," said she, "to have so intelligent and interesting a neighbour – don't you think so? For though he is young, he seems to know everything, and to have been everywhere; and I am sure, you and he, grandfather, found plenty of things to talk about. I have just been wondering whether it is possible he could have come to Toronto while we were living there. Wouldn't that have been strange? Perhaps we have passed him while we were walking along King-street; perhaps he may have come round the corner by the Bank of Montreal when we were going into Yonge-street – and not a yard between us! But no," she continued, musingly, "I hardly imagine it could have been. I think I should have noticed him, and remembered. Don't you think you would have noticed him, grandfather? He is not like any one else – I mean he is not the kind of person you would pass in the street without remarking – I don't think you would forget. Oh, yes, I am very glad for your sake, grandfather, that you have made his acquaintance; and I hope you will become good friends – although he is young. You want some one to talk to – and not that dreadful Hobson – I can't bear your talking to Hobson, grandfather – "
"I am no respecter of persons, Maisrie," said the old man, pompously, "so long as people know their place, and keep it."
"But that is just the worst of Hobson, grandfather!" she exclaimed. "His fawning and cringing is so despicable. He is not a man at all. And you should tell him the truth about those verses of his, grandfather: I can't imagine how you see anything in them – "
"There have been worse – there have been worse," said Mr. Bethune, with a magnanimous toleration. "And on the two occasions on which I got the Chronicle to let him see himself in print, the gratitude of the poor creature was quite pathetic. A little act of kindness is never thrown away, Maisrie, my dear. So now you'll just get out your violin, and for a little while we will cross the Border, and forget that we are here in the heart of this stifling London."
But Maisrie begged to be excused. She said she was rather tired, and was going back to her own room very soon. And indeed, when she had brought her grandfather his accustomed hot water, and sugar, and spirits, and generally made everything comfortable for him, she kissed him and bade him good night and went away upstairs.
It was not to go to bed, however. Having lit the gas, she proceeded to hunt among her books until she discovered a little album entitled "Views of Toronto;" and having spread that open on her dressing-table, she drew in a chair, and, with her elbows resting on the table, and her head between her hands, began to pore over those pictures of the long thoroughfares and the pavements and the public buildings. She seemed to find the rather ill-executed lithographs interesting – so interesting that we may leave her there with her eyes fixed intently on the brown pages.
Meanwhile Hobson had fulfilled his mission, and returned with the address of the house into which he had seen the young man disappear; and not only that, but he volunteered to gain any further information that Mr. Bethune might wish; it would be easy for him, he said, to make the acquaintance of one of the menservants in Grosvenor Place.
"Not at all – not at all!" the old man made response, with an affectation of indifference. "I have no wish to pry. Indeed, I cannot say that I have any particular curiosity in the matter. And you need not mention to any one that I know even as much as that. I cannot recall now what made me ask – a momentary impulse – nothing of any consequence – for in truth it matters little to me where the young man lives. Well, good-night, Hobson – and thank you."
"Good-night, sir," said Hobson, with his eyes dwelling lingeringly on the hot water and whisky. But he received no invitation (for old George Bethune was more amenable to his granddaughter's remonstrances than he himself was aware) and so, with another effusive "Good-night!" the landlady's husband humbly withdrew.
Sometimes, after Maisrie had gone to bed, or, at least, retired to her own room, her grandfather would wander away out in the streets by himself. The night air was cool; there were fewer passers-by to impede his aimless peregrinations; sheltered by the dark and the dull lamp-light, he could lift up his voice and sing "London's bonnie woods and braes," or "Cam' ye by Athol," or "There's nae Covenant now, lassie," when he happened to be in the mood, as he generally was. And on this particular evening he sallied forth; but the straight-forward direction of his steps showed that he had an objective point. He went along Oxford-street, and down Regent-street; and eventually, by way of Garrick-street, Covent Garden, and the Strand, reached Fleet-street, where he stopped at a building almost wholly consisting of offices of country newspapers. At this time of the night the place was at its busiest – a hive of industry: messengers coming and going, the operators assiduous at the special wires, the London correspondents constructing their letters out of the latest news, with a little imagination thrown in here and there to lend colour. Old George Bethune ascended to the first floor, passed into the premises owned by the Edinburgh Chronicle (Daily and Weekly) and was admitted to an inner room, where he found Mr. Courtnay Fox. Now Mr. Fox – a heavy and somewhat ungainly person, who rolled from side to side as he crossed the room, and whose small blue eyes twinkled behind his spectacles with a sort of easy and ready sarcasm – did not like being interrupted; but, on the other hand, Mr. Bethune was a friend, or at least a favoured acquaintance, of the chief proprietor of the Chronicle, and the London correspondent was therefore bound to be civil; so he asked the old man what he could do for him.
"If you have anything for the Weekly," he observed, "you'd much better send it on direct to Edinburgh, instead of sending it down here. That will save one postage – a point which I should have thought would occur to a Scotch mind," he added, with a bit of a half-concealed grin.
"You are always girding at Scotland, Mr. Fox," George Bethune said, good-naturedly.
"I? Oh, not I. I'm sure no one admires the virtues of economy and frugality more than I do. That is why I am pretty certain Shakespeare must have lived in Scotland – I don't mean 'The rain it raineth every day' – but 'a tanner will last you nine year.' Now how could he have learned that money could be made to go so far but by observation of the Scotch?"
"I know this," said the old man, with some dignity, "that few have seen so much of the world as I have, in various countries and climes; and the most generous and hospitable people – generous and hospitable to the point of extravagance – I have ever met with have invariably been the Scotch. It may suit you to revile the country from which you get your living – "
"Oh, I meant nothing so serious, I assure you," the ponderous journalist said at once. "Come, tell me what I can do for you."
"I should like to look at the Post Office Directory first, if I may."
Courtnay Fox waddled across the room and returned with the heavy volume: Mr. Bethune turned to the street and number that had been furnished him by his spy, and discovered that the name given was Harland Harris – no doubt Vincent Harris's father.
"Ah, yes," the old man said. "Now I can tell you what I want; and I am certain I have come to the right place for information. For while you revile my countrymen, Mr. Fox, because you don't know them, I wonder whom amongst your own countrymen – who have any position at all – you don't know?"
This was an adroit piece of flattery: for it was a foible of the fat correspondent to affect that he knew everybody – and knew no good of anybody.
"Of course the man I mean may be a nobody – or a nonentity – and a very respectable person as well," continued Mr. Bethune, "but his son, whose acquaintance I have made, talks as if his name were familiar to the public. Mr. Harland Harris – "
"Harland Harris!" the journalist exclaimed – but with much complacency, for he might have been found wanting. "Don't you know Harland Harris? – or, at least, haven't you heard of him?"
"I have lived much out of England," the old man said.
"And you want me to tell you who and what Harland Harris is? Is that it? Well, then, I will. To begin with," proceeded Mr. Courtnay Fox, with a baleful light in his small twinkling eyes, "he is a solemn and portentous ass – a pedantic prig – a combination of a drill sergeant and a schoolmaster, with the self-sufficiency of – of – I don't know what. He is an enormously wealthy man – who preaches the Divine Beauty of Poverty; a socialist – who would abolish the income-tax, and have all taxation indirect; a Communist – who can eat only off gold plate. This sham Jean Jacques would not only abandon his children, he would let the whole human race go to the mischief, as long as you left him on a pinnacle, with a M.S. lecture in his hand. Harland Harris! Do you want to know any more? Well, I will tell you this, that long ago his vanity would have inflated and burst him only that he was defeated in his candidature for the Lord Rectorship of Edinburgh University – and that let out a little of the gas. But even now his inconsistencies are colossal – almost a madness; I think he must be drunk with a sense of his own superiority, as George Sand says – "
"He does not seem to have made a very favourable impression on you," said Mr. Bethune slowly and thoughtfully.
"Did he ever on any human being?" the other retorted. "Not any one that ever I heard of!"
"And his son – do you know anything of him?"
Mr. Courtnay Fox was not likely to admit that he knew nothing.
"Oh," said he, scornfully, "the enfant gâté of the political world. – has made a pet of him; and so people imagine there is something in him. Of course he'll talk for a few years about universal brotherhood and the advancement of humanity and that kind of stuff; and then, when he succeeds to his father's money, he'll make a bid for a peerage, or else marry a widowed and withered Countess, and subside into a solid, substantial, beef-headed bulwark of the Tory party. That's the way they all go!"
"Well, I'm very much obliged," said old George Bethune, rising. "And sorry to have interrupted you. Good-night – and thanks."
"Good-night," said the journalist, curtly, as he turned to his desk again, and its litter of reports and telegrams.
Next morning, when they were about to set forth on their accustomed stroll, Maisrie paused at the door for a second, and said – with a very curious hesitation, and a face grown rose-red —
"Grandfather, what shall I tell Mrs. Hobson you would like for dinner?"
He did not notice her confusion; he answered, carelessly —
"Oh, never mind just now. Later on we will see. Food is not of much importance in this hot weather."
Thereafter she was silent for some considerable time. It was not until they had got down to the Serpentine, and when he was about to take out his newspaper, that she ventured again to address him.
"Grandfather," she said, timidly, "do you think – Mr. Harris – expects us – expects that we should dine together again this evening? He did ask if we had no engagement – and – and perhaps he may imagine there is some understanding – "
"Well, Maisrie," the old man made answer, with a playful irony, "if your way of it is to be carried out, the arrangement wouldn't last very long. I don't suppose our little income could comfortably support three for any great space of time."
"Oh, but, grandfather," she said, persuasively, "you know it was but right you should pay; we were two, and he only one; of course, if we were to dine together again – and he wished it to be his turn – you might divide – "
"I think, Maisrie," said he, somewhat sententiously, "it would be better for you to leave our small financial affairs in my hands. These things are well understood as between men; it is easy to make an arrangement. Especially easy if you are the only son of a very wealthy man – what are a few shillings or a few sovereigns one way or the other to him? And I wish you to remember that a young lady's purse is not usually produced at a restaurant."
"I am sorry if I did anything wrong, grandfather," she said humbly; "but – but I thought – before a stranger – or almost a stranger – it was a pity you had forgotten – "
He had opened the newspaper, so that the subject was dismissed; and Maisrie was left to her absent dreams and reveries.
All that day there came no message from the other side of the street; and likewise the afternoon wore away in silence; while Maisrie, whatever she hoped or feared, had not again asked her grandfather what arrangements he proposed for the evening. About six o'clock, however, there came a rap at the door below. Maisrie was in her room upstairs. Her grandfather was seated at the little table in the parlour, drawing out in water-colour a coat of arms; and he had already finished the Bethune part of it – that is to say, the first and fourth quarters of the shield were argent, with a fesse between three mascles, or; and likewise he had surmounted it with the crest – an otter's head, erased, ppr.; but as the second and third quarters were still vacant it was impossible to say with which other family he proposed to claim alliance. At this moment Vincent made his appearance at the door, looking very cheerful and good-humoured, and modest withal; and he came into the room as if he already felt quite at home there.
"I have taken a little liberty," said he, "with regard to this evening. I understood that you and Miss Bethune had no engagement, and might think of going to that same restaurant again; but then I thought you might prefer a change; and so I have ordered dinner at the – " And he named a well-known hotel in the neighbourhood of Burlington Gardens.
"Oh, you have ordered dinner?"
"Yes, sir," said Vincent, respectfully; and then seeing there was no objection, he went on with a gayer air: "It does seem absurd that when people want to meet each other, and to talk, and get thoroughly acquainted, they must needs sit down and eat together; but there is some sense in it too; for of course we have all of us our different occupations during the day; and dinner-time is the time at which we all find ourselves free, so that the meeting is easily arranged. I hope Miss Bethune wasn't fatigued after her long walk of last evening – "