"Why so passionate, Vin – why so indignant?" his companion put in, glancing at him curiously.
"Because I say it is a shame – a monstrous shame," the young man said, with flaming eyes, "that anyone should be insulted so! Is it their fault that they have no friends, that they are unknown, that they are poor? To be wealthy is to be virtuous, of course; if you have a long balance at your bankers', you are above suspicion then; if you have house-boats, and four-in-hands, and gold plate, you're all right. I suppose," said he, altering his tone, "that it was on that very evening – the evening of her inspection – that my aunt was kind enough to talk over those two friends of mine with you, and tell you of all the portentous things she suspected of them. But I presume she did not repeat to you the very last words she used to me as she said good-night?"
"About what?"
"About Miss Bethune," said Vincent – though it cost him an indescribable effort to pronounce her name.
"Well, I believe she did," Lord Musselburgh admitted. "For she had just come away from hearing Miss Bethune sing some Canadian song or another; and she was very much struck; and she said she had confessed as much to you. Oh, more than that – I don't precisely remember the words. But really, Vin, when you come to think of it, you must acknowledge that there is not much guidance as to character, or antecedents, or any thing else, in the mere singing of a song. Mrs. Ellison, who is always posing as a callous woman of the world, is really very sympathetic and generous, and warm-hearted; and she was quite taken captive by the charm and simplicity of this Claire Fontaine– is that the name of it? – but at the same time I should not place too great a value – "
"I quite agree with you," the younger man said, interrupting without apology. "I place no more value on my aunt's acquittal and commendation than on her previous suspicions. And – and – if you don't mind, Musselburgh, I would rather not have the question discussed further, nor Miss Bethune's name mentioned in any way whatsoever."
"Oh, but remember I said nothing against her," Lord Musselburgh finally added, in perfect good humour. "How could I? I hope your new friends are all you think them; and as for the young lady, it is difficult to believe any harm of so refined and sweet a face. But I hope you won't concern yourself too much with them, Vin; you have other, and perhaps more serious, interests in life; and it seems to me that everything promises well for you. Why, at this moment, man, don't you know what ought to be occupying all your attention?"
"What?" his companion asked – perhaps glad enough to get away from that delicate topic.
"At least I know what I should be thinking of if I were in your shoes. I should be wondering how much space the editor of the Mendover Weekly Guardian was going to give me on Saturday morning next."
It was another editor whom Vincent had in his mind at that moment. As soon as he got back to London he wrote and despatched the following letter, which was addressed to "Hugh Anstruther, Esq., Western Scotsman Office, New York, U.S.A."
"DEAR SIR,
"I hope you will be so kind as to consider the contents of this note as strictly private and confidential. In a recent conversation with Lord Musselburgh he informed me that it was you who had given a letter of introduction to him to Mr. George Bethune; and from Mr. Bethune himself I learn that he, Mr. Bethune, is about to bring out a volume on the Scottish poets in America, as soon as he can conveniently get the materials together. But to this end it would appear that he must revisit the United States and Canada, to obtain particulars of the lives of the various poets and verse-writers, and perhaps, also, examples of their work. Now I wish to ask you, as a friend of Mr. Bethune's, whether all this fatigue and travel might not be spared him, supposing there were some person or persons in this country willing to defray the cost of having those materials collected for him. To speak plainly, do you, sir, know of any writer, connected with the press or otherwise, who would undertake, for a sufficient consideration, to bring together biographical memoranda of the authors in question, along with specimens of their work, which could be sent over here to Mr. Bethune, for him to put into shape and issue in book-form? Mr. Bethune, as you know, is an old man, who must surely have had enough of travelling; moreover he has in mind a leisurely ramble through Scotland which, while also leading to literary results, would involve much less fatigue than a voyage to the United States and Canada. I should be greatly obliged if you would tell me whether you consider it practicable to collect those materials by deputy; also, if you know of anyone capable of undertaking the task; and what remuneration he would probably require. I beg you to forgive me, a stranger, for thus appealing to you; but I know you will not grudge a little trouble for the sake of a friend and a fellow Scotchman.
"Yours faithfully and obediently,
"VINCENT HARRIS."
After sending off that letter the young man's spirits lightened considerably; he saw there was still a chance that Maisrie Bethune, her grandfather, and himself might together set out on that coveted perambulation of the legend-haunted districts of the North. And now he and they had returned to their ordinary mode of life – which perhaps pleased him better than the ostentatious festivities of Henley. Here was no staring crowd, here were no suspicious friends, to break in upon their close and constant companionship. He rejoiced in this isolation; he wished for no fourth person at the quiet little dinners in the restaurants; he had no desire that anyone should share the privacy of the hushed small parlour where old George Bethune loftily discoursed of poetry and philosophy, of ancient customs and modern manners, and where Maisrie played pathetic Scotch airs on the violin, or sang in her low clear voice of le pont d'Avignonor perhaps of Marianson, dame jolie. Moreover, he could not fail to perceive, and that with an ever-increasing delight, that her old expression of sad and wistful resignation was gradually being banished from her eyes; and not only that, but a quite fresh colour was come into her cheeks, so that the pale sun-tinge was less perceptible. Perhaps it was the companionship of one nearer to her own age that had made a difference in her life; at all events much of her former shyness was gone; she met his look frankly, sometimes with a touch of gratitude, sometimes with simple gladness, as if his mere presence was something that pleased her. When she was watering the flowers in the little balcony, and caught sight of him over the way, she nodded and smiled: he wondered whether it was that faint-sun-tinge of the complexion that made her teeth seem so clearly white. He began to forget those dreams of a wide intervening sea: this present existence was so peaceable, and contented, and happy. And in spite of Maisrie's injunction, those dreams of Scotland would recur: he saw three newly-arrived strangers walking along Princes Street, Edinburgh, in the silver glare of the morning; and the middle one of the three – looking away up to the dusky shadows of the Castle rock – was no other than Maisrie Bethune herself, with light and gladness shining in her eyes.
And what had old George Bethune to say to this constant association and this fast friendship between the two young people? Well, old George Bethune had an admirable capacity for enjoying the present moment; and so long as the dinner was fairly cooked and the claret to his taste, so long as he had a small and faithful audience to listen to his rhapsodies about Scottish song and Scottish heroism, and so long as Maisrie's violin was in tune and her hand as sensitive as ever on the trembling strings, he did not seem to pay much heed to the future. Perhaps it was but natural that one who had wandered so far and wide should welcome a little peace at last; and perhaps he intentionally blinded his eyes; at all events the young people were allowed the utmost freedom of companionship – it was as if these three formed but one family.
One night, as Vincent was about to leave, the old gentleman said to him —
"About to-morrow evening: I presume we dine at Mentavisti's?"
"Oh, yes, certainly: we've tried a good many places, and we can't do better than Mentavisti's," the young man answered – as if it mattered one brass farthing to him what sort of dinner there was, or where he got it, so long as Maisrie was at the same table!
"Ah, very well. For this is how I am situated," said Mr. Bethune, gravely and grandly as befitted the seriousness of the theme. "I have an appointment in Jermyn-street at six o'clock. I may be detained. Now I can undertake to be at Mentavisti's Restaurant at seven – and when the dinner-hour is once fixed, to play shilly-shally with it seems to me abominable – but I am not so sure that I shall have time to return home first. It will be better, therefore, and everyway safer, for Maisrie to come down by herself in a cab – "
"But mayn't I call for her?" the young man suggested at once. "You know she would much rather walk down than drive."
"Oh, very well, very well, if you don't mind," said Mr. Bethune, with a lofty condescension – or indifference; while Maisrie, instead of being in the least confused by this proposal, looked up with perfectly frank and pleased eyes, apparently giving him a little message of thanks.
Nor was she in the least embarrassed on the following evening, when he was ushered upstairs by the landlady's daughter. Maisrie was alone in the little parlour, ready-dressed except as regarded her gloves, and she was putting a final touch to the few flowers with which she had adorned the table.
"Good evening," said she, quite placidly. "I will be with you in a moment, as soon as I have dried my fingers."
She disappeared for a second, and returned. He hesitated before accompanying her to the door.
"Won't you give me one of those flowers?" said he, rather breathlessly.
She seemed a little surprised.
"Now that I think of it," she said, "I have never seen you wear a flower in your coat, as other gentlemen do. And I'm afraid there isn't one here nearly fine enough – "
"If you were to give me a flower, I should not destroy it by wearing it in my coat!" said he.
"Oh, merely a flower?" she asked. She went to the table. "Will this one do?"
It was a white geranium that she handed him, simply enough: he took out his pocket-book, and carefully placed it between the leaves. For the briefest instant she regarded him as if in wonder that he should seek to preserve so worthless a trifle; but she made no remark; and then unconcernedly and cheerfully she led the way downstairs, and together they passed out into the open street.
It was a marvellous and bewildering thing to think that he should be in sole and complete charge of her, here in the midst of the great and busy world of London. Did these hurrying people guess at his proud elation, his new-found sense of guardianship and responsibility, his anxiety that all things should be pleasant to her; or had they hardly time even to notice this beautiful young creature, her step light as a fawn, fresh colour in her fair cheeks, happiness radiant in her eyes? Perhaps they heeded her and the tall and handsome youth by her side as little as she heeded them; for indeed she seemed to be entirely engrossed in her companion, talking, smiling, replying to him without a shadow of self-consciousness or restraint. To him this new relationship was an amazing kind of thing: she did not seem even to perceive it. To him it was an epoch in his life, to be for ever remembered: to her – well, nearly every evening she walked out in similar fashion with her grandfather, and she did not appear to notice any difference: at least she showed no sign.
But all at once Maisrie altered her manner; and that was when he in the lightness of his heart informed her that there was still a chance of their setting out on that long contemplated pilgrimage to the various poetic shrines of Scotland.
"Mr. Harris," she said, proudly, "you made me a promise – "
"Yes, I know I did," he said; "but things have changed, and I'm going to explain to you; and I think you'll find everything satisfactory. But first of all, before I begin, I wish you wouldn't call me 'Mr. Harris.' It sounds detestable. You who are so natural and straightforward in all your ways – why don't you call me Vincent?"
"Don't you think that Mr. Vincent might be a fair compromise?" she asked gently, and with her eyes lowered.
"I've called you Maisrie once or twice, by accident, and you didn't seem to mind," he pointed out.
"I am sure I did not notice," she made answer at once. "How should I? I am used to nothing else."
"Then I am to be allowed to call you Maisrie?" said he, clutching eagerly at this new-found privilege. "And you will call me Vincent – when you find Mr. Vincent become too formal: is it a compact?"
"Yes, it is – Mr. Vincent – if you like," said she, with a smile. "But why do you make it so very serious?"
"Because," said he, gravely, "when any solemn bargain is completed, people shake hands to make it secure."
"Not in the middle of Oxford-street?" she said.
"We will postpone the ceremony, if you prefer it; and now I will begin and tell you how it is still possible we may have that long ramble through Scotland together. You were anxious that before anything of the kind were attempted, your grandfather should go back to the United States to get materials for his book on the Scottish poets in America. Well, now, it seems a pity to make such a long voyage if it can be done without; and so I have taken the liberty of sending over to New York to see if there isn't some handy young fellow there – some clerk or reporter – who would undertake to collect all the necessary materials, and send them over here for your grandfather to work up. Then we could go to Scotland all the same – that is, if you will let me accompany you."
"Someone to collect the materials and send them over?" she repeated; and then she said: "But would that be fair, Mr. Harris – Mr. Vincent – would that be honest? Surely not! The book would not be my grandfather's book at all; properly it would belong to the young man in New York."
"I beg your pardon," said he, with decision. "He only supplies the bricks; he does not build the house. When a Chancellor of the Exchequer produces his budget, of course he claims it as his own; but he has got his facts from the heads of departments, and most likely his quotations have been hunted out for him by his private secretary. It would be your grandfather's book, solely and wholly."
"But the cost?" she said, after a second. "Supposing it were practicable, the expense – "
"Oh, never mind about that," said he, lightly. "It will be next to nothing – you needn't mind about that. Our deputy in New York will find very little difficulty in getting the memoranda that he wants. There is no sort of unnecessary modesty about minor poets; they will be glad enough to give him specimens of their work, as soon as it is known what he aims at. And in Scotland," he continued (grown suddenly bold), "don't you see how it would work? Your grandfather must have an occasional morning to give to his MSS; then you and I could leave him in absolute peace and quiet; and we might go away for a stroll up to Arthur's Seat, or round the ramparts of the Castle, and return to him by lunch-time. Wouldn't that be an excellent arrangement?"
"Yes, that would be very nice indeed," said she, with a pleased expression: she seemed to look forward to this close and constant companionship as the most natural thing in the world.
And in fact so sanguine was the young man about the success of his new scheme that, when the three of them were seated at a small table in Mentavisti's Restaurant, he ventured to hint to old George Bethune his fond hope that he might be allowed to join in that prolonged excursion through Scotland; and the old man at once acquiesced.
"Yes, yes, why not?" he said; and then he went on, absently: "Yet my nerve is not what it was. Sometimes I hesitate. It would grieve me more than I can say if Maisrie here were to be disappointed. It is a long time since I was in the country; perhaps I remember only the beautiful things; and it is only of these she has heard me talk. When Sturrock thinks of the old home, the dappled hills shine for him: you remember, Maisrie? —
'Oh native land! Oh cherished home,
I've sailed across the sea,
And, though my wandering footsteps roam,
My heart still turns to thee!
My thoughts and dreams are sweet and bright
With dew which love distils;
While every gleam of golden light
Falls on the Scottish hills.'
He forgets the mists and the rain and the darkened days. And you, Maisrie, you have been brought up under fair blue skies; you have never learnt how sombre days and wild and driving clouds stir the imagination; perhaps, if you stood in the very street where the 'bonnie Earl o' Moray came sounding through the town,' you would see only the wet pavements and the dull windows; and you might turn to me and say 'Is this what you have talked about to me, grandfather?'" Then all of a sudden he seemed to throw off this despondent fit as by a violent effort. "No, no!" said he, in quite a different tone. "I will not believe but that there are still yellow cornfields and silver lakes in bonnie Scotland, and the lark singing as high in the heavens as when Tannahill, or Hogg, or Motherwell paused to listen. I will show you the red rowans hanging from the mountain crag, and the golden bracken down by the side of the burn; and if we go still further away – to the lonely islands of the western seas – then you must learn to forget the soft prettiness of the sunnier south, and to let the mysterious charm of isolation hold you, and the majesty of the darkened mountains, and the pathetic beauty of the wandering veils of rain. I would sooner forget the mother that bore me," he said, with a proud ring in his voice, "than believe that bonnie Scotland had lost her glamour and wonder and fascination. And you would be no holiday-tourist, Maisrie; you belong by blood to the 'land of wild weather'; and imagination is part of the dowry of youth. No, no; I do not fear. I – I made a mistake when I said I was afraid – I am not afraid of you, Maisrie – not afraid of you – you have the fine sympathy, the intelligence, the quick imagination that I can trust – I am not afraid of you, Maisrie – "
"You need not be afraid, grandfather," the girl said, gently – for she saw that he was somewhat disturbed. "Why should you be afraid, grandfather? I shall be looking with your eyes."
But the curious thing was that despite all this talking about the projected pilgrimage, it never seemed to come any nearer. No mention of a date or even of any approximate time, was ever made. In like manner, their return to America, though the old gentleman spoke of it now and again as a fixed and definite and necessary thing, kept receding backwards and backwards into a perfectly nebulous future. The present moment was everything to old George Bethune, whether he was engaged with a roe-deer cutlet at a restaurant in Regent-street, or lighting his pipe and mixing his toddy on his return home, while he was descanting on Barbour, and Drummond, and Sir David Lindesay, or Ramsay, and Ferguson, and Burns. People were beginning to leave town; Vincent had received, and declined, an invitation to join a big house-party in Argyllshire, notwithstanding that it was to the same house that Mrs. Ellison and Lord Musselburgh were going; but old George Bethune and his granddaughter appeared to pay no heed to the changing times and seasons; their placid, uneventful life seemed quite enough for them. And was it not enough for this young man also, who had been admitted to be their constant associate and friend? Why should he vex himself about literary schemes that were none of his devising? Day by day he waved a good-morning to Maisrie as she came to water her flowers, and an answer came from her smiling eyes; sometimes he walked out into the parks in the afternoon, with her grandfather and herself, and ever he rejoiced to see that the fine peach-bloom on her cheek was surmounting the sun-tinge that had been left there by travel; then in the evening they had all London to choose from, as to where they should dine, with a quiet stroll homeward thereafter, to music, and dominoes, and careless talk. What more? The great outer world might go on its way, and welcome.
But Master Vin was about to be startled out of this dreamful ease. At last there came an answer to the communication he had sent to the editor of the Western Scotsman, with many apologies for unavoidable delay: Mr. Anstruther, it appeared, had been in Canada, taking his annual holiday among his kinsmen and countrymen there.
"I must say your letter has astonished me beyond measure," the writer went on, "and I would fain believe that there is some great mistake somewhere, which is capable of explanation. It is quite true that when I gave my venerable friend Mr. Bethune a note of introduction to Lord Musselburgh, I was aware that he had in view various literary projects – in fact, his brain teems with them as if he were a young man of five-and-twenty – the perfervidum ingenium Scotorum in his case has taken hold of his imagination; but I cannot understand how he could have included in these the publication of a volume on the Scottish poets in America, for the simple reason that he must have known that such a work was not only in progress here, but that it was near completion. Why, I myself showed Mr. Bethune proofs of the early sheets of this volume; for the author is a particular friend of mine; and as it was being set up, he used to send me the sheets as they were printed; and Mr. Bethune being in the habit of calling at my office, I not only showed them to him, but I fancy I let him take some of them away, that he might read them at his leisure. How he should now propose to bring out a similar work – and bespeak Lord Musselburgh's patronage for it, as I presume he did – passes my comprehension, except on the ground that, being an old man, he may have suffered from some temporary attack of mental aberration and forgetfulness. I would rather believe this than that a man whom I had taken for a thorough Scot, loyal and true to the backbone, and proud of his country and of his own name and lineage, should be endeavouring to supplant another worker who is already in possession of the field. However, no actual harm can be done; for the volume I speak of is on the eve of publication, and no doubt it will be issued simultaneously in England. That is all I have to say, on a subject which at present seems to me to have something of a painful aspect – though I hope a satisfactory explanation may be forthcoming. In conclusion may I beg of you to keep this letter private? The facts are as I have stated; but I would rather Mr. Bethune did not know you had them from me.
"Yours faithfully,
"HUGH ANSTRUTHER."
For some time Vincent sat with this letter in his hand, in a sort of stupefaction. Curiously enough his first question to himself was – What if Mrs. Ellison should get to know? – would she not triumphantly declare that her worst suspicions had been confirmed? That was but a first thought. There must be some explanation! He had not associated so continually with George Bethune – he had not heard the old man's voice thrill with proud emotion as he spoke of Scotland's hills and dales – he had not seen his eyes fill with unbidden tears as he talked of his granddaughter and the loneliness that might be in store for her – all for nothing: not at once could he be convinced that this old man was a mere charlatan, a thief, a begging-letter impostor. But he had been startled; and when he reached his lodgings in that small thoroughfare, he hardly dared look across the way: he knew not what to think.