Of course this state of things could not go on for ever – unless the person over there possessed the gift of invisibility. One morning as Maisrie and her grandfather were going out as usual for a stroll in the Park, she went downstairs first, and along the lobby, and opened the door, to wait for him. At the very same instant the door opposite was opened, and there, suddenly presented to her view, was a young man. He was looking straight across; she was looking straight across; their eyes met without the slightest chance of equivocation or denial; and each knew that this was recognition. They regarded each other but for a swift second; but as plainly as possible he had said to her "Do you guess? Are you angry? No, do not be angry!" – and then his glance was averted; he shut the door behind him; and slowly proceeded on his way. Was she surprised? No. Perhaps she was startled by the unexpectedness of the meeting; perhaps her heart was beating a little more quickly than usual; but a profound instinct had already told her that it was no woman who had spoken to her in those dusky twilights, evening after evening. A woman would not have wrapped herself up in that mysterious secrecy. A woman who wished to make friends with her neighbours over the way would have come to the window, would have smiled, would have made some excuse for calling. Maisrie did not ostensibly look after the young man – but she could see him all the same, until he turned the corner. She was vaguely troubled. The brief glance she had met had in it a kind of appeal. And she wished to say in return that she was not offended; that, being strangers, they must remain strangers; but that she had not taken his boldness ill. She wished to say – she did not know what. Then her grandfather came down; and they went away together; but she uttered not a syllable as to what had just occurred. It was all a bewilderment to her – that left her a little breathless when she tried to think of it.
That night, when the customary time arrived, she refused to take up her violin; and when her grandfather remonstrated, she had no definite excuse. She hesitated and stammered – said they had not played chess for ever so long – or would he rather have a game of draughts? – anything but the violin.
"Are you forgetting your good-natured neighbour over there?" her grandfather asked. "It will be quite a disappointment for her. Poor thing, it appears to be the only society she has; we never hear a sound otherwise; there seems to be no one ever come to talk to her during the day, or we should hear a voice now and again."
"Yes, but, grandfather," said Maisrie, who seemed much embarrassed, "don't you think it a little imprudent to – to encourage this kind of – of answering each other – without knowing who the other person is?"
"Why, what can be more harmless!" he protested, cheerfully, and then he went on: "More harmless than music? – nothing, nothing! Song is the solace of human life; in joy it is the natural expression of our happiness – in times of trouble it refreshes the heart with thoughts of other and brighter days. A light heart – a heart that can sing to itself – that is the thing to carry you through life, Maisrie!" And he himself, as he crossed the room to fetch a box of matches, was trolling gaily, with a fine bravura execution —
"The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,
Fu' loud the wind blows frae the ferry;
The ship rides by the Berwick Law,
And I maun leave my bonnie Mary."
Maisrie was not to be moved; but she appeared down-hearted a little. As time went on the silence in the little street seemed somehow to accuse her; she knew she was responsible. She was playing draughts with her grandfather, in a perfunctory sort of way. She remembered that glance of appeal – she could not forget it – and this had been her answer. Then all of a sudden her hand that hovered over the board trembled, and she had almost dropped the piece that was in her fingers: for there had sprang into the stillness a half-hushed sound – it was an air she knew well enough – she could almost recognise the words —
"Nachtigall, ich hör' dich singen;
S'Herz thut mir im Leibe springen,
Komm nur bald und sag mir's wohl,
Wie ich mich verhalten soll."
Her grandfather stopped the game to listen; and when the soft-toned melody had ceased, he said —
"There, now, Maisrie, that is an invitation: you must answer."
"No, no, grandfather," she said, almost in distress. "I would rather not – you don't know – you must find out something about – about whoever it is that plays. I am sure it will be better. Of course it is quite harmless, as you say – oh, yes, quite harmless – but I should like you to get to know first – quite harmless, of course – but I am frightened – about a stranger – not frightened, of course – but – don't ask me, grandfather!"
Well, it was not of much concern to him; and as he was winning all along the line, he willingly returned to the game. It had grown so dark, however, that Maisrie had to go and light the gas – having drawn down the blinds first, as was her invariable habit. When she came back to the table she seemed to breathe more freely; though she was thoughtful and pre-occupied – not with the game. The music on the other side of the way was not resumed that evening, as far as they could hear.
Several days passed; and each evening now was silent. Maisrie saw nothing more of the young man; indeed, she studiously refrained from glancing across to the other side of the street – except when she was going out, and wanted to make sure there was no one there. But something was now about to happen that entirely altered this disposition of affairs.
One morning George Bethune and his granddaughter had gone for their accustomed stroll in Hyde Park, and in course of time had taken their places on a bench near the Serpentine, while the old man had pulled out a newspaper and began to read it. The day was sultry, despite an occasional stirring of wind; and Maisrie sitting there, and having nothing to do but look at the water, and the trees, and the sky, observed that all the world around them was gradually growing darker. In the south, especially, the heavens were of a curious metallic hue – a livid grey, as it were; while across that hung two horizontal belts of deepest purple that remained motionless, while other and lighter tags of vapour were inter-twisting with each other or melting away into nothingness. Those two clouds were not of the usual cloud-form at all – they were rather like two enormous torpedoes lying one above the other; and there was a sombre deadness of hue about them that looked ominous. Suddenly, as she was thus vaguely regarding those long purple swathes, there ran across them – springing vertically upwards – a quivering line of yellow flame – so thin it was, it appeared like a thread of golden wire – and when that had vanished, there was a second or two of silence, followed by a dull, low, rumbling noise that seemed to come from a considerable distance. She was not much alarmed. There were no signs of a terrific thunderstorm; probably a few more flashes would serve to loosen and disperse those lowering clouds, and allow the day to clear.
It was at this moment that a young man came up and addressed Mr. Bethune – with a certain courteous hesitation, and yet in frank and ingenuous tones.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said he, "but may I claim the privilege of a neighbour to offer you this umbrella – I'm afraid there's a shower coming – and the young lady may get wet."
It was a pleasant voice; George Bethune looked up well-disposed towards the stranger, whoever he might be. And the face of the young man was also prepossessing; it was something more than handsome; it was intelligent and refined; and the honest and straightforward eyes had a certain confidence in them, as if they were not used to having their friendly advances repulsed.
"I thank you – I thank you," said George Bethune, with much dignity. "I had not observed. But you will want the umbrella for yourself – we can get shelter under one of the trees."
"Would that be wise, sir, in a thunderstorm?" said the young man. "Oh, no, let me give you the umbrella – I don't mind a shower – and it won't be more than that, I fancy."
George Bethune accepted the proffered courtesy.
"Here, Maisrie, since this young gentleman is so kind; you'd better be prepared. A neighbour did you say, sir?" he continued.
"A very near neighbour," answered the young man, with a smile, and he seated himself by the side of Mr. Bethune without more ado. "I have often thought of speaking to you, and asking to be allowed to make your acquaintance; for you seem to have very few visitors – you will pardon my curiosity – while I have none at all."
"Oh, really, really," the old man said, somewhat vaguely; perhaps he was wondering how so faultlessly attired a young gentleman (his patent-leather boots, for example, were of the most approved pattern) should have chosen lodgings in so humble a thoroughfare.
"It is a very quiet little corner, is it not?" the young man said – almost as if answering that unspoken question. "That is why it suits me so well; I can get on with my books without interruption. The street is so small that it isn't worth an organ-grinder's while to waste time in it."
"Music is a sad thing for interrupting study; I know that," the old gentleman observed. "By the way, I hope we do not disturb you – my granddaughter plays the violin sometimes – "
"I could listen to that kind of music all day long," was the response. "I never heard such violin-playing – most beautiful! – most beautiful!"
"Then you are not far away from us?"
"Right opposite," was the straightforward answer.
George Bethune glanced at the young man with a look of quiet amusement; he was thinking of the pale music-mistress – the solitary widow of his imagination.
"And you – you also play a little in the evenings sometimes?"
"I hope you didn't think it rude, sir," the young man said, humbly. "I thought it permissible, as between neighbours."
"Oh, they were pretty little concerts," said George Bethune, good-naturedly. "Very pretty little concerts. I don't know why they were stopped. I suppose Maisrie had some fancy about them – my granddaughter Maisrie – "
It was a kind of introduction. The young man, modestly veiling the quick flash of delight in his eyes at this unexpected happiness, respectfully bowed. Maisrie, with her beautiful pale face suffused with unusual colour, made some brief inclination also; then she seemed to retire again from this conversation – though she could not but overhear.
"My name is Harris," the young man said, as though these confidences were all as a matter of course between neighbours. "It isn't a very distinguished name; but one has to take what is given one. It is not of much consequence."
"I am not so sure about that," the older man rejoined, somewhat sententiously. "A good name is a good thing; it is an honour not to be purchased. It may be the only one of your possessions remaining to you; but of that they cannot rob you."
"Oh, of course, of course," Vincent said, quickly, for he perceived the mistake he had made. "An old historic name is certainly something to be proud of. By the way, sir, did your family originally take their name from Bethon on the Sarthe or from Bethune in the Department of Calais?"
"Bethune – Bethune," said the old man, who appeared to be pleased by this question, which spoke of previous enquiries; and then he added, with a lofty air: "The Duc de Sully, Marquis de Rosny, Sovereign Prince of Enrichemont and Boisbel, Grand Master of the Artillery and Marshal of France, was Maximilien de Bethune – Maximilien de Bethune."
"Oh, really," said the young man, who seemed much impressed.
"The name," continued old George Bethune, in the same oracular vein, "was often spelt Beaton and Beton – especially in Scotland – as everybody knows. Whether James, Archbishop of Glasgow, and his nephew David, Archbishop of St. Andrews, had any immediate relationship with France – beyond that David was consecrated Bishop of Mirepoix when he was negotiating the marriage of James V. at the French Court – I cannot at the moment precisely say; but of this there can be no doubt, that from Bethune in the north came the original territorial designation of the family, not from Bethon in the west. Maximilien de Bethune – Bethune in the Department of the Straits of Calais."
"Oh really," the young man said again, quite humbly.
Now by this time it had become manifest that there was to be no thunderstorm at all. There had been a few more of those quivering strokes of yellow fire (that dwelt longer on the retina than in the clouds) accompanied by some distant mutterings and rumblings; and at one point it seemed as if the dreaded shower were coming on; but all passed off gradually and quietly; the sky slowly brightened; a pale sunshine began here and there to touch the greensward and the shivering elms. This young man had no excuse for remaining here; but he seemed to forget; he was so busy talking – and talking in a very pleased and half-excited fashion, with an occasional glance across at the young lady.
"Grandfather," said Maisrie Bethune, presently, handing him the umbrella as a sort of hint.
But even when Vincent received his property back, he appeared to take no heed. He had observed that the newspaper lying on the old man's knee was the Toronto Globe; he drew attention to the circumstance; and now all his conversation was of Queen's Park, Lake Ontario, of King Street, Queen Street, Church Street, of the Exhibition Grounds, of Park Island, and Block House Bay, and the Royal Canadian Yacht Club. So he had been there too? Oh, yes, he had been all over Canada and America. He was as familiar with Idaho as with Brooklyn. He had fished in the Adirondacks and shot mountain sheep in the Rockies.
"You have been to Omaha, then?" the old man asked.
"Oh, yes, of course."
"For my granddaughter here," he continued, with a smile, "is an Omaha girl."
"Oh, indeed," said Vincent, rather breathlessly, and again he ventured to look across to Maisrie Bethune and her downcast eyes.
"Yes, but only by the accident of birth," said George Bethune, instantly, as if he must needs guard against any misapprehension. "Every drop of blood in her veins is Scotch – and of a right good quality too. Well, you have heard – you have heard. Do you think any one could understand those old Scotch airs who was not herself Scotch in heart and soul?"
"I never heard anything so beautiful," the young man answered, in an undertone; indeed, he seemed hardly capable of talking about her, any more than he could fix his eyes steadily on her face. His forced glances were timorous and fugitive. There was something sacred – that kept him at a distance. It was enough to be conscious that she was there; his only prayer was that she should remain; that he and she should be together, if a little way apart, looking at the same skies and water and trees, breathing the same air, hearkening to the same sounds. So he kept on talking to the old man, in rather a nervous and eager fashion, fearful all the time that either of them should propose to go.
And thus it came about that Vincent Harris seemed to have a good deal to say for himself; he appeared to forget that he was speaking to two strangers; rather he was chatting with two neighbours, whom he wished to be his friends. And the old man, in his self-sufficient and dignified way, was quite content to encourage this new acquaintance. His conversation was something to pass the time withal; he was modest, well-mannered, intelligent; there was an air of distinction about him that showed good up-bringing as well as some decision of character. No doubt he was of a wealthy family, or he could not have spent so much of his time in travel; by accident he had mentioned one or two well-known people as though he were in the habit of familiarly meeting with them; from some passing hint as to the nature of his studies, Mr. Bethune gathered that this pleasant-spoken, pleasant-smiling neighbour was destined for a public career. There was even something interesting, to one who had grown old and callous of the world's shows, in noting the bright enthusiasm of the young man, the clear light in his eyes, the general air of strength and ease and courage that sate lightly on him, as befitting one who was in the very May-morn of his youth.
But at last, for shame's sake, Vincent had himself to rise and break up this all too-attractive companionship. He said, with great humility:
"I am sure I ought to apologise to Miss Bethune for having taken up so much of your time. Rather an unwarrantable intrusion; but I don't think there is any chance of the rain coming now – and – and – so I will say good-bye."
"Good-bye – glad to have made your acquaintance," said old George Bethune, with a grave courtesy.
And Maisrie made him a little bow – for he was looking at her rather supplicatingly – as he raised his hat and withdrew. Their eyes had met once more: she could not well have avoided that. And of course she saw him as he walked away southward, across the bridge, until he disappeared.
"A very agreeable young man, that," said Mr. Bethune, with decision, as he rose to his feet and intimated to his granddaughter that they had better set forth again. "Frank in manner, gentle, courteous, intelligent, too – very different from most of the young men of the day."
His granddaughter was silent as she walked by his side.
"What – don't you think so, Maisrie?" he said, with a touch of impatience, for he was used to her assent.
"I think," she answered, a little proudly, "that he showed a good deal of confidence in coming to speak to you without knowing you; and as for his playing those airs in the evening, and in such a way – well, I don't like to use the word impertinence – but still – "
He was surprised; perhaps a trifle vexed.
"Impertinence? Nonsense! Nonsense! Frankness and neighbourliness – that was all; no intrusion, none: a more modest young man I have never met. And as for his coming up to speak to me, why, bless my life, that merely shows the humanizing effects of travel. It is like people meeting at a table d'hôte; and what is the world but a big table d'hôte, where you speak with your neighbour for a little while, and go your way, and forget him? Confidence? – impertinence? – nonsense! He was natural, unaffected, outspoken, as a young man should be: in fact, I found myself on such friendly terms with him that I forgot to thank him for the little service he did us – did you, I should say. Bashfulness, Maisrie," he continued, in his more sententious manner, "bashfulness and stiffness are among the worst characteristics of the untravelled and untaught. Who are we – whatever may be our lineage and pride of birth – that we should fence ourselves round with a palisade of suspicion or disdain?"
And thus he went on; but he met with no response. And he did not like it; he grew all the more emphatic about this young man; and even hinted that women were curiously perverse creatures, who evinced no toleration, or sympathy, or good nature in their judgment of their fellow beings. What was her objection? To his appearance? – he was remarkably good-looking, and refined in aspect, without a trace of effeminacy. To his manner? – he was almost humble in his anxiety to please. To his talk? – but he had shown himself most bright, good-humoured, alert, and well-informed.
"He had no right to come up and speak to you, grandfather," was all she would say, and that with a quite unusual firmness.
In the evening, after dinner, when the time came at which Maisrie was accustomed to take up her violin, there was obviously a little embarrassment. But George Bethune tried to break through that by a forced display of geniality.
"Come, now, Maisrie," said he, in a gay fashion, "our neighbour over the way was straightforward enough to come up and offer us his hand; and we must return the compliment. One good turn deserves another. Get your violin, and play something: he will understand."
"Grandfather, how can you ask me?" she said, almost indignantly; and there was that in the tone of her voice that forbade him to press her further.
But perhaps the universal stillness that prevailed thereafter conveyed some kind of reproach to her; or perhaps her heart softened a little; at all events she presently said, in rather a low voice, and with a diffident manner —
"Grandfather, if you – if you really think the young gentleman wished to be kind and obliging – and – and if you would like to show him some little politeness in return – couldn't you step across the way – and – and see him, and talk to him for a few minutes? Perhaps he would be glad of that, if he is quite alone."
"A capital idea, Maisrie," the old man said, rising at once. "A capital idea." And then he added, with an air of lofty complacency and condescension, as he selected a couple of volumes from a heap of books on the sideboard: "Perhaps I might as well take over the Mémoires with me; it is not at all unlikely he may wish to know something further about Maximilien de Bethune. I am not surprised – not at all surprised – that a young man called Harris should perceive that there is something in the grandeur of an old historical name."