Front matter (continued 2)

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."

CHAPTER IV.

STALLED OX AND A DINNER OF HERBS.

But on this particular evening, as it happened, Vincent had promised to dine at home; for his aunt was returning to Brighton on the following day; and there was to be a little farewell banquet given in her honour. Of course aunt and nephew sate together; Mrs. Ellison had arranged that; knowing that at these semi-political dinner-parties the company was frequently a trifle mixed, she took care that on one side at least she should have a pleasant neighbour. And indeed when the guests had taken their places—there were about thirty in all—the table presented a pretty sight. From end to end it was a mass of flowers; at intervals there were pyramids of ice, draped with roses, blush-red and yellow; but the candles in the tall candelabra were not lit—the softly-tinted globes of the electric light shed a sufficient and diffused lustre. It was a sumptuous entertainment; and yet there prevailed an air of elegance and refinement. When soup was served, it was not the aldermanic turtle, but a clear golden fluid with gems of crimson and green; and it was handed round in silver dishes. No one thought of a thick soup on this hot June night.

As soon as the hum of conversation became general, the tall and handsome young widow turned to her companion—who was only a year or two her junior, by the way—and with her demure and mischievous eyes grown full of meaning she said—

"Vin, what has happened to you to-day?"

"What do you mean, aunt?" he answered, with some surprise.

"Something has happened to you to-day," she went on, confidently. "You can't hoodwink me. Why have you been so radiant, so complaisant, this afternoon—why are you here, for example—when you haven't shown up at this dinner-table for weeks past?"

"And you going away to-morrow, aunt!" he exclaimed.

"No use, Vin. All of a sudden you want to be magnanimous to the whole human race; your amiability becomes almost burdensome; your eyes are full of pride and joy; and you think you can hide the transformation from me! Well, then, I will tell you, since you won't tell me: to-day you were introduced to her."

He was startled—and no wonder: had his aunt, by some extraordinary chance, witnessed that interview in Hyde Park? Mrs. Ellison's shrewd, quick eyes noticed his alarm, and laughed.

"The story is as clear as noonday," she continued, in the same undertone. "You come home every night between nine and ten. Why? Because she is an actress, playing in the first piece only; and of course the theatre loses its attraction for you the moment she has left. Now, my dear Vin, that is not the kind of thing for you at all! You'd better stop it—even although you have experienced the wild joy of being introduced to her. What do you know about her? You have been investing her with all the charming qualities of her stage heroines; you haven't learnt yet that she is a little slatternly in her dress, that her tastes in eating and drinking are rather coarse, that her tastes in literature and art aren't any—worse still, that she is already provided with a husband, a lounger about Strand public-houses, only too ready to accept your patronage and the price of a glass of gin—"

He was immensely relieved.

"Oh, you're all wrong, aunt!" he said, cheerfully. "I haven't been inside a theatre for six months!"

"You haven't?" she said, glancing at him with a kind of amused suspicion. "You are really playing the good boy with Parliamentary reports and blue books? A very admirable diligence. Other young men would be strolling in the Park, in this hot weather." And then all of a sudden she asked: "What subject were you studying to-day, Vin?"

"Thompson's Distribution of Wealth," he made answer, with equal promptitude.

"Oh. What does he say?"

"You don't want to know, aunt!"

"Yes, I do: I'm used to hearing all sorts of theories at this table—though I seldom see them put in practice."

Well, he on his side was glad enough to get away from that other and dangerous topic; and whether or not he believed in her innocent desire for knowledge, he began to discourse on the possibility of universal human happiness being reached by a voluntary equality in the distribution of the products of labour.

"Voluntary, do you see, aunt?—that is the very essence of the scheme," he rambled on, while she appeared to be listening gravely. "Thompson will have nothing to do with force; he himself points out that if you once bring in force to redress the inequalities of wealth, you leave it open for every succeeding majority to employ the same means, so that industry would be annihilated: the capitalists would not lend, the workers would not work. No, it is all to be done by mutual consent. Those who have wealth at present are not to be disturbed; what they have amassed is but a trifle compared with what the millions can produce; and it is this product of universal co-operation that is to constitute the real wealth of the world. Well, I suppose it is only a dream," he proceeded. "On the other hand, take my father's way of looking at it. He is all for State interference; the State is to appropriate everything and manage everything; and to keep on managing it, I suppose, or else things would revert to their former condition. That's where the trouble comes in, of course. The moment you allow anything like freedom of contract, how can you prevent the former condition of affairs coming into existence again? You know, after all, aunt, there is generally a reason for the institutions and social arrangements of any country; they don't spring out of nothing; they grow, and their growth is a necessity—"

"Vincent Harris," said the young widow, solemnly, "I perceive the seeds of a rabid Toryism beginning to sprout in your young mind. Wouldn't your father say that the reason for the monstrous condition of affairs now existing—I don't consider them monstrous; not I; I'm pretty well content, thank you—but wouldn't he say the reason was simply the ignorance of the people who produce and the unscrupulous greed of the other people who take the lion's share of the profits? Of course he would; and so he wants to educate the producer; and protect him by the State; and see that he isn't swindled. Go to; thou art Didymus, and an unbeliever; I suspect Lord Musselburgh has been corrupting you. Tell me," she said, irrelevantly, "who is the woman with the black curls—I did not catch her name when she was introduced to me—"

He was delighted that she showed no sign of returning to that awkward topic.

"Goodness gracious me, aunt," said he, glancing in the direction indicated, where sat an elderly lady, thin and gaunt and pale, with large lustrous black eyes, and black hair clone up in the fashion of a generation ago, "do you mean to say you don't know Madame Mikucsek?"

"Who is Madame—What-is-it?"

"You never even heard of her!" he exclaimed, in affected astonishment. "Madame Mikucsek—the discoverer of the Mystery of the East—the Prophetess of the New Religion—who has her followers and disciples all over the world—from Syria to the Himalayas—from New York to Sacramento. Really, aunt, you surprise me: you will be saying next you never heard of Bô."

"What is Bô—or who is he?" she demanded, impatiently.

"Bô," he repeated, as if he were too puzzled by her appalling ignorance to be able to explain, "why, Bô—Bô is the equivalent of the Chinese Tá. It is the principle of life; it is the beginning and the end of all things; it is the condition of the soul—and yet not quite the condition of the soul, for the soul can live outside Bô until the miracle of initiation happens. Then the soul is received into Bô, and finds that the present is non-existent, and that only the past and the future exist, the future being really the past, when once the soul has entered Bô—"

"Vin, I believe you are making a fool of me," the pretty Mrs. Ellison said, severely.

"Oh, I assure you, aunt," he said, with eyes innocent of guile, "it is the great discovery of the age—the great discovery of all time—the Sacred—the Ineffable. When you enter into Bô you lose your individuality—or rather, you never had any individuality—for individuality was a confusion of thought, a product of the present, and the present, as I have explained to you, my dear aunt, ceases to exist when you have entered Bô. Did I tell you that Bô is sentient? Yes, but yet not a being; though there are manifestations, mysterious and ecstatic; and the disciples write to each other on the first day of each month, and tell each other what trances they have been in, and what spiritual joy they have received. These reports are sent to Madame Mikucsek; and they are published in a journal that circulates among the initiated; but the phraseology is hieratic, the outside world could make nothing of it. As for her, she is not expected to reveal anything—what she experiences transcends human speech, and even human thought—"

"I saw the woman mopping up gravy with a piece of bread," said Mrs. Ellison, with frowning eyebrows.

"Bô," continued the young man, very seriously, "as far as I have been able to make it out, consists of a vast sphere; elliptical, however: the zenith containing all human aspiration, the base consisting of forgotten evil. When you once enter this magic circle, you are lost, you are transformed, you are here and yet not here; to be does not signify to be but not to be; and not to be is the highest good except not to have been. Bô, when once you have received the consecration, and bathed in the light, and perceived the altitudes and the essential deeps and cognisances—"

"Ought to be written Bosh," said she, briefly. "I will not hear any more of that nonsense. And I believe you are only humbugging me: Madame What's-her-name looks more like the widow of a French Communist. Now listen to me, Vin, for I am going away to-morrow. I am glad I was mistaken about the actress; but take care; don't get into scrapes. I shan't be happy till I see you married. Ordinarily a man should not marry until he is thirty or five-and-thirty—if he is five-and-forty so much the better—but even at five-and-thirty, he may have acquired a little judgment; he may be able to tell how much honesty there is in the extreme amiability and unselfishness and simplicity that a young woman can assume, or whether she is likely to turn out an ill-conditioned, cross-grained, and sulking brute. Oh, you needn't laugh: it's no laughing matter, as you'll find out, my young friend. But you—you are different; you are no schoolboy; you've seen the world—too much of it, for you've learnt disrespect for your elders, and try to bamboozle them with accounts of sham systems of philosophy or religion or whatever it is. I say you ought to marry young; but not an elderly woman, as many a young man does, for money or position. Good gracious, no! You'll have plenty of money; your father isn't just yet going to sell this silver dinner-service—which I detest, for it always looks more greasy than china, and besides you feel as if you were scoring it with the edge of your knife all the time—I say he isn't going to sell his silver and distribute unto the poor just yet. As for position, you've got to make that for yourself: would you owe it to your wife? Very well," proceeded his pretty monitress, in her easy and prattling fashion; "come down to Brighton for a week or two. I will ask the Drexel girls; you will have them all to yourself, to pick and choose from, but Louie is my favourite. You have no idea how delightful Brighton is in June—the inland drives are perfect, so cool and shaded with trees, when you know where to go, that is. If you come down I'll make up a party and take you all to Ascot: Mrs. Bourke has offered me her house for the week—isn't that good-natured, when she could easily have let it?—and I have to telegraph yes or no to-morrow. I hadn't intended going myself; but if you say you will come down, I will accept; and I know I can get the Drexel girls."

"It is so kind of you, aunt; so very kind," he said; "but I really can't get away. You know I don't care much about racing—

"But Louie Drexel isn't racing."

"I'm very sorry, but you must excuse me, aunt," he said contritely.

"Oh—distribution of wealth—supply and demand—sugar-bounties and blue-books—is that it? Well, well, what the young men of the present day are coming to—"

She could say no more; for at this moment her neighbour, an elderly and learned gentleman from Oxford, addressed her. He had not hitherto uttered a word, having paid strict attention to every dish and every wine (albeit he was a lean and famished-looking person); but now he remarked that the evenings were hot for the middle of June. He spoke of the danger of having recourse to iced fluids. Then he went on to compare the bathing of the Greeks and Romans with the ablutions of the English—until he was offered strawberries, whereupon, having helped himself largely, he fell into a business-like silence again.

When at length the ladies had gone upstairs, Lord Musselburgh came and took the seat just vacated by Mrs. Ellison.

"I have a commission from your father, Vin," said he. "I am to persuade you of the sweet reasonableness of his project—that you should for a time become the private secretary of Mr. Ogden."

"The private secretary of a man who hasn't an h!" retorted Master Vin, with scorn.

"What has that to do with it?" the young nobleman said, coolly. "No. After all, there is something in what your father says. He believes that the next great political and social movement will be the emancipation of the wage-earner—the securing to the producer his fair share of the products of his labour. If that is so, it will be a big thing. It will be years before it comes off, no doubt; but then there will be a great wave of public opinion; and if you are prepared—if you are there—if you are identified with this tremendous social revolution, why, that magnificent wave will peacefully and calmly lift you into the Cabinet. I think that's about his notion. Very well. If you are willing to take up this work, how could you begin better than by becoming private secretary to Josiah Ogden? There you would come into direct touch with the masses; you would get to know at first hand what they are thinking of, what they are hoping for; subsequently, you could speak with authority. Then there's another thing, Vin. If you want to become a figure in public life in England, if you want to build a splendid monument for yourself, you should begin at the base. Capture the multitude; be as red-hot a Radical as they can desire; and they won't mind what you do afterwards. You may accept office; you may be petted by Royalty; but they will rather like it—they will look on it as a compliment paid to one of themselves. And that is where Ogden would come in. He, too, is one of themselves—though he has his hired brougham when he comes to town, and his big dinners at the Menagerie Club. What have you got to do with his h's? If I want to back a horse, or order a pair of boots, or have my hair cut, what does it matter to me whether the man has an h, or a superfluity of h's? You make him useful to you; you get what you want; isn't that enough?"

"Oh, no, it is not," Vincent rejoined—but respectfully, for he never forgot that Lord Musselburgh was his senior by very nearly five years. "You see, you don't go into partnership with your hairdresser, and you don't put your name over the bootmaker's shop. And I shouldn't learn much from Mr. Ogden, for I don't believe in his machine-made politics—everything to be done by committees, and resolutions, and majorities. I expect to find him starting a Society for the Suppression of Punch and Judy Shows, so that the infantile mind of England may not be corrupted by exhibitions of brutality."

"He is a very able man, let me tell you that," said Musselburgh, with decision. "And a capital speaker—a slogger, of course, but that is wanted for big crowds. And sometimes he turns out a neat thing. Did you notice what he said at Sheffield the other day—telling the working men not to be too grateful for rich men's charities—for recreation grounds, drinking fountains, and the like? What he said was this—'When the capitalist has robbed Peter, it is easy for him to salve his conscience by throwing a crust to Paul'—not bad. I think you might do worse, Vin, than become Ogden's private secretary. Pretty hard work, of course; but the modern young man, in politics, is supposed to be thoroughly in earnest: if he isn't he will have to reckon with the evening papers, for they don't like to be trifled with."

The subject was not a grateful one, apparently; Vincent changed it.

"Do you remember," he said, with some little diffidence, "that—that I was in your house one afternoon a few weeks ago when an old gentleman called—and—and his granddaughter—"

"The perfervid old Scotchman—yes!"

"How did you come to know him?" the young man asked, with downcast eyes.

"I hardly recollect. Let me see. I think he first of all wrote to me, enclosing a note of introduction he had brought from a friend of mine in New York—a brother Scot. Then, as you saw, he called, and told me something further about a book he is going to bring out; and I gave him some little assistance—I don't think he is above accepting a few sovereigns from any one to help him on his way through the world."

Vin Harris flushed hotly—and he raised his head and looked his friend straight in the face as he put the next question.

"But—but he is a gentleman!—his name—his family—even his bearing—"

"Oh, yes, yes, I suppose so," Lord Musselburgh said, lightly. "Poor old fellow, I was glad to lend him a helping hand. I think his enthusiasm, his patriotism, was genuine; and it is a thing you don't often meet with nowadays."

"Yes—but—but—-" Vincent said, with a good deal of embarrassment, and yet with some touch of half-indignant remonstrance, "the money you gave him—that was to aid him in bringing out the book, wasn't it?"

"Certainly, certainly!" the other made answer—he did not happen to notice the expression on his friend's face. "Something about Scotland—Scotch poetry—I think when he wrote he said something about a dedication, but that is an honour I hardly covet."

"In any case," observed the young man, "you have no right to say he would accept money from—from anyone—from a stranger."

Then Lord Musselburgh did look up—struck by something in his companion's tone.

"Did I say that? I'm sure I don't know. Of course it was on account of the book that I ventured to give him some little help—oh, yes, certainly—I should not have ventured otherwise. If he had been offended, I dare say he would have said so; but I fancy the old gentleman has had to overcome his pride before now. He seems to have led a curious, wandering life. By the way, Vin, weren't you very much impressed by the young lady—I remember your saying something—"

Fortunately there was no need for Vincent to answer this question; for now there began a general movement on the part of the remaining guests to go upstairs to the drawing-room; and in this little bit of a bustle he escaped from further cross-examination.

When at the end of the evening all the people had gone away, and when Harland Harris had shut himself up in his study to finish his correspondence—for he was going down the next morning to a Congress of Co-operative Societies at Ipswich—Mrs. Ellison and her nephew found themselves alone in the drawing-room; and the fair young widow must needs return to the subject she had been discoursing upon at dinner—namely, that this young man, in order to guard against pitfalls and embroilments, should get married forthwith.

"You seem anxious that I should marry," said he, bluntly; "why don't you get married yourself?"

"Oh, no, thank you!" she replied, with promptitude. "I know when I have had—" Apparently she was on the point of saying that she knew when she had had enough; but that would not have been complimentary to the memory of the deceased; so she abruptly broke off—and then resumed. "It isn't necessary for me to make any further experiments in life; but for you, with such a splendid future before you, it is a necessity. As for me, I mean to let well alone. And it is well—very well. I do believe, Vin, that I am the only woman on this earth—"

"What?" he said.

"—who is really contented. I am too happy. Sometimes I'm afraid; it seems as if I had no right to it. Why, when I come downstairs in the morning, and draw an easy-chair to the open windows—especially when there is a breeze coming off the sea, and the sun-blinds are out, and the balcony nicely shaded, you know—I mean at home, in Brunswick Terrace—well, when I take up the newspaper and begin to read about what's going on—as if it was all some kind of a distant thing—I feel so satisfied with the quiet and the coolness and the sea-air that I am bound to do a little kindness to somebody, and so I turn to the columns where appeals are made for charity. I don't care what it is; I'm so well content that I must give something to somebody—distressed Irish widows, sailors' libraries, days in the country, anything. I dare say I sometimes give money where I shouldn't; but how am I to know?—and at any rate it pleases me."

"But why shouldn't you be happy, aunt?" said the young man. "You are so good-humoured, and so kind, and so nice to look at, that it is no wonder you are such a favourite, with men especially."

"Oh, yes," she said, frankly. "Men are always nice to you—except the one you happen to marry; and I'm not going to spoil the situation. At present they're all sweetness, and that suits me: I'm not going to give any one of them the chance of showing himself an ungrateful brute. When I come downstairs at Brighton, I like to see only one cup on the breakfast-table, and to feel that I have the whole room to myself. Selfish?—then you can make amends by sending something to the Children's Hospital or the People's Palace or something of that kind."

"Do you know, aunt," he observed, gravely, "what Mr. Ogden says of you? He says that, having robbed Peter, you try to salve your conscience by throwing a crust to Paul."

"When did I rob Peter?—what Peter?" she said, indignantly.

"You are a capitalist—you have more than your own share—you possess what you do not work for—therefore you are a robber and a plunderer. I am sorry for you, aunt; but Mr. Ogden has pronounced your doom—

"Mr. Ogden——!" she said, with angry brows—and then she stopped.

"Yes, aunt?" he said, encouragingly.

"Oh, nothing. But I tell you this, Vin. You were talking of the proper distribution of wealth. Well, when you come to marry, and if I approve of the girl, I mean to distribute a little of my plunder—of my ill-gotten gains—in that direction: she shan't come empty-handed. That is, if I approve of her, you understand. And the best thing you can do is to alter your mind and come down to Brighton for a week or two; and I'll send for the Drexel girls and perhaps one or two more. If you can't just at present, you may later on. Now I'm going off to my room; and I'll say good-bye as well as good-night; for I don't suppose I shall see you in the morning.

"Good-night, then, and good-bye, aunt!" said he, as he held her hand for a second; and that was the last that he saw of her for some considerable time.

For a great change was about to take place in this young man's position and circumstances, in his interests, and ambitions, and trembling hopes. He was about to enter wonderland—that so many have entered, stealthily and almost fearing—that so many remember, and perhaps would fain forget. Do any remain in that mystic and rose-hued region? Some, at least, have never even approached it; for its portals are not easily discoverable, are not discoverable at all, indeed, except by the twin torches of imagination and abolition of self.

When he went up to his chambers the next morning he was surprised to find a card lying on the table; he had not expected a visitor in this secluded retreat. And when he glanced at the name, he was still more perturbed. What an opportunity he had missed! Perhaps Mr. Bethune had brought an informal little invitation for him—the first overture of friendliness? He might have spent the evening in the hushed, small parlour over the way, with those violin strains vibrating through the dusk; or, with the lights ablaze, he might have sate and listened to the old man's tales of travel, while Maisrie Bethune would be sitting at her needle-work, but looking up from time to time—each glance a world's wonder! And what had he had in exchange?—a vapid dinner-party; some talk about socialism; an invitation that he should descend into the catacombs of North of England politics and labour mole-like there to no apparent end; finally, a promise that if he would only marry the young lady of Mrs. Ellison's choice—presumably one of her American friends—his bride should have some additional dowry to recommend her. What were all those distant schemes, and even the brilliant future that everybody seemed to prophesy for him, to the bewildering possibilities that were almost within his reach? He went to the window. The pots of musk, and lobelia, and ox-eye daisies, in the little balcony over there, and also the Virginia creeper intertwisting its sprays through the iron bars, seemed fresh: no doubt she had sprinkled them with water before leaving with her grandfather. And had they gone to Hyde Park as usual? He was sorely tempted to go in search; but something told him this might provoke suspicions; so he resolutely hauled in a chair to the table and set to work with his books and annotations—though sometimes there came before his eyes a nebulous vision, as of a sheet of silver-grey water and a shimmering of elms.

In the afternoon he went out and bought a clothes-brush, a couple of hair-brushes, some scented soap, and other toilet requisites—of which he had not hitherto known the need in these chambers; and about five o'clock or a little thereafter, having carefully removed the last speck from his coat-sleeve, he crossed the way, and rather timidly knocked at the door. It was opened by the landlady's daughter, who appeared at once surprised and pleased on finding who this visitor was.

"Is Mr. Bethune at home?" he demanded—with some vaguely uncomfortable feeling that this damsel's eyes looked too friendly. She seemed to understand everything—to have been expecting him.

"Oh, yes, sir."

"May I go upstairs?"

He gave no name; but she did not hesitate for a moment. She led the way upstairs; she tapped lightly; and in answer to Mr. Bethune's loud "Come in!" she opened the door, and said—

"The young gentleman, sir,"—a form of announcement that might have struck Vincent as peculiar if he had not been much too occupied to notice.

"Ah, how do you do—how do you do?" old George Bethune (who was alone) called out, and he pushed aside his book and came forward with extended hand. "Nothing like being neighbourly; solitary units in the great sea of London life have naturally some interest in each other: you would gather that I looked in on you last night—"

"Yes," said the young man, as he took the proffered chair. "I am very sorry I happened to be out—I had to dine at home last evening—"

"At home?" repeated Mr. Bethune, looking for the moment just a trifle puzzled.

"Oh, yes," said his visitor, rather nervously. "Perhaps I didn't explain. I don't live over there, you know. I only have the rooms for purposes of study; the place is so quiet I can get on better than at home; there are no interruptions—"

"Except a little violin-playing?" the old man suggested, good-naturedly.

"I wish there were more of that, sir," Vincent observed, respectfully. "That was only in the evenings; and I used to wait for it, to tell you the truth, as a kind of unintentional reward after my day's work. But of late I have heard nothing; I hope that Miss Bethune was not offended that I ventured to—to open my piano at the same time—"

"Oh, not at all—I can hardly think so," her grandfather said, airily. "She also has been busy with her books of late—it is Dante, I believe, at present—and as I insist on her always reading aloud, whatever the language is, she goes upstairs to her own room; so that I haven't seen much of her in the evenings. Now may I offer you a cigar?"

"No, thank you."

"Or a glass of claret?"

"No, thanks."

"Then tell me what your studies are, that we may become better acquainted."

And Vincent was about to do that when the door behind him opened. Instinctively he rose and turned. The next instant Maisrie Bethune was before him—looking taller, he thought, than he had, in Hyde Park, imagined her to be. She saluted him gravely and without embarrassment; perhaps she had been told of his arrival; it was he who was, for the moment, somewhat confused, and anxious to apologise and explain. But, curiously enough, that was only a passing phase. When once he had realised that she also was in the room—not paying much attention, perhaps, but listening when she chose, as she attended to some flowers she had brought for the central table—all his embarrassment fled, and his natural buoyancy and confidence came to his aid. She, on her side, seemed to consider that she was of no account; that she was not called upon to interfere in this conversation between her grandfather and his guest. When she had finished with the flowers, she went to the open window, and took her seat, opening out some needlework she had carried thither. The young man could see she had beautiful hands—rather long, perhaps, but exquisitely formed: another wonder! But the truly extraordinary thing—the enchantment—was that here he was in the same room with her, likely to become her friend, and already privileged to speak so that she could hear!

For of course he was aware that he had an audience of two; and very well he talked, in his half-excited mood. There was no more timidity; there was a gay self-assertion—a desire to excel and shine; sometimes he laughed, and his laugh was musical. He had skillfully drawn from the old man a confession of political faith (of course he was a Conservative, as became one of the Bethunes of Balloray), so all chance of collision was avoided on that point; and indeed Vin Harris was ready to have sworn that black was white, so eager was he to make an impression, on this his first, and wondrous visit.

The time went by all too quickly; but the young man had become intoxicated by this unexpected joy; instead of getting up and apologising, and taking his hat, and going away, he boldly threw out the suggestion that these three—these solitary units in the great sea of London life, as George Bethune had called them—should determine to spend the evening together. He did not seem to be aware of the audacity of his proposal; he was carrying everything before him in a high-handed fashion; the touch of colour that rose to Maisrie Bethune's cheek—what of that? Oh, yes, maiden shyness, no doubt; but of little consequence; here were the golden moments—here the golden opportunity: why should they separate?

"You see," said he, "I don't care to inconvenience our people at home by my uncertain hours; and so of late I have taken to dining at a restaurant, just when I felt inclined; and I have got to know something of the different places. I think we might go out for a little stroll, as the evening will be cooler now, and wander on until we see a quiet and snug-looking corner. There is something in freedom of choice; and you may catch sight of a bay window, or of a recess with flowers in it, and a bit of a fountain that tempts the eye—"

"What do you say, Maisrie?" the old gentleman inquired.

"You go, grandfather," the girl replied at once, but without raising her head. "It will be a pleasant change for you. I would rather remain at home."

"Oh, but I should never have proposed such a thing," Vincent interposed, hastily, "if it meant that Miss Bethune was to be left here alone, certainly not! I—I decline to be a party to any such arrangement—oh, I could not think of such a thing!"

"You'd better come, Maisrie," said the old man, with some air of authority.

"Very well, grandfather," she said, obediently; and straightway she rose and left the room.

Master Vin's heart beat high; here were wonders upon wonders; in a short space he would be walking along the pavements of London town with Maisrie Bethune by his side (or practically so) and thereafter he and she would be seated at the same table, almost within touch of each other. Would the wide world get to hear of this marvellous thing? Would the men and women whom they encountered in Oxford-street observe and conjecture, and perhaps pass on with some faint vision of that beautiful and pensive face imprinted on their memory? By what magic freak of fortune had he came to be so favoured? Those people in Oxford-street were all strangers to her, and would remain strangers; he alone would be admitted to the sacred privacies of her companionship and society; but a few minutes more, and he would be instructing himself in her little ways and preferences, each one a happy secret to be kept wholly to himself. But the entranced young man was hardly prepared for what now followed. When the door opened again, and Maisrie Bethune reappeared (her eyes were averted from him, and there was a self-conscious tinge of colour in her pale and thoughtful face) she seemed to have undergone some sudden transformation. The youthful look lent to her appearance by the long and loose-flowing locks and by her plain dress of blue and white linen had gone; and here was a young lady apparently about twenty, tall, self-possessed (notwithstanding that tinge of colour) and grave in manner. A miracle had been wrought!—and yet she had only plaited up her hair, tying it with a bit of blue ribbon, and donned a simple costume of cream-coloured cashmere. She was putting on her gloves now; and he thought that long hands were by far the most beautiful of any.

Well, it was all a bewilderment—this walking along the London streets under the pale saffron of the evening sky, listening to the old man's emphatic monologue, but far more intent on warning Miss Bethune of the approach of a cab, when she was about to cross this or the other thoroughfare. Once he touched her arm in his anxiety to check her; he had not intended to do so; and it was he who was thunderstruck and ashamed; she did not appear to have noticed. And then again he was afraid lest she should be tired before they reached the particular restaurant he had in mind; to which old George Bethune replied that his granddaughter did not know what fatigue was; he and she could walk for a whole day, strolling through the parks or along the streets, with absolute ease and comfort, as became vagrants and world-wanderers.

"Though I am not so sure it is altogether good for Maisrie here," he continued. "It may be that that has kept her thin—she is too thin for a young lass. She is all spirit; she has no more body than a daddy long-legs."

Vincent instantly offered to call a cab—which they refused; but he was not beset by wild alarms; he knew that, however slight she might be, the natural grace and elegance of her carriage could only be the outcome of a symmetrical form in conjunction with elastic health. That conclusion he had arrived at in the Park; but now he noticed another thing—that, as she walked, the slightly-swaying arms had the elbow well in to the waist, and the wrist turned out, and that quite obviously without set purpose. It was a pretty movement; but it was more than merely graceful; it was one mark of a well-balanced figure, even as was her confident step. For her step could be confident enough, and the set of her head proud enough—if she mostly kept her eyes to the ground.

It was an Italian restaurant they entered at last; and Vincent was so fortunate as to find a recess-compartment, which he knew of, vacant. They were practically dining in a private room; but all the same they could when they chose glance out upon the large saloon, with its little white tables, and its various groups of olive-complexioned or English-complexioned guests. The young man assumed the management of this small festivity from the outset. He ordered a flask of Chianti for Mr. Bethune and himself; and then he would have got something lighter—some sparkling beverage—for the young lady, but that she told him that she drank no wine. Why, he said to himself, he might have known!—

'for in her veins

Ran blood as pure and cool as summer rains.'

And as this modest little repast went on, perhaps Vincent was comparing it with the banquet of the night before. Ah, there had been no enhancement, no enthralling ecstacy and delight, about that entertainment, sumptuous as it was. Here was some food—he hardly looked at it—he did not know what it was, and did not care—which would have to be paid for at the rate of 3/6 per head; but as compared with this frugal festivity, the splendours of the preceding evening—the masses of roses, the pyramids of ice, the silver candelabra, and all the rest—shrank into insignificance. 'Here there was a nameless glamour filling all the air; a palpitation of hope, and a curious dumb sense of gratitude as if for favours unexpected and undeserved; all the coming years of his life seemed to be shining there in her eyes—so that he hardly dared to look, so full of fear, and yet of a breathless joy and wonder, was the revelation, when she happened to glance towards him. And on her side, she appeared to be a little less reserved and distant than she had hitherto been. She seemed grateful for the trouble the young man had taken on behalf of her grandfather and herself; sometimes, when in his eager talk he said something that interested her, she raised her head, with a smile in her eyes. A wonderful banquet, truly, though not so imposing as that of the previous night. He learned that she was immensely fond of propelling a gondola (the forward oar only; she wanted another oar astern to steer) and here was another amazingly interesting fact, to be for ever and ever remembered.

As for the old man (for the world was not created solely for young folk) he was at once gay and oracular.

"These little breaks and diversions," he was saying, as he stirred his coffee—the time of cigarettes having now arrived, "are useful things—useful things; an affair of the moment, truly; but the wise man makes of the passing moment as much as he possibly can. Why, the real curse of modern life—the ineradicable disease—is the habit of continually looking before and after. We none of us think enough of the present moment; we are anxiously speculating as to the future; or, what is worse still, fretting over the memory of past injuries and past mistakes. That is where the uneducated, the unimaginative, have their consolation; we are not half so happy and content as the stolid ploughman or the phlegmatic bricklayer who thinks only of the present heat, or the present cold, or, at furthest, of the next pint of beer, and of the prospect of getting to bed, with the knowledge that he will sleep sound. The actual and immediate things before them are the things that interest them; not the unknown future, or the useless past. But I have schooled myself, thanks in a great measure to Horace—and my granddaughter knows her Horace too—and I think I keep as stout a heart as most. Dum loquimur, of course, fugerit invida ætas; but even while I know that the night presses down upon me, and the shadowy fathers, and the empty halls of Pluto, I put the knowledge away from me; I am content with the present moment; I am more than content, for example, with this very excellent cigarette—"

"Would you allow me to send you a few boxes?" interposed Vincent, at once and eagerly. "I think the cork mouthpiece is a great improvement. I know where they are to be got. May I send you some?"

"I thank you; but they are not much in my way," the old man said, with a certain loftiness of demeanour. "As I was remarking, the time has gone by for unavailing regrets over what has been done to me and mine. I think I may say that throughout we have shown a bold front. 'Stand fast, Craig-Royston!' has not been our watchword for nothing. And as for the future—why, 'to the gods belongs to-morrow!' The anticipation of evil will not remove it: the recalling of bygone injuries provides no compensation. 'The present moment is our ain; the neist we never saw;' and so, as we have had a pleasant evening so far, I think we may as well get away home again; and, Maisrie, you will get out your violin, and we'll have some Scotch songs, and my young friend and I will taste just a drop of Scotch whisky; and if there's any better combination than that in the world, I do not know of it."

But here a very awkward incident occurred. Old George Bethune, in his grand manner, called to the waiter to bring the bill. Now Vincent had intended to steal out and arrange this little matter without allowing the young lady to have any cognisance of it; but of course the waiter, when summoned, came up to the table, and proceeded to pencil out the account.

"I think, sir," put in the young man, modestly, "you'd better let me have that. It was my proposal, you know."

"Oh, very well," said Mr. Bethune, carelessly; and as carelessly he handed over the slip of paper he had just taken from the waiter.

But the quick look of pain and humiliation that swept over the girl's face stabbed the young man to the heart.

"Grandfather!" she said, with a burning flush.

"Oh, well," her grandfather said, petulantly; "I have just discovered that I have left my purse behind. Some other time—it is all the same—it is immaterial—the next time will be my turn—"

"Here is my purse, grandfather," she said; and she turned with an air of quiet firmness to her younger neighbour, and merely said "If you please!" He was too bewildered to refuse: there was something in her manner that compelled him to accede without a word of protest. She pushed her purse and the slip of paper across the table to her grandfather; and then she rose, and turned to seek her sun-shade, which Vincent forthwith brought to her. The curious mingling of simplicity and dignity with which she had interposed impressed him strangely: perhaps she was not so much of a school-girl as she had seemed when he first saw her walking through Hyde Park? Then the three of them left the restaurant together; and quietly made their way home through the gathering twilight.

But he would not go in when they arrived at their door, though the old man again put Scotch music and Scotch whisky before him as an inducement. Perhaps he dreaded to outstay his welcome. He bade them both good-night; and Maisrie Bethune, as she parted from him, was so kind as to say "Thank you so much!" with the briefest, timid glance of her all-too-eloquent eyes.

He went across to his own rooms—merely for form's sake. He did not light the gas when he got upstairs. He carefully shut the window; then he sate down to the piano; and very gently and quietly he played a graceful little air. It was "Dormez, dormez, ma belle!"; and it was a kind of farewell message for the night; but he had made sure that she should not hear.

CHAPTER V.

QU' MON COEUR EN MARIAGE.

When Maisrie Bethune and her grandfather returned home after the little dinner at the restaurant she went upstairs to her own room, while he proceeded to summon the landlady's husband from the lower deeps. Forthwith the pallid-faced and nervous-eyed Hobson appeared; and he seemed to be more obsequious than ever towards the great man who had deigned to patronise his humble literary efforts, and had even got some of his verses printed in the Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle.

"Very hot evening, sir—yes, sir—would you like me to go and fetch you a little hice, sir?" said he, in his eager desire to please. "No trouble, sir, if agreeable to you—remarkably 'ot for June, sir—theatres doing nothing, sir—only the ballet: you see, sir, the young ladies have so little on that they look cool and airy-like, and I suppose, sir, that's why the ballet is so popular—yes, sir, my brother-in-law, the theatrical agent—"

"Look here, Hobson," Mr. Bethune observed, as if he had not heard a word, "you have no doubt noticed a young gentleman who occupies rooms over the way?"

"Oh, yes, sir—a very handsome young man," he answered—or rather, what he actually did say was "a werry ensome young men."

"I have just made his acquaintance." Mr. Bethune continued, in his lofty fashion, "and naturally I should like to know something more of him, though I could not be guilty of the rudeness of asking him questions about himself. For example, I should be glad to know where he lives—he only uses those rooms during the day, you understand; and I presume that would be a simple thing for you to ascertain—discreetly, I mean, discreetly—without any impertinent intrusion."

"Oh, yes, sir," said Hobson, his dull face lighting up with pleasure at the notion of being able to do his patron a service. "Yes, yes, sir; I can find out; what more simple?"

At this very moment there was the sound of a door being shut on the opposite side of the street. Hobson stepped to the open window; and instantly withdrew his head again.

"He has just gone out, sir—I will follow him."

"But discreetly, Hobson, discreetly," was the old gentleman's final injunction, as his humble and zealous emissary departed.

When Maisrie Bethune came downstairs again, she was in her ordinary dress of striped linen; and she seemed pleased with the evening's adventure; and was more talkative than usual.

"It will be very pleasant for you, grandfather," said she, "to have so intelligent and interesting a neighbour—don't you think so? For though he is young, he seems to know everything, and to have been everywhere; and I am sure, you and he, grandfather, found plenty of things to talk about. I have just been wondering whether it is possible he could have come to Toronto while we were living there. Wouldn't that have been strange? Perhaps we have passed him while we were walking along King-street; perhaps he may have come round the corner by the Bank of Montreal when we were going into Yonge-street—and not a yard between us! But no," she continued, musingly, "I hardly imagine it could have been. I think I should have noticed him, and remembered. Don't you think you would have noticed him, grandfather? He is not like any one else—I mean he is not the kind of person you would pass in the street without remarking—I don't think you would forget. Oh, yes, I am very glad for your sake, grandfather, that you have made his acquaintance; and I hope you will become good friends—although he is young. You want some one to talk to—and not that dreadful Hobson—I can't bear your talking to Hobson, grandfather—"

"I am no respecter of persons, Maisrie," said the old man, pompously, "so long as people know their place, and keep it."

"But that is just the worst of Hobson, grandfather!" she exclaimed. "His fawning and cringing is so despicable. He is not a man at all. And you should tell him the truth about those verses of his, grandfather: I can't imagine how you see anything in them—"

"There have been worse—there have been worse," said Mr. Bethune, with a magnanimous toleration. "And on the two occasions on which I got the Chronicle to let him see himself in print, the gratitude of the poor creature was quite pathetic. A little act of kindness is never thrown away, Maisrie, my dear. So now you'll just get out your violin, and for a little while we will cross the Border, and forget that we are here in the heart of this stifling London."

But Maisrie begged to be excused. She said she was rather tired, and was going back to her own room very soon. And indeed, when she had brought her grandfather his accustomed hot water, and sugar, and spirits, and generally made everything comfortable for him, she kissed him and bade him good night and went away upstairs.

It was not to go to bed, however. Having lit the gas, she proceeded to hunt among her books until she discovered a little album entitled "Views of Toronto;" and having spread that open on her dressing-table, she drew in a chair, and, with her elbows resting on the table, and her head between her hands, began to pore over those pictures of the long thoroughfares and the pavements and the public buildings. She seemed to find the rather ill-executed lithographs interesting—so interesting that we may leave her there with her eyes fixed intently on the brown pages.

Meanwhile Hobson had fulfilled his mission, and returned with the address of the house into which he had seen the young man disappear; and not only that, but he volunteered to gain any further information that Mr. Bethune might wish; it would be easy for him, he said, to make the acquaintance of one of the menservants in Grosvenor Place.

"Not at all—not at all!" the old man made response, with an affectation of indifference. "I have no wish to pry. Indeed, I cannot say that I have any particular curiosity in the matter. And you need not mention to any one that I know even as much as that. I cannot recall now what made me ask—a momentary impulse—nothing of any consequence—for in truth it matters little to me where the young man lives. Well, good-night, Hobson—and thank you."

"Good-night, sir," said Hobson, with his eyes dwelling lingeringly on the hot water and whisky. But he received no invitation (for old George Bethune was more amenable to his granddaughter's remonstrances than he himself was aware) and so, with another effusive "Good-night!" the landlady's husband humbly withdrew.

Sometimes, after Maisrie had gone to bed, or, at least, retired to her own room, her grandfather would wander away out in the streets by himself. The night air was cool; there were fewer passers-by to impede his aimless peregrinations; sheltered by the dark and the dull lamp-light, he could lift up his voice and sing "London's bonnie woods and braes," or "Cam' ye by Athol," or "There's nae Covenant now, lassie," when he happened to be in the mood, as he generally was. And on this particular evening he sallied forth; but the straight-forward direction of his steps showed that he had an objective point. He went along Oxford-street, and down Regent-street; and eventually, by way of Garrick-street, Covent Garden, and the Strand, reached Fleet-street, where he stopped at a building almost wholly consisting of offices of country newspapers. At this time of the night the place was at its busiest—a hive of industry: messengers coming and going, the operators assiduous at the special wires, the London correspondents constructing their letters out of the latest news, with a little imagination thrown in here and there to lend colour. Old George Bethune ascended to the first floor, passed into the premises owned by the Edinburgh Chronicle (Daily and Weekly) and was admitted to an inner room, where he found Mr. Courtnay Fox. Now Mr. Fox—a heavy and somewhat ungainly person, who rolled from side to side as he crossed the room, and whose small blue eyes twinkled behind his spectacles with a sort of easy and ready sarcasm—did not like being interrupted; but, on the other hand, Mr. Bethune was a friend, or at least a favoured acquaintance, of the chief proprietor of the Chronicle, and the London correspondent was therefore bound to be civil; so he asked the old man what he could do for him.

"If you have anything for the Weekly," he observed, "you'd much better send it on direct to Edinburgh, instead of sending it down here. That will save one postage—a point which I should have thought would occur to a Scotch mind," he added, with a bit of a half-concealed grin.

"You are always girding at Scotland, Mr. Fox," George Bethune said, good-naturedly.

"I? Oh, not I. I'm sure no one admires the virtues of economy and frugality more than I do. That is why I am pretty certain Shakespeare must have lived in Scotland—I don't mean 'The rain it raineth every day'—but 'a tanner will last you nine year.' Now how could he have learned that money could be made to go so far but by observation of the Scotch?"

"I know this," said the old man, with some dignity, "that few have seen so much of the world as I have, in various countries and climes; and the most generous and hospitable people—generous and hospitable to the point of extravagance—I have ever met with have invariably been the Scotch. It may suit you to revile the country from which you get your living—"

"Oh, I meant nothing so serious, I assure you," the ponderous journalist said at once. "Come, tell me what I can do for you."

"I should like to look at the Post Office Directory first, if I may."

Courtnay Fox waddled across the room and returned with the heavy volume: Mr. Bethune turned to the street and number that had been furnished him by his spy, and discovered that the name given was Harland Harris—no doubt Vincent Harris's father.

"Ah, yes," the old man said. "Now I can tell you what I want; and I am certain I have come to the right place for information. For while you revile my countrymen, Mr. Fox, because you don't know them, I wonder whom amongst your own countrymen—who have any position at all—you don't know?"

This was an adroit piece of flattery: for it was a foible of the fat correspondent to affect that he knew everybody—and knew no good of anybody.

"Of course the man I mean may be a nobody—or a nonentity—and a very respectable person as well," continued Mr. Bethune, "but his son, whose acquaintance I have made, talks as if his name were familiar to the public. Mr. Harland Harris—"

"Harland Harris!" the journalist exclaimed—but with much complacency, for he might have been found wanting. "Don't you know Harland Harris?—or, at least, haven't you heard of him?"

"I have lived much out of England," the old man said.

"And you want me to tell you who and what Harland Harris is? Is that it? Well, then, I will. To begin with," proceeded Mr. Courtnay Fox, with a baleful light in his small twinkling eyes, "he is a solemn and portentous ass—a pedantic prig—a combination of a drill sergeant and a schoolmaster, with the self-sufficiency of—of—I don't know what. He is an enormously wealthy man—who preaches the Divine Beauty of Poverty; a socialist—who would abolish the income-tax, and have all taxation indirect; a Communist—who can eat only off gold plate. This sham Jean Jacques would not only abandon his children, he would let the whole human race go to the mischief, as long as you left him on a pinnacle, with a M.S. lecture in his hand. Harland Harris! Do you want to know any more? Well, I will tell you this, that long ago his vanity would have inflated and burst him only that he was defeated in his candidature for the Lord Rectorship of Edinburgh University—and that let out a little of the gas. But even now his inconsistencies are colossal—almost a madness; I think he must be drunk with a sense of his own superiority, as George Sand says—"

"He does not seem to have made a very favourable impression on you," said Mr. Bethune slowly and thoughtfully.

"Did he ever on any human being?" the other retorted. "Not any one that ever I heard of!"

"And his son—do you know anything of him?"

Mr. Courtnay Fox was not likely to admit that he knew nothing.

"Oh," said he, scornfully, "the enfant gâté of the political world. —— has made a pet of him; and so people imagine there is something in him. Of course he'll talk for a few years about universal brotherhood and the advancement of humanity and that kind of stuff; and then, when he succeeds to his father's money, he'll make a bid for a peerage, or else marry a widowed and withered Countess, and subside into a solid, substantial, beef-headed bulwark of the Tory party. That's the way they all go!"

"Well, I'm very much obliged," said old George Bethune, rising. "And sorry to have interrupted you. Good-night—and thanks."

"Good-night," said the journalist, curtly, as he turned to his desk again, and its litter of reports and telegrams.

Next morning, when they were about to set forth on their accustomed stroll, Maisrie paused at the door for a second, and said—with a very curious hesitation, and a face grown rose-red—

"Grandfather, what shall I tell Mrs. Hobson you would like for dinner?"

He did not notice her confusion; he answered, carelessly—

"Oh, never mind just now. Later on we will see. Food is not of much importance in this hot weather."

Thereafter she was silent for some considerable time. It was not until they had got down to the Serpentine, and when he was about to take out his newspaper, that she ventured again to address him.

"Grandfather," she said, timidly, "do you think—Mr. Harris—expects us—expects that we should dine together again this evening? He did ask if we had no engagement—and—and perhaps he may imagine there is some understanding—"

"Well, Maisrie," the old man made answer, with a playful irony, "if your way of it is to be carried out, the arrangement wouldn't last very long. I don't suppose our little income could comfortably support three for any great space of time."

"Oh, but, grandfather," she said, persuasively, "you know it was but right you should pay; we were two, and he only one; of course, if we were to dine together again—and he wished it to be his turn—you might divide—"

"I think, Maisrie," said he, somewhat sententiously, "it would be better for you to leave our small financial affairs in my hands. These things are well understood as between men; it is easy to make an arrangement. Especially easy if you are the only son of a very wealthy man—what are a few shillings or a few sovereigns one way or the other to him? And I wish you to remember that a young lady's purse is not usually produced at a restaurant."

"I am sorry if I did anything wrong, grandfather," she said humbly; "but—but I thought—before a stranger—or almost a stranger—it was a pity you had forgotten—"

He had opened the newspaper, so that the subject was dismissed; and Maisrie was left to her absent dreams and reveries.

All that day there came no message from the other side of the street; and likewise the afternoon wore away in silence; while Maisrie, whatever she hoped or feared, had not again asked her grandfather what arrangements he proposed for the evening. About six o'clock, however, there came a rap at the door below. Maisrie was in her room upstairs. Her grandfather was seated at the little table in the parlour, drawing out in water-colour a coat of arms; and he had already finished the Bethune part of it—that is to say, the first and fourth quarters of the shield were argent, with a fesse between three mascles, or; and likewise he had surmounted it with the crest—an otter's head, erased, ppr.; but as the second and third quarters were still vacant it was impossible to say with which other family he proposed to claim alliance. At this moment Vincent made his appearance at the door, looking very cheerful and good-humoured, and modest withal; and he came into the room as if he already felt quite at home there.

"I have taken a little liberty," said he, "with regard to this evening. I understood that you and Miss Bethune had no engagement, and might think of going to that same restaurant again; but then I thought you might prefer a change; and so I have ordered dinner at the——" And he named a well-known hotel in the neighbourhood of Burlington Gardens.

"Oh, you have ordered dinner?"

"Yes, sir," said Vincent, respectfully; and then seeing there was no objection, he went on with a gayer air: "It does seem absurd that when people want to meet each other, and to talk, and get thoroughly acquainted, they must needs sit down and eat together; but there is some sense in it too; for of course we have all of us our different occupations during the day; and dinner-time is the time at which we all find ourselves free, so that the meeting is easily arranged. I hope Miss Bethune wasn't fatigued after her long walk of last evening—"

"Oh, no, no," said her grandfather, rising and going to the door. "I must call and tell her we are going out by and bye—"

"Yes, but of course she is coming too!" the young man said quickly.

"If she likes—if she likes. I myself should prefer it. I will ask her."

And on this occasion also, when she came downstairs, Maisrie Bethune appeared in that simple dress of cream-coloured cashmere; and again he was struck by the alteration in her aspect; she was no longer the shy and timid schoolgirl he had at first imagined her to be, but a young woman, of quite sufficient self-possession, tall, and elegant of bearing, and with more than a touch of graceful dignity in her manner. This time she smiled as she gave him her hand for a moment; and then she turned away; always she seemed to assume that this newly-found relationship existed only as between her grandfather and the young man, that she was outside of it, and only to be called in as an adjunct, now and again when it happened to suit them.

Nevertheless, as they by-and-bye walked away down to Burlington Gardens, she was much more animated and talkative than he had before seen her; and he observed, too, that her grandfather paid heed to her opinions. Nay, she addressed the younger of her two companions also, occasionally; and now she was not afraid to let a smile dwell in her eyes, when she chanced to turn to him. He was bewildered by it all; it was more, far more, than he dared have hoped for; in fact he was the last person in the world to suspect that his own bearing—the buoyant unconscious audacity, the winning frankness, as well as a certain youthful modesty—was at the root of the mystery of this sudden friendship. For one thing, he had told them a good deal about himself and his circumstances, during that morning in Hyde Park and during the previous afternoon and evening; and there was something in the position of these three folk, now brought together after wide wanderings through the world, that seemed to invite confidence and intimacy. Then old George Bethune had an excellent fund of good-fellowship, so long as the present moment was an enjoyable one.

And, as it turned out, this evening proved to be one of those enjoyable moments. The small festivity to which Vincent had invited his new acquaintances was not in the least the haphazard affair he had half-intimated it to be; he had arranged it with care; they found themselves in a pretty room, with plenty of flowers on the table; while the little banquet itself was far more elaborate, both as regards food and wine, than there was any call for. The old gentleman did not protest; anything that happened—so long as it was pleasant—was welcome to him; and he declared the claret to be as excellent as any he had met with for years back. He could not understand why their youthful host would not join him (as if it were likely that Vincent was going to drink wine, now that he discovered that Maisrie Bethune drank only water!) but he had all the more for himself; and he waxed eloquent and enthusiastic on his favourite theme.

"Why sir," said he, with a kind of proud elation in his tone, "I myself heard Henry Ward Beecher pronounce these words in the City Hall of Glasgow—'I have been reared in a country whose history is brief. So vast is it, that one might travel night and day for all the week, and yet scarcely touch historic ground. Its history is yet to be written; it is yet to be acted. But I come to this land, which, though small, is as full of memories as the heaven is full of stars, and almost as bright. There is not the most insignificant piece of water that does not make my heart thrill with some story of heroism, or some remembered poem; for not only has Scotland had the good fortune to have men who knew how to make heroic history, but she has reared those bards who have known how to sing their deeds. And every steep and every valley, and almost every single league on which my feet have trod, have made me feel as if I were walking in a dream. I never expected to find my eyes overflow with tears of gladness that I have been permitted, in the prime of life, to look upon this beloved land.' Well spoken—nobly spoken! When I take my granddaughter here to visit her native country—for to that country she belongs, in all the essentials of blood and tradition and descent—I hope she will be in a similarly receptive mood; and will see, not the bare hills, not the lonely islands, not the desolate moors, but a land filled with the magic of association, and consecrated by the love and devotion of a thousand song-writers, known and unknown. I will say with Johnson 'That man is little to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Bannockburn, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona'—"

"Not Bannockburn: Marathon, wasn't it, grandfather?" said Maisrie, in her gentle way.

"Well, well," he said, not heeding the interruption. "'Almost every single league,' said Ward Beecher; and that is true. I could make a pilgrimage throughout the length and breadth of Scotland, guided by the finger of Scottish song. Indeed, I have often thought I should like, if the years were spared to me, to collect materials for a volume—a splendid and magnificent volume—on the Scotland of the Scotch songs and ballads. The words and the music are already there; and I would have the pencil add its charm; so that Scotland, in her noblest and fairest aspects, might be placed before the stranger, and might be welcomed once again by her own sons. I would have the lonely Braes o' Balwhidder, and Rob Roy's grave in the little churchyard on the hillside; I would have Tannahill's Arranteenie—that is on Loch Long side, I think; and the Bonnie House o' Airlie:

'It fell on a day, a bonnie summer's day,

When the corn grew green and fairly,

That the great Argyle, wi' a' his men,

Cam' to plunder the bonnie house o' Airlie.'

Then the Vale of Yarrow—well, perhaps that would have to be a figure subject—the grief-stricken maiden bending over the body of her slain lover—

'Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved,

O could my warmth to life restore thee!—

Ye'd lie all night between my breasts;

No youth lay ever there before thee.'

And Colonsay—Leyden's Colonsay—the haunted island that mourns like a sea-shell—

'And ever as the year returns,

The charm-bound sailors know the day;

For sadly still the mermaid mourns

The lovely chief of Colonsay.'

Gala Water—" the old man continued, in a sort of exalted rhapsody; and his eyes were absent, as if he were beholding a succession of visions. "Hunting Tower—Craigie-burn Wood—the solitude sought out by Bessie Bell and her girl companion when they fled from the plague—Ettrick Banks—the bush aboon Traquair—in short, an endless series! And where the pencil may fail, imagination must come in—

'I see—but not by sight alone,

Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;

A ray of fancy still survives—

Her sunshine plays upon thee!'

It would be something to do for the sake of 'puir auld Scotland;' and think what an enchanted wandering that would be for both Maisrie and myself. Tweed and Teviot—the silver Forth—the stately Clyde: well, perhaps she would be better pleased to gather a flower or two—a lucken-gowan or a speedwell—on 'the bonnie banks o' Ayr.'"

"But, grandfather," Maisrie Bethune interposed, "before you can begin such a book, or even think of it, you know there is something else to be done."

"I suppose it would be an expensive volume to bring out?" Vincent suggested inquiringly.

"Oh, yes, yes," the old man said—and now he had relinquished that rhapsodical strain, and had assumed his usual dignified, not to say grandiose, demeanour. "The drawings must be done by the first artists; they must not fall below the poetic pitch of the old ballads and the still older airs. It would be an expensive book to bring out, no doubt; but then it would be a noble undertaking; it would be a sumptuous and valuable work. I should think, now," he went on, reflectively, "that there ought to be a large paper edition—and perhaps five guineas would not be too much to charge—quarto, I mean—quarto—and five guineas for such a handsome volume mightn't be too much—"

"Five guineas?" repeated Vincent. "Well, sir, if you choose to bring out the book by subscription, I will undertake to get you fifty subscribers for that edition." And then he added recklessly, "A hundred—I will assure you a hundred subscribers!"

"No, Mr. Harris," said Maisrie, and she addressed herself in a more direct manner than she had ever yet done to the young man. "It is not to be thought of. My grandfather has work to do that he must finish before entertaining any other schemes. It would be simply wasting time to begin and arrange about another book."

He felt himself silenced and humbled, he hardly knew why. Had she construed his proffered assistance into an offer of charity, and resented it accordingly? But he could find no trace of offended pride in the refined and gentle features when next he ventured to look at her. She had said her say; and that was enough. And her grandfather seemed to know she was in the right; nothing further was mentioned about the new proposal—at least at this particular time. Dessert had come; and the business of choosing from among those abundant fruits made a kind of break.

When at length they were about to depart, there was no confusion about the bill, for Vincent intimated to the old man that he had already arranged about that; and Mr. Bethune seemed satisfied, while Maisrie had passed on in front and did not hear. She was very light-hearted and talkative as they walked away home. Her protest against the proposed publication, if it showed a little firmness at the time, had left no pained feeling behind it; she was now as blithe as a bird; to Vincent she seemed to shed a radiance around her, as if she were some supernatural being, as she passed through those twilight streets. Once she said something in French—in Canadian French—to her grandfather; and the young man thought that never in all his life had he heard anything so sweet and fascinating as the soft and blurred sound of the r's. He was to hear a little more of that Canadian French on this evening. When they reached their lodgings, the old gentleman again asked his young friend to come in for a little while; the temptation was too great; he yielded; and followed them up into the dusky small parlour.