But of a sudden his heart stood still; and his startled vision beheld what seemed incredible, and yet was there, and actual, and beyond any doubt. Ere he was aware, a vehicle had driven by – a tall dog-cart, with two figures in front and one behind; but another glance revealed to him that the one behind was old George Bethune: who could mistake at any distance the powerful and striking head, the shaggy eyebrows, the flowing white hair? And the two in front? – one was a young man, to Vincent unknown: the other – a terrible misgiving told him that was Maisrie, though they were now some way off. What did it all mean? He had never heard of their knowing anyone in Brighton. They had come down for seclusion, for work; yet here they were in the midst of the fashionable crowd; and a young man – a stranger – was making ostentatious display of his acquaintance with them. A thousand wild surmises, the offspring of a very madness of jealousy, sprang into his brain. Why had the old man so clearly intimated to him that he was not wanted – that they wished to go to Brighton by themselves? And who was this person who was making such open parade of his intimacy with them? Alas! there was no answer to these burning and bewildering questions; and he stood there breathless, alarmed, yet not daring to ask the cause of his alarm.
Lord Musselburgh came along the hall.
"Sorry to have kept you waiting, Vin – "
"Oh, don't mind that," the young man said, striving to conceal his agitation. "The fact is – I – I don't think I will go driving this afternoon: will you make my excuses to my aunt – ?"
"What's the matter?" said Musselburgh, regarding him. "You look as if you had seen a ghost or a creditor: what is it, man?"
"Never mind – never mind – it is nothing," Vin said, hastily. "I will see you later on. Will you make my excuses – thanks!"
The hall porter swung the door open; and before his astonished companion could remonstrate, he had passed out and down the stone steps. He crossed over, to lose himself in the throng on the opposite promenade. The dog-cart would be coming by again: he would see who this new friend was. Could he not hide somewhere? – he felt like a spy, like a traitor, with all those dire imaginings surging through his brain. And sudden wrath, too: he would demand to know by what right any stranger was allowed to make Maisrie Bethune so conspicuous. Why, it was too public! – it was a boast; and hardly decent, either; ought not respect for age and white hair to have placed the old man in front, instead of inviting all the world to witness the flattering of a young girl? And as for Maisrie – well, even in his wildest and blackest surmises he could think no serious harm of Maisrie; but she was too yielding; she was too generous with her favours; she ought to make distinctions; she ought not to permit this great, idle crowd to draw false conclusions. It was ill done of her – behind his back: had she so soon forgotten that he had pledged his life to her not so very many hours ago?
By-and-bye he knew rather than saw that they were returning. He was on the seaward side of the road; there were a good many people passing to and fro; moreover, he was partly concealed by an open fly that stood close to the railings. The tall dog-cart came swiftly along: an unprejudiced spectator would have said that the young man who was driving was rather a good-looking young fellow, of the pink and white type, with a small yellow moustache carefully waxed at the ends, and clear grey eyes. He wore a buff-coloured coat, with a velvet collar of similar hue; he had a flower in his button-hole. Then, again, his turn-out was faultless – a neatly-appointed cart – a beautiful, high-stepping roan. All this was visible at a glance.
But it was on Maisrie Bethune that Vincent's gaze was bent; and as she drew near, his heart was smitten at once with remorse and with gratitude. Had he expected, then, that she would be smirking and smiling and coquetting with this new acquaintance? On the contrary, Maisrie sate there grave and silent and reserved; her eyes were neither observant nor conscious: once or twice they were turned towards the sea. To Vincent she seemed so distinguished-looking, so refined, and noble, and self-possessed, as contrasted with that fresh-complexioned country clown who had the monstrous audacity to claim her as his companion! Then, as the dog-cart went by, he caught sight of George Bethune. He was sitting rather side-ways, to permit of his addressing an occasional remark to the young gentleman who was driving: no doubt that was why Maisrie was allowed to remain silent. Perhaps she was thinking – of someone whom she thought to be far away – ?
Strangely enough, as soon as they had disappeared from view, his doubts and imaginings grew black again. For a moment, that vision of Maisrie's sweet face had charmed him out of himself; but now these hideous questions rushed back upon him, demanding an answer where there was no answer. He did not attempt to reason himself out of this paroxysm of jealousy; that would have been useless; he could but submit to this gnawing torture of anxiety and suspense, while walking up and down, and waiting, and fearing to find them coming within sight once more.
They did not return. Shortly after four the dusk began to fall; by half-past five black night had enveloped sky and sea, and the town was all ablaze with golden stars. There were hardly any carriages now; the people had betaken themselves to the other side of the road, to look in at the glaring shop-windows on their way home. Vincent found himself more alone than ever; and knew not what to do or which way to turn. In his present frame of mind he dared not go near the house in Brunswick Terrace; he could not submit to cross-examining eyes. It would drive him mad to talk, while those rankling conjectures were busy at his heart. He wanted to see Maisrie again; and yet dreaded to see her, lest he should find her once more in the society of that man.
But about half-past six his aimless perambulation of the streets became circumscribed. He drew nearer to the neighbourhood of the restaurants. If old George Bethune had brought his London habits down with him, as many people did, would not he soon make his appearance, along with his granddaughter? Here in East-street, for example, were cafés, both French and Italian, where they could have a foreign dinner if they chose. Would he venture to address them? Would he confess he had seen them driving – in the hope they might volunteer information for which he dared not ask? He could not tell; his brain was in a bewilderment of anxiety and unreasoning misery; and this grew worse, indeed, as the slow minutes went by, and there was no sign of the two figures for whom he was so eagerly watching.
And then a sickening thought occurred to him. What if those two had been invited to dine at a hotel by the country clod – by the young man from the plough – by the rustic dandy with the velvet collar? At the Old Ship, most likely – a private room – a profusion of flowers – plenty of champagne – Hodge Junior gay and festive – cigarettes between the courses – Arry having learnt so much from the cheap society journals; and will not Miss Bethune be persuaded to join? Ah, well, perhaps after dinner, when the liqueurs come to be handed round? There is a piano in the room: will Miss Bethune oblige with an accompaniment? – here is a smart little thing – "Kiss me on the sly, Johnnie!" – the latest draw at the music halls…
Seven by the big clock over the stationer's shop; and still no sign of them. Clearly they were not coming to any restaurant hereabouts. So at length he left East Street, and went down to the King's-road, and wandered slowly along, glancing furtively into this or that hotel – especially where some coffee-room window happened to have been left with the blind up. It was a vain quest, and he was aware of it; but something, he knew not what, drew him on. And meanwhile his mind was busy with pictures – of a private room, and flowers, and three figures seated at table. Ach weh! mein Liebchen war die Braut!
At a quarter to eight, Lord Musselburgh was shown into Mrs. Ellison's drawing-room.
"Haven't you seen anything of Vin?" she said, with astonished eyes.
"No – nor you?"
"Nothing at all – and now he won't have time to dress for dinner."
"I shouldn't wonder if he did not turn up for dinner," Musselburgh said. "Something very peculiar happened to him to-day – I could not precisely gather what – but he was obviously upset."
"Yes," said Mrs. Ellison, and her face was graver than its wont. "Something has indeed happened to him to-day – though he himself is not aware of it as yet."
She went to a little cabinet, and took from it two letters.
"I thought you ought to see both of these," said she. "One is from my brother-in-law; I got it just a minute or two after you left. The other is my answer; I will have it posted as soon as you have read it."
He took the first letter, which was from Vincent's father, and read it carefully through, without a word of comment. Then he took the other, which ran as follows: —
"DEAR HARLAND,
"It is very terrible; but I half suspected as much; and terrible as it is there is nothing to be done but to tell Vin the whole truth, and at once. Telegraph for him to-morrow morning – on business of importance; if he wants to come down again, I shall be ready with such consolation as I can think of. I fancy from one or two things that those people are here in Brighton just now: all the more reason why you should summon him home at once. Poor boy, it will be a sad awakening. But he is young; he will get over it; and perhaps be none the worse in the end for this cruel experience of the deceit and wickedness of the world. Let me know how he takes it.
"Yours affectionately,"MADGE."
No, Vincent did not come in to dinner that evening. He was still walking up and down the King's-road, glancing now and again, but with a sort of hopelessness, at any little group of people that might appear at the hall-door of this or that hotel; and all the while there was a fire eating at his heart.
CHAPTER VI.
PUT TO THE PROOF
To say that Vin Harris's jealousy was unreasoning, ungovernable, and the cause of cruel and incessant torture to himself, is merely to say that it was jealousy; but by an unhappy coincidence this was the very moment chosen by his father to make a disclosure which, for a startled second or so, seemed to recall and confirm the young man's wildest suspicions. When Vincent, in obedience to the telegraphic summons, arrived at the house in Grosvenor Place, he found his father in the library, standing with his back to the fire. On this occasion the great capital-denouncing capitalist did not wear the suit of hodden grey which, at dinner in his own house, was designed to show his contempt for conventionality; no; when this interview was over, he meant to lunch at the Athenæum Club, and with a view to that solemn rite he had donned a black frock-coat which was tightly buttoned over his substantial form. A stiff upstanding collar and a satin tie added to the rigidity of his appearance; while his manner was, as usual, pompous and cold. With a roll of paper in his hand, he would have looked as if he were going to deliver an afternoon lecture at some public institution.
"I have sent for you, Vin," he began, "because I have something of importance to say to you, and the sooner it is said the better. You are aware that I have never sought to interfere with your way of life. Indeed I have seen no cause to do so. Your line of study I approve; your ambitions I would encourage; and as for the amusements and pleasures natural to your years, I can trust you to remember your own self-respect. But in one direction I confess I am disappointed. My chief aim in your education has been that you should see and know the world; that you should understand men; and by contact learn to cope with them, and hold your own. Yes, I confess I am disappointed; for if I am not misinformed – and I have taken the greatest trouble not to be misinformed – here are you, after all your travel and experience of the world, become the dupe of two common begging-letter impostors."
The young man looked up quickly; but he held his peace. Now this somewhat disconcerted Harland Harris, for he had expected an instant and indignant protest, which would have justified a little judicious warmth on his side in production of proofs. But Vincent sate calm and collected, listening with apparent respect.
"Yes, deeply disappointed," his father continued, with a little more animation, "for this old charlatan who seems to have got hold of you is altogether too bare-faced and preposterous. Did you ever ask yourself how he lived; what was his business or profession; where he got the money to go from one country to another? Well, if you have not, I have; I have made enquiries; I have had him traced; I can tell you his story, and a very pretty story it is. Would you like to hear it?"
"I don't know that it concerns me much," said Vincent, with composure.
"Oh, it does not?" said the gentleman with the pompous professional air, upon whom this indifference seemed to have a somewhat irritating effect. "Well, there's nothing very grand about it – except the magnificent and wholesale lying! And perhaps also the incredible simplicity of the people who allowed themselves to be imposed on. Why, in Canada he called himself Lord Bethune! – was there no second-hand copy of Burke anywhere about to show them there was no such peerage in existence? Lord Bethune haunting newspaper-offices, and borrowing money right and left, because of his Scotch name, and his bogus literary schemes! His sham estates – his sham lineage – his sham coat of arms: did nobody think of turning up a book? 'Stand Fast, Craig-Royston!' Craig-Royston! – "
He crossed the room and took down a volume from one of the shelves.
"There," he said, putting the book on the table, "there is Black's Guide to Scotland. Can you find out where Craig-Royston is? Turn up the index."
Mechanically and carelessly Vincent did as he was bid.
"No, I don't see it there," he said.
"I should think not! Nor Balloray either: can you find Balloray? An easy thing to claim estates that don't exist; and wear armorial bearings of your own invention! Cadzow – oh, yes, Cadzow you will find – Cadzow undoubtedly exists; but most people thought that Cadzow belonged to the Duke of Hamilton. Or does Lord Bethune claim to be Marquis of Douglas and Earl of Angus as well?"
He paused; so Vincent was bound to answer.
"I don't know that it concerns me much," the young man said, repeating his former phrase. "Even if all you say is true, what then? You sent me out to see the world, and take people as I found them. Well, I found a good many liars; and one more or less doesn't matter much, does it?"
But Harland Harris was no fool; he instantly divined wherein lay the secret of Vincent's real or assumed indifference.
"Ah, I understand," said he. "I understand. You don't care so much about him. You are willing to let him go. You think you can dissociate him from his granddaughter. He may be a swindler – but you fancy she manages to keep aloof – "
The young man grew somewhat pale.
"Take care," said he, and he held up his hand as if he would enjoin silence. "Words that are said cannot be unsaid."
His father regarded him for a second, and then he endeavoured to bring a little more friendliness and consideration into his manner.
"I have heard of this infatuation," he said. "And if you had been like other young men, Vin, I should have said nothing. I should have left you to find out for yourself. But, you see, you have the misfortune to imagine other people to be as straightforward and honourable as yourself; you do not suspect; and you are inclined to trust your own judgment. But even if this girl were all you think she is, what madness it would be for you to contemplate marrying her! Look at her position – and at yours: look at her upbringing and present surroundings – and at yours; think of what is expected of you; what chances you have; what an alliance with a great family might do for you in public life. What good ever comes of overleaping social barriers – of Quixotism – of self-sacrifice for sentiment's sake? What does a marriage between two people in different spheres mean? – what is the inevitable result? – it is not the one that is raised – it is the other that is dragged down."
"These are strange doctrines for a socialist and a communist," Vincent observed.
"They are the doctrines of common sense," his father retorted, sharply. "However, it is unnecessary to say anything further on that score. You will abandon all this nonsense when you understand who and what this girl is; and you will thank God you have had your eyes opened in time. And indeed, if all that I am told is true – if I guess aright – if I piece the story properly together – I should say she was by far the more dangerous of the two accomplices – "
Vincent's lips curled: he did not put his disdain into words.
"A painful revelation?" his father continued, in more oracular fashion. "Oh, yes, no doubt. But occasionally the truth is bitter and wholesome at the same time. What you believe about the girl is one thing; what I know about her is another: indeed I can gather that it was only through her artifice that the old man's impostures were accepted, or tolerated, at all. What is he? – a farceur – a poseur – who would at once have been sent to the right about but for the ingenue by his side, with her innocent eyes and her sad look. When the writer of the begging-letter calls, his story might be inquired into: but no! – for here is this interesting young lady – and the hardest heart declines to cross-examine while she is standing there. And of course she must go to the newspaper-offices, to beguile the editor with her silent distress, while her grandfather is wheedling him out of a loan; or she accompanies him to the wine merchant, or the bookseller, or the tailor, so that nothing can be said about unpaid accounts while she is by; and of course there is a renewal of credit. A very simple and effective trick: even where the people know the old man to be a rogue, they are sorry for the girl; and they have a pleasing sense of virtue in allowing themselves to be further mulcted: they little suspect that she is by far the more accomplished swindler of the two – "
Here Vincent laughed, in open scorn; but the laugh was a forced one; and his eyes were lowering.
"I am glad you consider it a laughing matter," said Mr. Harris – who found it less easy to combat this contemptuous unbelief than if he had been met with indignation and wrath. "Perhaps, after all, the story is no revelation? Perhaps your complaisance goes further than merely tolerating the old man's lies? Perhaps the glamour the girl has thrown over you would lead you to accept her just as she is, her hypocrisy, her craft, and all? Or perhaps you have planned out for yourself a still more brilliant future than any that had occurred to your friends? Perhaps you aim at being the old man's successor? It is an easy way of getting through life, having a woman like that by your side, to earn your living for you. The lover of Manon Lescaut – "
Vincent leapt to his feet, his eyes aflame.
"You go too far," he said, breathing hard. "You go too far. I have been trying to remember you are my father: don't make it too difficult. What do I care about this farrago of nonsense that some one has put into your head – this trash – this venomous guessing? It is nothing to me. It is idle air. I know otherwise. But when it comes to insult – well, it is all an insult; but something must be forgiven to ignorance: the people who have supplied you with this guess-work rubbish are probably as ignorant as yourself about those two. Only – no more insults, if you please! I am your son; but – but there are limits to what you ask me to hear in patience. You talk of my madness and infatuation; it is your madness, your infatuation! What can you say of your own knowledge of that old man and his granddaughter? Why, nothing. You have never spoken to them; never seen them. And yet, without an atom of inquiry, without an atom of proof, you go and accept all this tissue of guess-work – this rubbish – this trash – as if it were gospel; and you expect me to give it a patient hearing? It is too contemptible!"
"Yes, but unfortunately," said Mr. Harris, with great calmness – for now he felt he had the advantage on his side, "you are mistaken in supposing that I have made no inquiry, and have received no proof. The inquiry has been made for me with great skill and patience, during the past month; and the proofs seem to me sufficient. Proofs? – you yourself shall furnish one."
This was a kind of challenge; and the young man accepted it. His eyes were fixed on his adversary.
"What, then?"
"When you find," said his father, with deliberation, "two people wandering from town to town, without any visible means of subsistence, you naturally wonder how they manage to live. Very well. But now, if you discover they have a pretty knack of falling in with this or that rich young gentleman, and allowing him to pay for them on all occasions, isn't the mystery partly solved? I am informed that these two people and yourself have been in the habit for a considerable time back of dining together in the evening – indeed, I have the name of the restaurant. Now I wish to ask you this question point-blank: is it not the fact that in every case you have paid?"
Vincent did not answer; he was not thinking of himself at all; nor yet of the direct question that had been put to him. A terrible wave of bewilderment had passed over him; his heart seemed to have within it but one sudden cry – 'Maisrie – Maisrie – why were you driving – with that stranger?' – and all the world grew black with a horror of doubt and despair. He thought of the young man driving along the King's Road in Brighton: was there another paying for those two now? – had they another friend now to accompany them every evening? And Maisrie? But all this wild agony lasted only a moment. He cast this palsy of the brain behind him. His better self rose confident and triumphant – though there was still a strange look left in his eyes.
"Paid?" he said, with a kind of scornful impatience. "Who paid? Oh, I did – mostly. What about that? That is nothing – a few shillings – I found it pleasanter not to have to settle bills before a young lady; and of course she did not know who paid; I made an arrangement – "
"An arrangement by which you gave those people their dinner for nothing for months and months!"
"And what then?"
For Vincent had entirely recovered his self-command: he affected to regard this story that had been told him as quite unworthy of serious attention. It was his father who was growing exasperated.
"Have you taken leave of your senses?" Mr. Harris demanded. "Is it nothing that you yourself have shown this old man to be a pauper, getting his dinner on charity every evening? And what better was the girl? She must have known! Do you imagine she was not aware of his receiving money for bogus books that he never meant to publish; and of his inveigling soft-headed Scotchmen – I suppose there must be one here and there – into giving him a loan because of his sham patriotism? And these are the people you have chosen to consort with all this time; and this is the girl you would bring into your family – you would introduce to your friends as your wife! But you cannot be so mad! You may pretend indifference: you cannot be indifferent. You may consider it fine and heroic to disbelieve the clearest evidence: the world, on the other hand, is apt to say that it is only a fool and an idiot who keeps his eyes shut and walks into a trap blindfolded. And – and I do think, when you begin to reflect, that your own common-sense will come to your aid."
He turned to the mantel-piece, and took from it some papers.
"I have given you," he continued, "the sum and substance of the enquiries I have made, in this country and in America. I can show you here still further details; but before allowing you to examine these communications, I must exact a promise that they shall be treated as in strictest confidence."
"Thank you," said Vincent, "I will not trouble you. I can guess at the kind of creature who would accept such a task, and at his interpretation of any facts that might come across him."
Then he rose.
"And is this the important business on which you sent for me?" he asked, but quite civilly.
"You do not think it is important?" the other demanded. "But at least you have been warned. You have been advised to keep your eyes open. You have been shown what kind of people they are who have got hold of you: it is for you yourself to say whether you will be any longer their dupe."
"Very well," said the young man; and he rose and took up his hat and cane. "Oh, by the way, I presume you have come to an end of your enquiries? Because, if not, I would advise your spy – your detective, or whatever he is – not to come prowling to any restaurant or keyhole when I am along with my friends, or he might find things become very unpleasant for him. Good-morning!"
So this was the end of the interview; and Harland Harris shortly thereafter made off for the Athenæum Club, well satisfied that his narrative had produced a far deeper impression than the young man would acknowledge. And in truth it had. When Vincent left the house, and walked away to the solitary little rooms in Mayfair, his face was no longer scornful; it was serious and troubled; for there was much for him to ponder over. Not about Maisrie. He put Maisrie aside. For one thing, he was a little vexed and angry with her at the moment – quite unreasonably, as he strove to convince himself; nevertheless, he would rather not think about her just then; and, indeed, there was no occasion, for the idea that she could be the participator in any fraud or series of frauds was simply not a thinkable thing. He knew better than that; and was content. Maisrie driving with a stranger – perhaps that was not so well done of her; but Maisrie as a skilful and accomplished professional swindler? – then you might expect to see the stars fall from their places in the midnight sky.
But as regards the old man, that was very different; and he could not deny that there were certain points in the story just told him which were corroborated by his own knowledge. He knew, for example, that George Bethune had got money for one book which, as circumstances would have it, was not produced and published; he knew that those dinners at the Restaurant were paid for by himself; he knew that he had heard Mr. Bethune speak of Cadzow as belonging to his family; and he had to confess that he could not find Craig-Royston in the index of his father's guide-book. And yet he could not give up this magnificent, this heroic old man all at once. He could not believe him to be a mean and crafty trickster. Surely his love for Scotland was sincere. Surely his passionate admiration of the old Scotch ballads was genuine enough. Surely it was not to impose on any one that old George Bethune sang aloud the songs of his youth as he walked through the crowded streets of London. There was a grandeur in his very presence, a dignity in his demeanour, that was far from the artful complaisance of a schemer. Then his undaunted courage – his proud spirit – and above all, the tender and affectionate guardianship he bestowed on his granddaughter: Vincent could not forget all these things. No, nor could he forget how he had enjoyed George Bethune's society on these many and pleasant evenings; and how he had learned more and more to respect him, his unflinching fortitude, his generous enthusiasms, and even, at times, his innocent vanity. He had had a hard life, this old man, and yet he bore no enmity. He had had many trials and misfortunes, many hopes disappointed; yet his temper was not soured. But the conclusive proof, after all, was the character of Maisrie herself – her noble sweetness, her refinement, her sympathy, her quick gratitude for the smallest of kindnesses: could such a beautiful human flower have grown up under the fostering care of an unscrupulous vagabond and knave?
When he got to his rooms, the first thing he did – but with no very definite purpose – was to take up his copy of Black's Guide to Scotland. It was a recent edition; he had got it so that he might trace out that long wandering of which old George Bethune and Maisrie had spoken so often. And mechanically he turned to the index – with which he had been confronted in his father's library; and mechanically he glanced at the successive columns. But what was this? – why here was Craig-Royston! His eyes were not deceiving him; for he at once referred to the page indicated, and found Craig-Royston described as a district in the neighbourhood of Loch Lomond – though, to be sure, he could discover no trace of it on the map. So he had jumped to conclusions all too prematurely? He had allowed that unknown enemy of his – that dark and malignant creature in the background – too facile a triumph? He began to be ashamed of himself. 'Stand fast, Craig-Royston!' had not been his motto, as it was that of the proud old man whom he had injured by listening to those childish tales.
He returned to the index, and sought for Balloray. Well, there was no Balloray; but then Balloray was a private house; and private houses, unless of historical interest, are seldom mentioned in guide-books. And then again he bethought him: why, the old ballad! – the 'bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray': surely that was sufficient evidence of there being such a place? He could almost hear George Bethune's voice as he recalled the opening lines —
'There were twa sisters lived in a bower;
Balloray, O Balloray;
The youngest o' them, O she was a flower!
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.
There came a squire frae out the west,
Balloray, O Balloray;
He lo'ed them baith, but the youngest best,
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.'
"Why, what a fool he had been, to be disconcerted by an index – and that the index of some old and obsolete edition! He prosecuted his researches. He turned to Cadzow. Yes, here was Cadzow: Cadzow Castle and Cadzow Forest; and undoubtedly these were the property of the Duke of Hamilton. But might there not be some other property of the same name, as a sort of appanage of Balloray? It was no unusual thing, in Scotland or anywhere else, for two places to have the same name; and in this instance it was the more important one, the ducal one, that would naturally figure in the guide-book. He seemed to see old George Bethune regarding him, with something of a haughty look on his face, as though he would say 'Of what next will you accuse me?'"