"Really," said Musselburgh, who seemed more concerned than one might have expected from his half-cynical, half-careless temperament, "you ask me what I can't answer. And giving advice is a perilous business. All I can say is this, Vin – you seem to me to have got into a devilish awkward position, and I wish to goodness you were out of it."
"You think I regret anything that has happened?" Vincent said. "Not I! I would not go back – not for all the world. But as for this monetary difficulty, there it is; and it has to be faced. You see, I have been brought up to do nothing; and consequently I am in a measure dependent on my father. My own little income doesn't amount to much. Then again, if I were to marry Maisrie Bethune, I should have to leave her grandfather whatever small fund they have – I don't quite understand about it – anyhow, I couldn't take that away, for I imagine the old gentleman's earnings from newspaper work are not very substantial or regular. Now what do you think my father would do?"
"Wouldn't it be the simplest thing to go and ask him – to go and ask him now?" said Lord Musselburgh, who clearly did not wish to assume any responsibility in this serious matter.
"I can tell myself what he would say now," Vincent made answer; "the question is what he would say then."
"After the marriage?"
"Yes."
His companion across the little table hesitated for a second or two.
"You see, Vin, it isn't only in plays that fathers get angry – unfortunately, it sometimes happens in real life; and occasionally they get very angry indeed. According to your own showing, if your father refused to acknowledge this marriage – if he declared he would have nothing further to do with you – you would find yourself in rather desperate straits. Why should you, with your eyes open, walk into any such straits? You know what may happen. And then – with a young wife – with next to no resources – what would you do? Let us come to one definite and immediate thing, that I hope is not far off now; who would pay your election expenses at Mendover?"
"You yourself, Musselburgh, in the interests of the party!"
"I am glad you can make a jest of the situation, Vin – "
"No, really, I don't," Vincent said, more seriously. "But if I were to ask for my father's consent I should not get it – I know that quite well; and meanwhile this girl is supposed to be – oh, I need not name the things! You don't understand! She is my dearest in all the world; how can I stand by and allow these base accusations to be brought against her, without protest? And that would be my protest! That would show them what I thought of their mean suspicions and their preposterous charges."
"And thereafter?" said Lord Musselburgh.
"Thereafter? Well, as I say, my father might show some common sense and accept the thing, seeing it was done. I can tell you it isn't very pleasant to find myself so dependent on any other human being's reasonableness. I haven't been used to it. I dare say I have been spoiled – things made too easy for me. And now when I look round and wonder what I could turn to, I suppose I am simply in the position of a thousand others, who haven't had any special training. The few articles I have written have paid me well enough; but at present I don't see anything substantial and permanent in that direction. If you were in office I should ask you for a private secretaryship – "
"Why not ask someone who is in office?"
"I could not change my coat quite so quickly as that."
"Ah, you haven't had much experience in practical politics," Lord Musselburgh observed. "Well, now, Vin, look here: it seems to me you are on the brink of a tremendous catastrophe. You have asked for my advice; I will give it you frankly. For goodness sake, don't marry that girl! She may be everything you say; her grandfather may be everything you say; but don't do anything rash – don't do anything irrevocable. And consider this: if your relations should look on such a marriage with disfavour, it is in your own interest; it is no selfish wish on their part that you should marry well – marry in your own sphere – marry some one who would do you credit and be a fit companion for you. Mind you, I say nothing against Miss Bethune – nothing; I would not even if I could – I am not such a fool – for I should simply anger you without convincing you; but just consider for a moment what her experiences must have been. You know what Mrs. Ellison so frequently talks about – the sentimental fallacy of supposing that there is anything intrinsically noble or beautiful about poverty. I'm afraid she's right. I am afraid that poverty is altogether a debasing and brutalising thing, destroying self-respect, stunting the mind as well as the body."
"Yes," said Via Harris, rather scornfully, "I am quite aware that is the opinion of poverty held by the rich. They show it. They profess to believe what the Sermon on the Mount says about the Kingdom of Heaven being reserved for the poor; but catch any single man-jack of them putting aside his riches in order to secure that other inheritance! Not much! He prefers the Kingdom he has got – in consols."
"I was only wondering," Musselburgh said, with a little hesitation, "what influence those – those associations might have had on Miss Bethune herself. Not the best training for a young girl, perhaps?"
"If she had been brought up in a thieves' den," said Vincent, hotly, "she would have remained the pure and beautiful-souled creature that she is now. But I see there is no use talking. I have asked for your advice – for your opinion; and you have given it to me. I thank you, and there's an end."
He rose. But his friend also rose at the same moment.
"No, no, Vin, you're not going to quarrel with me. Come into the smoking-room, and we'll have a cigarette."
Nor did he wish to quarrel. They left the coffee-room together. But as luck would have it, in crossing the hall, he chanced to look towards the front door; and behold! all the outer world was shining in clear sunlight. It suddenly occurred to this young man that he had been sitting plunged in gloom, listening to coward counsels, regarding the future as something dark; while there – out there – the golden pavements, and the far-shimmering sea, and the wide white skies spoke only of hope, and seemed to say that Maisrie would soon be coming along, proud and tall and sweet. Why, it was to her that he ought to have appealed – not to any timorous, vacillating temporiser; it was her hands he ought to have taken and held, that he might read the future in her true eyes. And so, with some brief words of apology and thanks, he left Lord Musselburgh, and made his way into the outer air: this was to breathe more freely – this was to have the natural courage of youth mounting into the brain.
He walked away along the King's Road; and unconsciously to himself he held his head erect; as if in imitation of the stout-hearted old man who, despite his threescore years and ten, could still bear himself so bravely in face of all the world. Moreover, there were some lines in one of Maisrie's songs haunting him; but not in any sad way; nay, he found himself dwelling on the r's, as if to recall her soft pronunciation: —
Elle fit un' rencontre
De trente matelots,
De trente matelots
Sur le bord de l' île.
He had thrust aside those pusillanimous counsels: out here was the sunlight and the fresh-blowing wind; his soul felt freer; he would gain new courage from Maisrie's eyes. This was the kind of morning to bring a touch of crimson to the transparent pallor of her cheek; her teeth would glisten when she laughed; her graceful step would be lighter, more buoyant, than ever. Sursum corda! Nay, he could have found it in his heart to adopt the proud-sounding 'Stand Fast, Craig-Royston!' – if only to fling it back in the face of those who had brought those monstrous accusations.
His long and swinging stride soon carried him to the house in German Place, where he found George Bethune and his granddaughter just making ready to come out.
"This will not do, Maisrie," said old George Bethune, in his gay, emphatic fashion. "Too much idleness. Too much idleness. Fresh air is all very well; but we must not become its slaves. Remember Horace's warning. 'Tu, nisi ventis debes ludibrium, cave.'"
"Why, who could keep at work on a morning like this!" Vincent protested. "A west wind and brilliant sunlight are not so common in December. It makes it hard for me that I've to go away to-morrow."
"Are you going away to-morrow, Vincent?" said Maisrie, regarding him.
"Yes," said he. "I have to go down to Mendover on Thursday, to deliver a sort of address – a lecture – and I've only got the heads and divisions sketched out as yet. I wish I could escape it altogether; but I dare not play any tricks at present; I'm on my best behaviour. And this time at least I don't mean to drag Lord Musselburgh down with me; I'm going alone."
"And after that you return to London?" she asked.
He hardly knew what to say. A single word of encouragement from either of them, and he would at once and gladly have promised to come back to Brighton at the earliest possible moment; but he had not forgotten the implied understanding on which Maisrie and her grandfather had come away from their lodgings in Mayfair.
"Yes, to London," he replied vaguely. "But I have no definite plans at present. I dare say my aunt, Mrs. Ellison, will want me to come down here at Christmas."
When they were outside, and had gone on to the Parade, he besought his two companions, instead of taking their accustomed stroll into the town, to come away out into the country. The Downs, he said, would be looking very cheerful on so pleasant a morning. And of course it mattered little to them whither they went. They acceded at once; and by-and-bye they had left the wide thoroughfare and the houses behind them, and were walking along the soft turf, alone with the cliffs, and the sea, and the smooth, faintly-coloured uplands. The spring-time was not yet; but there were hues of green and red in those far-stretching breadths of soil; and the sky was of a cloudless blue.
And how strange it was that out here in the open, in the clear sunlight, those dark imaginings of the Private Inquiry Offices seemed to fall helplessly away from these two friends of his, and they themselves stood sharply defined just as he had always known them – the two solitary and striking figures that his fancy had invested with so pathetic an interest. Mentally he addressed Lord Musselburgh: 'Come and see them here – in the white light of day – and ask yourself whether you can believe in those midnight things you have heard of them. Look at this girl: you say yourself she is of extraordinary beauty; but is there not a still stranger fascination – is there not something that wins the heart to sympathy, and pity, and respect? Look at the pensive character of her mouth – look at the strange resignation in the beautiful eyes: perhaps her life has not been altogether too happy? – and is that to be brought as a charge against her? Then this old man – look at his proud bearing – look at the resolute set of his head – his straight glance – the courage of his firm mouth: has he the appearance, the demeanour, of a sharper, of a plausible and specious thief?' At this moment, at all events, it did not seem as if George Bethune's mind was set upon any swindling scheme. As he marched along, with head erect, and with eyes fixed absently on the far horizon, he was reciting to himself, in sonorous tones, the metrical version of the Hundredth Psalm —
'O enter then His gates with praise,
Approach with joy his courts unto;
Praise, laud, and bless His name always,
For it is seemly so to do.
For why? the Lord our God is good,
His mercy is for ever sure;
His truth at all times firmly stood,
And shall from age to age endure.'
No doubt it was some reminiscence of his youthful days – perhaps a Saturday night's task – that had lain dormant in his memory for sixty years or more.
The two young folk were mostly silent; they had plenty to think about – especially in view of Vincent's departure on the morrow. As for him, his one consuming desire was to make sure of Maisrie, now that she had disclosed her heart to him; he wished for some closer bond, some securer tie, so that, whatever might happen, Maisrie should not be taken away from him. For he seemed to know as if by some inscrutable instinct that a crisis in his life was approaching. And it was not enough that her eyes had spoken; that she had given him the sandal-wood necklace; that she had striven with an almost pathetic humility to show her affection and esteem. He wished for some clearer assurance with regard to the future. Those people in the background who had pieced together that malignant story: were they not capable of further and more deadly mischief? He had affected to scorn them as mere idle and intermeddling fools; but they might become still more aggressive – enemies striking at him and at his heart's desire from the dim phantom-world that enshrouded them. Anyhow, he meant to act now, on his own discretion. Lord Musselburgh's advice was no doubt worldly-wise enough and safe; but it was valueless in these present circumstances. Vincent felt that his life was his own, and that the moment had come when he must shape it towards a certain end – for good or ill, as the years might show.
After a pretty long walk along the cliffs, they returned to the town (on the Parade they met Sherry, who cheerfully informed them that he was on the point of starting for Monte Carlo, and hoped they would wish him good luck) and Vincent was easily persuaded by Maisrie to share their modest luncheon with them. Thereafter, when tobacco was produced, she begged to be excused for a little while, as she had some sewing to do in her own room; and thus it was that Vincent, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, found himself presented with an opportunity of approaching the old man on the all-important theme. But on this occasion he was much more precise and urgent in his prayer; for he had thought the whole matter clearly out, through many a sleepless hour; and his plans lay fixed and definite before him.
"You yourself," he went on, "have often hinted that your future movements were uncertain – you might have to go away – and – and then I don't say that either Maisrie or I would forget – only I am afraid of absence. There appear to be certain people who don't wish you well; there might be more stories; who can tell what might not happen? Indeed," said he, regarding the old man a little anxiously, "I have been thinking that – that if Maisrie would consent – our getting married at once would be the safest and surest tie of all. I have not spoken of it to her – I thought I would put it before you first – "
Here he paused, in something of anxious uncertainty.
"Married at once?" George Bethune repeated, slowly. There was no expression of surprise or resentment; the old man waited calmly and courteously for further elucidation of these plans; his eyes were observant and attentive – but quite inscrutable.
"And I want to show you how I am situated," Vincent went on (but not knowing what to make of that perfectly impassive demeanour). "I hope there is no need to conceal anything – indeed, I should think you were pretty well acquainted with my circumstances by this time. You know my father is a rich man. I am his only son; and I suppose I shall inherit his fortune. I have a little money of my own – not much of an annual income, to be sure; and I have some friends who would help me if the worst came to the worst, but I don't see how that necessity should arise. For myself, I have unfortunately been brought up to no profession; I was trained for public life – for polities – if for anything: it has never been considered necessary that I should learn some method of making my own living. That is a misfortune – I can see that now; but at least I have been trying to do something of late; and I have got some encouragement; if there were any need, I fancy I could earn a modest income by writing for the newspapers. You have seen one or two of those articles – and I have been offered introductions, as you know. Well, now – "
And again he paused. All this had been more or less of plain sailing: now he was approaching a much more delicate matter.
"Well – the fact is – there has been some envious tittle-tattle – wretched stuff – not worth mentioning – except for this: that if I went to my father and told him I wished to marry your granddaughter, he would be opposed to it. Yes, that is the truth. He does not know you; he has never even seen Maisrie; and of course he goes by what he hears – absolute folly as it is. However," Vincent continued, with some effort at cheerfulness (for he was glad to get away from that subject without being questioned), "the main point is this: if Maisrie and I were to get married, at once – as we have the right to do – we are surely of sufficient age – we know our own minds – I am quite certain my father would accept the whole affair good-naturedly and reasonably, and all would be well. Then see what it would be for Maisrie to have an assured position like that! She would be able to give up her share in the small income you once spoke of; that would be altogether yours; and surely you would be glad to know that her future was safe, whatever might happen. There would practically be no separation between you and her; it isn't as if she were moving into another sphere – among pretentious people; in fact, all the advantages are on her side; if we have plenty of money, she has birth and name and family; and then again, when Maisrie and I took up house for ourselves, there would be no more welcome guest than her grandfather. I think I can promise that."
There was silence for a moment – an ominous silence.
"Has Maisrie," said George Bethune, with slow and measured enunciation, and he regarded the young man from under his shaggy eyebrows, "has Maisrie intimated to you her wish for that – that arrangement?"
"No," said Vincent, eagerly. "How could she? I thought I was bound to speak to you first; for of course she will do nothing without your approval. But don't you think she has had enough of a wandering life – enough of precarious circumstances; and then if her heart says yes too – ?"
Well, if this venerable impostor had at last succeeded in entrapping a rich man's son – in getting him to propose marriage to his granddaughter – he did not seem to be in a hurry to secure his prey.
"Maisrie has said nothing?" George Bethune asked again, in that curiously impassive fashion.
"No – "
"Has expressed no wish?"
"No – I have not spoken to her about this immediate proposal."
"Then, until she has," said the old man, calmly, "I must refuse any consent of mine. I think you have described the whole situation very fairly – clearly and honestly, as I imagine; but I do not see any reason for departing from what I said to you before, that I would rather my granddaughter was not bound by any formal tie or pledge – much less by such a marriage as you propose. For one thing, she may have a future before her that she little dreams of. Of course, if her happiness were involved, if she came to me and said that only by such and such an arrangement could her peace of mind be secured, then I might alter my views: at present I see no cause to do so. You are both young: if you care for each other, you should be content to wait. Years are a valuable test. After all, according to your own showing, you are dependent on your father's caprice: some angry objection on his part – and where would the fortunes of the young married couple be?"
But Vincent was too impetuous to be easily discouraged.
"Even then I should not be quite helpless," he urged. "And is my willingness to work to count for nothing? However, that is not the immediate question. Supposing Maisrie's happiness wereconcerned? – supposing she were a little tired of the uncertainty of her life? – supposing she were willing to trust herself to me – what then? Why, if she came to you, and admitted as much, I know you would consent. Is not that so? – I know it is so! – you would consent – for Maisrie's sake!"
The old man's eyes were turned away now – fixed on the slumbering coals in the grate.
"I had dreamed of other things," he said, almost to himself.
"Yes; but if Maisrie came to you?" Vincent said, with the same eagerness – almost, indeed, with some trace of joyous assurance – "She would not have long to plead, I think! And then again, at any moment, my circumstances might be so altered as to give you all the guarantee for the future which you seem to think necessary. A word from my father to-morrow might settle that: if I went to him, and could get him to understand what Maisrie really was. Or I might obtain some definite post: I have some good friends: I am going up to London to-morrow, and could begin to make inquiries. In the meantime," he added hastily – for he heard someone on the stair – "do you object to my telling Maisrie what you have said?"
"What I have said? I dare say she knows," old George Bethune made answer, in an absent sort of way – and at this moment Maisrie entered the room, bringing her sewing with her, and further speech was impossible.
It was on this same afternoon that Lord Musselburgh carried along to his fair fiancée a report of the interview he had had with Vincent in the morning. The young widow was dreadfully alarmed.
"Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed, and she began to pace up and down the room in her agitation. "Marry the girl at once? Why, it is destruction! Fancy what all our plans and interests, all our lives, would be – with Vin cut out! It cannot be – it shall not be – it must be prevented at any cost! He would be dead – worse than dead – we should be pitying him always, and knowing where he was, and not able to go near him. You don't mean to say he is definitely resolved?" she demanded in her desperation.
"Indeed, there is no doubt about it – he spoke as plainly as you could wish," said Lord Musselburgh. "And he has argued the thing out; his head is clear enough, for all this wild infatuation of his. He sees that his father will not consent – beforehand; so he means to marry, and then hope for reconciliation when the whole affair is past praying for. That's the programme, you may depend on it."
"Harland must know at once," said Mrs. Ellison, going instantly to her writing-desk. "This must and shall be prevented. I am not going to have my boy's life ruined by a pack of begging-letter swindlers and cheats!"