Front matter (continued 3)

"Now we will have a serious smoke," said George Bethune, with decision, as he took down his long clay pipe. "A cigarette after dinner is a mere frivolity. Maisrie, lass, bring over that box of cigars for Mr. Harris."

But Mr. Harris firmly declined to smoke, even as he had declined to take any wine: what was he going to sacrifice next as a subtle tribute to the exalted character of this young creature? Maisrie Bethune seemed hardly to understand, and was a little surprised; but now she had to go away upstairs, to lay aside her things: so the two men were left alone, to chat about the affairs of the day until her return.

When she came down again, her grandfather said—

"Sing something, Maisrie."

"You know I can't sing, grandfather, but I never refuse you, for it is not of any use," said she, contentedly, as she took the violin out of its case. "But Mr. Harris has had enough of Scotch songs this evening. I must try something else. And perhaps you may have heard the air in Canada," she added, addressing the young man from out of the partial darkness.

And now what was this new enchantment she was about to disclose and practise? In plain truth, she had very little voice; but he did not notice that; it was the curiously naive, and simple, and sincere expression of tone that thrilled through his heart, as she proceeded to recite rather than to sing the well-known "C' était une frégate," the violin aiding her with its low and plaintive notes:

C' était une frégate

(Mon joli coeur de rose)

Dans la mer a touché

(Joli coeur d' un rosier).

And here again were those softly slurred r's—not sharply trilled, as in the English fashion—but gentle and half-concealed, as it were. The simple story proceeded—

Y avait une demoiselle

(Mon joli coeur de rose)

Su' l' bord d' la mer pleurait,

(Joli coeur d' un rosier).

—Dites-moi donc, la belle,

(Mon joli coeur de rose)

Qu' a' vous à tant pleurer?

(Joli coeur d' un rosier).

—Je pleur; mon anneau d' or,

(Mon joli coeur de rose)

Dans la mer est tombé,

(Joli coeur d' un rosier).

Then he asks the weeping damsel what she would give to any one who would find for her her ring of gold that has fallen into the sea.

—Je suis trop pauvre fille,

(Mon joli coeur de rose),

Je ne puis rien donner,

(Joli coeur d' un rosier).

Qu' mon coeur en mariage

(Mon joli coeur de rose)

Pour mon anneau doré

(Joli coeur d' un rosier).

But the young man sitting there in the twilight hardly heard further than that. The phrase 'qu' mon coeur en mariage' had something more beautiful in it than even the soft sound of the r's as she pronounced them; it dwelt in his heart with a mysterious charm; even as she went on to tell how the bold gallant who dived for the ring of gold was drowned, what he still seemed to hear was "Je ne puis rien donner, qu' mon coeur en mariage;" and when she had finished, and there was silence, he did not speak; there was a kind of bewilderment in the tones of her voice; and he could not offer her commonplace thanks.

"Now I am going to light the gas," she said, cheerfully, as she laid aside her violin, "and, grandfather, you can challenge Mr. Harris to a game of chess, or draughts, or dominoes, whichever he likes best, so that I may get to my work, for it cannot always be playtime."

And so it was that, when the gas had been lit, she returned to her own corner and to her needlework, while her grandfather and Vincent took to dominoes, the old man having his hot water and whisky brought to him to accompany his second pipe. Dominoes is a mechanical game; you can play well enough even if there is the refrain of a song ringing through your memory; the young man did not care who won; and, indeed, he had quite forgotten who was the victor as he shortly thereafter made his way south through the lamp-lit streets, with his lips half-trying to re-pronounce that strangely fascinating phrase, "qu' mon coeur en mariage—qu' mon coeur en mariage."

Well, this was but the beginning of a series of evenings, until it came to be understood that these three dined together each night, subsequently returning to old George Bethune's rooms, for a little music or dominoes before parting. Vincent assumed the management of these modest little merry-makings; varied the scene of them as much as possible; and so arranged matters that no financial question came up to ask for Maisrie Bethune's interference. It is true, she sometimes seemed inclined to remain at home, so as to leave the two men greater freedom, perhaps; but he would not hear of that; and his ever increasing intimacy now lent him a franker authority. He was high-handed in his ways: she smiled, and yielded.

At last there came a proposition that was somewhat startling in its boldness. Cunningly he deferred bringing it forward until the very end of the evening, for then he knew that the old gentleman would be more inclined to welcome any gay and audacious scheme, without particularly weighing pros and cons. Accordingly having chosen his opportunity, he informed them that he had been offered the use of a house-boat during the Henley week (which was literally true: he had been offered it—for the sum of £30) and said that he had a great mind to accept if only he could persuade Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter to go down as his guests.

"I understood you to say," he continued, without giving either of them time to reply, "that you had never seen Henley at the regatta-time. But it is a thing you ought to see—it is the prettiest sight in England—it is perfectly unique—there is nothing else like it in the world. And then they make those house-boats so comfortable; it is simply a small floating home; or, on the other hand, you can sit outside, and be in the very midst of all the fun. There is no scramble—no crowd—no hustling—so far as we are concerned; and we shall have our own cook and steward. If you do not care to stay the whole week, we could go down on Tuesday afternoon—the races begin on Wednesday—and remain for the illuminations and fireworks on Friday night. It would be awfully good-natured of you both; of course I could not think of going down and occupying a house-boat by myself. Now what do you say, Miss Bethune?—I appeal first to you."

"Yes, what do you say, Maisrie?" the old man said, seeing that his granddaughter hesitated; and then he added with a condescending smile: "A question of dress, is it? I have heard that the costumes at Henley are rather extravagant."

"Oh, I assure you, no," the young man protested (he would have sworn that the sky was pea-green if that would have helped.) "They are quite simple summer dresses—light in colour, of course—oh, yes—but quite plain and simple: who would take gorgeous gowns to go boating?"

"Very well, very well," Mr. Bethune said, with an easy good-nature. "I will answer for both Maisrie and myself: we shall be delighted. Let us know the conditions; let us know what may be expected of us; we are old travellers and ready for anything. And don't you be over particular about your preparations, my young friend; we can rough it; and indeed I'm afraid of late we've been falling into somewhat too luxurious ways. Not that I am an anchorite; no—God forbid; if the present moment commends itself, I welcome it; I see no wisdom in schooling one's self to bear hardships that may not arise. Yes, I have heard of Henley—the Thames in July—the brilliant company—"

"It is awfully kind of you," said Vincent, rising, and preparing to go. "I am sure you won't regret it; it is the very prettiest thing in England. And to-morrow night I will let you know all the arrangements."

Full of joy was the heart of this young man as he strode away down to Grosvenor Place; and reckless and extravagant were the projects crowding in upon his brain as to how he should play the part of host. For one thing, he had the wherewithal; apart from the allowance given him by his father, an uncle had died leaving him a considerable sum; while his own personal habits were of the most inexpensive kind; so that he had plenty of money—too much money—to spend when any whim entered his head. And now, for the first time, old George Bethune and the fair Maisrie were to be openly and ostensibly his guests; and what was he not going to do in the way of entertaining them? If only he could make sure that Maisrie's cream-coloured costume would go well with calceolarias?—then with masses of calceolarias that house-boat would be smothered from stem to stern!

Nor did the knowledge that Mrs. Ellison would very likely be at Henley trouble him one bit. He was not ashamed of this recently-formed friendship; no; rather he was ready to proclaim it to all the world. Supposing Mrs. Ellison, shrewd-eyed as she was, were to come and inspect them, where could she find two more interesting human beings—the old man with his splendid nerve and proud spirit; amidst all his misfortunes, and in his old age, too, still holding his head erect; firm and unyielding as his own Craig-Royston:—the young girl with her pensive and mysterious beauty, her clear-shining, timid eyes, her maidenly dignity, her patience with the old man, and persuasive and affectionate guidance? Ashamed of this friendship?—he was more inclined to parade it, to boast of it; he would have scorned himself otherwise. Of course (as he could not hide from himself) Mrs. Ellison might be inclined to speculate upon ulterior motives, and might begin to ask what was to come of all this warmth of friendship and constant association. But any future possibilities Vincent put away even from himself; they were all too wild and strange as yet; he was content with the fascination he found in these pleasant little merry-makings, in the more intimate companionship of the small parlour, in listening, there or elsewhere and always, to Maisrie Bethune's voice. And perhaps it was only the sweetness of that voice, and the softly murmured r's, that had vibrated through his heart when she sang "Je ne puis rien donner, qu' mon coeur en mariage?" What other charm could lie in so simple a phrase? At all events, he thought he would ask Maisrie to take her violin down to Henley with her, just in case Mrs. Ellison should some evening pay a visit to the White Rose.

CHAPTER VI.

FAIRY LAND.

It was a soft summer night, cool and fragrant after the heat of the long July day; and here, under an awning in the stern of the house-boat White Rose, were George Bethune, his granddaughter Maisrie, and Vincent Harris, looking out upon the magic scene that stretched away from them on each hand up and down the river. All the dusk was on fire with illuminations; the doors and windows of the house-boats sent forth a dull golden glow; there were coloured lamps, crimson, blue, and orange; there were strings of Chinese lanterns that scarcely moved in the faint stirring of wind; and now and again an electric launch would go by—stealthily and silently—with brilliant festoons of fierce white lights causing it to look like some gigantic and amazing insect irradiating the dark. The smooth surface of the stream quivered with reflections; here and there a rowing boat glided along, with a cool plash of oars; a gondola came into view and slowly vanished—the white-clad gondolier visionary as a ghost. Everywhere there was a scent of flowers; and on board this particular house-boat there was but the one prevailing perfume; for the sole decoration of the saloon consisted of deep crimson roses—a heavy splendour against the white and gold walls. From some neighbouring craft came the tinkle of a banjo; there was a distant hum of conversation; the unseen reeds and waterlilies could be imagined to be whispering in the silence. Among the further woods and meadows there was an occasional moving light; no doubt the campers-out were preparing to pitch their tents.

"Mr. Talkative of Prating-row is hardly wanted here to-night," old George Bethune was saying, unmindful of his own garrulous habits. "Music is better. What is that they are singing over there, Maisrie?"

"'The Canadian Boat Song,' grandfather."

"Oh, yes, of course: I thought it was familiar. And very pretty it sounds, coming across the water—though I do not know whether the air is modern or old. What I am certain of," he continued, raising his voice slightly as he usually did when he was about to discourse, "is that the finest national airs are ancient beyond the imagination of man to conceive. No matter when words may have been tacked on to them; the original melodies, warlike, or pathetic, or joyous, were the voice of millions of generations that passed away leaving us only these expressions of what they had felt. And if one could only re-translate them!—if one could put back into speech all the human suffering that found expression in such an air as 'The Last Rose of Summer,' wouldn't that electrify the world? I wonder how many millions of generations must have suffered and wept and remembered ere that piteous cry could have been uttered; and when I come to Tom Moore's wretched trivialities—"

"Grandfather," interposed Maisrie Bethune, quickly (for there were certain subjects that angered him beyond endurance) "you must not forget to show Mr. Harris that old play you found—with the Scotch airs, I mean—"

"Yes, that is curious," said the old man, yielding innocently. "Curious, is it not, that long before either Burns or Scott was born, a Scotchman named Mitchell should have collected over fifty of the best-known Scotch airs, and printed them, with words of his own; and that he should have chosen for the scene of his play the Borders of the Highlands, so as to contrast the manners and customs of the Highland chieftains and their fierce clansmen with those of the Lowland lairds and the soldiery sent to keep the peace between them. The Highland Fair was produced at Drury Lane about 1730, if I remember aright; but I cannot gather whether Ewen and Colin, and Alaster and Kenneth, impressed the Londoners much. To me the book is valuable because of the airs—though I could wish for the original songs instead of Mitchell's—"

Here Maisrie, seeing that her grandfather was started on a safer subject, quietly rose; and at the first pause she said—

"I see some of them are putting out their lights, and that is a hint for me to be off. I suppose we shall be wakened early enough to-morrow morning by the boats going by. Good-night, Mr. Harris! Good-night, grandfather!"

She shook hands with both, and kissed her grandfather; then she passed into the glow of that wonderful rose-palace, and made her way along to the ladies' cabin, into which she disappeared. Vincent now lit a cigar—the first during this day.

But when old George Bethune resumed his monologue, it was neither Highland clans nor Lowland songs that concerned him; it was something that proved to be a good deal more interesting to his patient listener. It was of Maisrie's youth that he spoke, and that in a far more simple and natural way than was his wont. There were no genealogical vauntings, no exalted visions of what she should be when she came in for her rights; there were reminiscences of her earlier years, and of his and her wanderings together; and there was throughout a certain wistfulness in his tone. For once he talked without striving for effect, without trying oratorically to convince himself; and it is to be imagined how entirely Vincent was engrossed by this simple recital. Not that there was any consecutive narrative. The young man could only vaguely gather that Maisrie's father had been a railway-engineer; that he had married a young Scotch lady in Baltimore before going out west; that Maisrie had been born in Omaha; that shortly thereafter her mother died; then came the collapse of certain speculations her father had been led into, so that the widower, broken in heart and fortune, soon followed his young wife, leaving their child to the care of her only surviving relative. Whether there were some remains of the shattered fortune, or whether friends subscribed to make up a small fund for them, it appeared that the old man and his granddaughter were not quite penniless; for he took credit to himself that he had spent nearly all their little income, arising from this unspecified source, on Maisrie's education.

"I wish to have her fitted for any sphere to which she might be called," he went on, in a musing kind of way. "And I hope I have succeeded. She has had the best masters I could afford; and something of her teaching I have taken upon myself. But, after all, that is not of the greatest importance. She has seen the world—far more than most of her years; and she has not been spoiled by the contact. I could have wished her, perhaps, to have had more of the companionship of her own sex; but that was not often practicable, in our wandering life. However, she has an intuitive sympathy that stands for much; and if in society—which is not much in our way—she might show herself shy and reserved, well, I, for one, should not complain: that seems to me more to be coveted than confidence and self-assertion. As for outward manner she has never wanted any school-mistress other than her own natural tact and her own refinement of feeling; she is a gentlewoman at heart; rudeness, coarseness, presumption would be impossible to her—"

"The merest stranger can see that," Vincent ventured to say, in rather a low voice.

"And thus so far we have come through the world together," the old man continued, in the same meditative mood. "What I have done I have done for the best. Perhaps I may have erred: what could I tell about the uprearing of a young girl? And it may be that what she is now she is in spite of what I have done for her and with her—who knows such mysteries? As for the future, perhaps it is better not to look to it. She is alone; she is sensitive; the world is hard."

"I know many who would like to be her friends," the young man said, breathlessly.

"Sometimes," old George Bethune continued, slowly and thoughtfully, "I wonder whether I have done my best. I may have built on false hopes—and taught her to do the same. I see young women better equipped for the battle of the world, if it is to come to that. Perhaps I have been selfish too; perhaps I have avoided looking to the time when she and I must in the natural course of things be separated. We have been always together; as one, I might say; the same sunlight has shone on us, we have met the same storms, and not much caring, so long as we were the one with the other. But then—the years that can be granted me now are but few; and she has no kinsman to whom she can go, even to glean in the fields and ask for a pitcher of water. And when I think of her—alone—among strangers—my Maisrie—"

His voice choked—but only for a moment. He suddenly sprang to his feet, and flung his arms in the air, as if he would free himself from this intolerable burden of despondency and doubt.

"Why," said he, in accents of scornful impatience, "have I gone mad, or what pestilent thing is this! Sursum corda! We have faced the world together, she and I, and no one has ever yet found us downhearted. 'We've aye been provided for, and sae will we yet': I do not mean as regards the common necessities of life—for these are but of small account—but the deeper necessities of sympathy and hope and confidence. Stand fast, Craig-Royston!—'this rock shall fly, from its firm base as soon as I!' Well, my young friend," he continued, quite cheerfully and bravely, "you have seen me in a mood that is not common with me: you will say nothing about it—to her, especially. She puts her trust in me; and so far, I think, I have not failed her. I have said to her 'Come the three corners of the world in arms, and we shall shock them'; ill fortune buffets uselessly against 'man's unconquerable mind.' She knows the race she comes of, and the motto of that race: Craig-Royston holds its front! Well, well, now, let me thank you for this beautiful evening; and on her behalf too; she is at the time when the mind should be stored with pleasant memories. Perhaps I have been over-communicative, and made you the victim of idle fears; but there will be no more of that; to-morrow you shall find me in my right mind."

He held out his hand. The young man did not know what to say—there was so much to say! He could only make offer of some further little hospitalities, which Mr. Bethune declined; then the steward was summoned, to put out the lamps and make other preparations, so that the White Rose should fold its petals together, for the slumber of the night. And presently a profound peace reigned from stem to stern; and the last plashing of the oars outside had died away.

But it was not to sleep that Vincent devoted the early hours of this night and morning. His mind was tossed this way and that by all kinds of moods and projects, the former piteous and the latter wildly impracticable. He had never before fully realised how curiously solitary was the lot of these two wanderers, how strange was their isolation, how uncertain was their future. And while the old man's courage and bold front provoked his admiration, he could not help looking at the other side of the shield: what was to become of her, when her only protector was taken from her? He knew that they were none too well off, those two; and what would she do when left alone? But if on the very next day he were to go to Mrs. Ellison and borrow £10,000 from her, which he would have mysteriously conveyed to old George Bethune? He could repay the money, partly by the sacrifice of his own small fortune, and partly by the assigning over of the paternal allowance; while he could go away to Birmingham, or Sheffield, or wherever the place was, and earn his living by becoming Mr. Ogden's private secretary. They need never know from whom this bounty came, and it would render them secure from all the assaults of fortune. Away up there in the Black Country he would think of them; and it would lighten the wearisome toil of the desk if he could imagine that Maisrie Bethune had left the roar and squalor of London, and was perhaps wandering through these very Thames-side meadows, or floating in some white-garnitured boat, under the shade of the willows. There would be rest for the pilgrims at last, after their world-buffetings. And so he lay and dreamed and pitied and planned, until in the window of the small state-room there appeared the first blue-gray of the dawn, about which time he finally fell asleep.

But next morning all was briskness and activity around them—flags flying, coloured awnings being stretched, pale swirls of smoke rising from the stove-pipes, the pic-nickers in the meadows lighting their spirit-lamps for the breakfast tea. The sun was shining brightly, but there was a cool breeze to temper the heat; the surface of the stream was stirred into silver; the willows and rushes were shivering and swaying; a scent of new-mown hay was in the air. Already there were plenty of craft afloat, on business or on pleasure bent; early visits being paid, or masses of flowers, ferns, and palms being brought along for purchasers. Maisrie was the first to be up and out; then old George Bethune could be heard gaily singing in his state-room, as an accompaniment to his toilet—

"Hey, Jonnie Cope, are ye waukin yet,

And are your drums a-beatin yet,

If ye were waukin, I would wait

To meet Jonnie Cope in the morning?"

Finally when Vincent, with many apologies for being late, made his appearance outside, he found the old man comfortably seated in the stern-sheets, under the pink and white awning, reading a newspaper he had procured somewhere, while Maisrie was on the upper-deck of the house-boat watering the flowers with a can that she had got from the steward.

And indeed to this young man it appeared a truly wonderful thing that these three, some little while thereafter, in the cool twilight of the saloon, should be seated at breakfast together; they seemed to form a little family by themselves, isolated and remote from the rest of the world. They forgot the crowded Thames outside and the crowded meadows; here there was quiet, and a charming companionship; a band that was playing somewhere was so distant as to be hardly audible. Then the saloon itself was charming; for though the boat was named the White Rose, there was a good deal of pale pink in its decorations: the flutings and cornice were pink where they were not gold, and pink were the muslin curtains drawn round the small windows; while the profusion of deep crimson roses all round the long room, and the masses of grapes and pineapples on the breakfast-table made up a picture almost typical of summer, in the height of its luxuriance and shaded coolness.

"This seems very nice," said the young host, "even supposing there were no river and no racing. I don't see why a caravan like this shouldn't be put on wheels and taken away through the country. There is an idea for you, Mr. Bethune, when you set out on your pilgrimage through Scotland; wouldn't a moveable house of this kind be the very thing for Miss Bethune and you?—you could set it afloat if you wanted to go down a river, or put it on a lorry when you wanted to take the road."

"I'm afraid all this luxury would be out of place in 'Caledonia, stern and wild,'" the old man said. "No, no; these things are for the gay south. When Maisrie and I seek out the misty solitudes of the north, and the graves of Renwick and Cargill, it will be on foot; and if we bring away with us some little trifle to remind us of Logan's streams and Ettrick's shaws, it will be a simple thing—a bluebell or a bit of yellow broom. I have been thinking that perhaps this autumn we might begin—"

"Oh, no, grandfather," Maisrie interposed at once. "That is impossible. You know you have the American volume to do first. What a pity it would be," she went on, with an insidious and persuasive gentleness which the young man had seen her adopt before in humouring her grandfather, "if some one else were to bring out a book on the same subject before you. You know no one understands it so thoroughly as you do, grandfather: and with your extraordinary memory you can say exactly what you require; so that you could send over and get the materials you want without any trouble."

"Very well, very well," the old man said, curtly. "But we need not talk business at such a time as this."

Now there was attached to the White Rose a rowing boat; and a very elegant rowing-boat it was, too, of varnished pine; and by and bye Vincent proposed to his two guests that they should get into the stern-sheets, and he would take a short pair of sculls, and pull them up to the bridge, to show them the other house-boats, and the people, and the fun of the fair generally.

"But wouldn't you take the longer oars," said Maisrie, looking down into the shapely gig, "and let me have one?"

"Oh, would you like that?" he said, with pleasure in his eyes. "Yes, by all means, if you care to row. It is a light boat though it's long; you won't find it hard pulling. By the way, I hunted about everywhere to get a gondola for you, and I couldn't."

"But who told you I had ever tried an oar in a gondola?" she asked, with a smile.

"Why, you yourself: was I likely to forget it?" he said reproachfully.

And oh! wasn't he a proud young man when he saw this rare and radiant creature—clad all in white she was, save for a bunch of yellow king-cups in her white sailor hat, and a belt of dull gold satin at her waist—when he saw her step down into the boat, and take her place, and put out the stroke oar with her prettily shaped hands. Her grandfather was already in the stern-sheets, in possession of the tiller-ropes. When they moved off into mid-stream, it was very gently, for the river was already beginning to swarm; and he observed that she pulled as one accustomed to pulling, and with ease; while, as he was responsible for keeping time, they had nothing to be ashamed of as they slowly moved up the course. Indeed, they were only paddling; sometimes they had to call a halt altogether, when there was a confusion; and this not unwelcome leisure they devoted to an observation of the various crews—girls in the lightest of summer costumes, young men in violent blazers—or to a covert inspection of the other house-boats, with their parterres and festoons of flowers, their huge Japanese sun-shades and tinted awnings, and the brilliant groups of laughing and chatting visitors.

"Oh, Mr. Harris, do look—isn't that a pretty one!" Maisrie exclaimed, in an undertone.

He glanced in the direction indicated, and there beheld a very handsome house-boat, all of rich-hued mahogany, its chief decoration being flowerboxes in blue tiles filled with marguerites. At the same instant he found that a pair of eyes were fixed on him—eyes that were familiar—and the next moment he knew that Mrs. Ellison, from the upper deck of that mahogany house-boat, was regarding him and his companions with an intense curiosity. But so swift was her scrutiny, and so impassive her face, that ere he could guess at the result of her investigation she had made him a formal little bow and turned away to talk to her friends. Of course, with one hand on the oar he raised his hat with the other: but the effect of this sudden recognition was to leave him rather breathless and bewildered. It is true, he had half expected her to be there; but all the same he was not quite prepared; and—and he was wondering what she was thinking now. However, the officials were beginning to clear the course for the first race; so the gig was run in behind one of the tall white poles; and there the small party of three remained until the rival crews had gone swiftly by, when it was permitted them to return to the White Rose.

After luncheon he said he would leave his guests to themselves for a little while, as he wished to pay a visit to a friend he had seen on one of the other house-boats; then he jumped into the gig, made his way along to the Villeggiatura, got on board, went up the steps, and found himself among a crowd of people. Mrs. Ellison, noticing him, discreetly left the group she was with, and came to him, taking him in a measure apart.

"Wait a moment, Vin," she said, regarding the young man. "If you wish it—if you prefer it—I have seen nothing."

"What do you mean, aunt!" he said, with some haughty inclination to anger. "Why should I seek any concealment? I want you to come along that I may introduce to you two friends of mine."

Instinctively she seemed to draw back a little—almost as if she were afraid.

"Oh, no, thanks, Vin. No, thanks. Please leave me out."

"Why?" he demanded.

The pretty young widow was embarrassed and troubled; for she knew the fiery nature of young men; and did not want to provoke any quarrel by an unguarded expression.

"Well—it is simply this, you know—they are strangers—I mean—I suppose that neither your father nor any of the family have met them—they seemed somehow like strangers—unusual looking—and—and I shouldn't like to be the first. Leave me out, there's a good boy!"

"Why?" he demanded again.

So she was driven to confession.

"Well, look here, Vin; I may be wrong; but aren't these new friends somehow connected with your being so much away from home of late—with your being in those lodgings? Was it there you made their acquaintance?"

"If you want to know, I saw them first at Lord Musselburgh's," said he with an amazing audacity; for although the statement was literally true, it was entirely misleading.

And apparently it staggered the pleasant-eyed young widow.

"Oh, at Lord Musselburgh's?" said she, with a distinct (but cautious) change of manner. "Oh, really. Lord Musselburgh's. But why should you want to introduce me to them, Vin?"

"Because," said he, "they have never met any member of our family: and as you are the most goodnatured and the prettiest, I want to produce a favourable impression at the outset."

She laughed and was not displeased.

"There are some other qualities that seem to characterise our family—impudence for one," she observed. "Well, come along, then, Vin: where are your friends?"

"In a house-boat down there—the White Rose."

"The White Rose? I noticed it yesterday—very pretty—whose is it?"

"Mine for the present; I rented it for the week," he replied.

"Who are the other members of your party?"

"None—only those two."

But here she paused at the top of the steps; and said in an undertone—

"Really, Vin, this is too much! You, a young man entertaining those two—and no lady chaperon—"

He turned and looked at her, with straight eyes.

"Oh, it's quite right," she said, hastily. "It's quite right, of course—but—but so much en évidence—so prominent—people might talk—"

"I never try to hinder people from talking," said he, with a certain scorn. "And if they busy themselves with my small affairs, they are welcome to ring their discoveries from the tops of the steeples. I did not ask anybody's permission when I invited two friends of mine, who had never been to Henley before, to be my guests during the regatta-week."

"Of course not, of course not," she said, gently; "but you are doing it in such a marked way—"

"Come, come, aunt," said he, "it isn't like you to niggle about nothing. You are not a prude; you have too much goodnature—and too much common sense. And I don't want you to go on board the White Rose with any kind of prejudice in your mind."

They could not get away just then, however, for the course was being cleared for the next race; so they lingered there until they saw, far away on the open river, two small objects like water-insects, with slender quick-moving legs, coming rapidly along. The dull murmur of the crowd became a roar as the boats drew nearer. Then the needle-like craft shot by, almost neck and neck; and loud were the shouts that cheered this one or that; while straining eyes followed them along to the goal. The sudden wave of enthusiasm almost immediately subsided; the surface of the river was again being crowded by the boats that had been confined behind the white poles; and now Vincent got his fair companion down into the gig and, with some little difficulty and delay, rowed her along to the White Rose.

He was very anxious as he conducted her on board; but he affected a splendid carelessness.

"Mr. Bethune," said he, "let me introduce you to my aunt, Mrs. Ellison—Miss Bethune, Mrs. Ellison: now come away inside, and we'll get some tea or strawberries or something—racing isn't everything at Henley—

"It isn't anything at all, as far as I have seen," said Mrs. Ellison, goodhumouredly, as she followed her nephew into the saloon. "Well, this is very pretty—very pretty indeed—one of the simplest and prettiest—so cool-looking. I hear this is your first visit to Henley," she continued addressing the old man, when they had taken their seats: Vincent meanwhile, bustling about to get wine and biscuits and fruit, for the steward had gone ashore.

"It is," said he, "and I am glad that my granddaughter has seen it in such favourable circumstances. Although she has travelled much, I doubt whether she has ever seen anything more charming, more perfect in its kind. We missed the Student's Serenade at Naples last year; but that would have been entirely different, no doubt; this is a vast water picnic, among English meadows, at the fairest time of the year, and with such a brilliancy of colour that the eye is delighted in every direction."

He was self-possessed enough (whatever their eagerly solicitous young host may have been); and he went on, in a somewhat lofty and sententious fashion, to describe certain of the great public festivals and spectacles he had witnessed in various parts of the world. Mrs. Ellison was apparently listening, as she ate a strawberry or two; but in reality she was covertly observing the young girl (who sate somewhat apart) and taking note of every line and lineament of her features, and even every detail of her dress. Vincent brought Mr. Bethune a tumbler of claret with a lump of ice in it; he drained a deep draught; and resumed his story of pageants. Maisrie was silent, her eyes averted: the young man asked himself whether the beautiful profile, the fine nostrils, the sensitive mouth, would not plead for favour, even though she did not speak. It seemed a thousand pities that her grandfather should be in this garrulous mood. Why did not Mrs. Ellison turn to the girl direct?—he felt sure there would be an instant sympathy between those two, if only Maisrie would appeal with her wonderful, true eyes. What on earth did anyone want to know about the resplendent appearance of the White Cuirassiers of the Prussian Guard, as they rode into Prague a week or two after the battle of Königgrätz, with their dusty and swarthy faces and their copper-hued breastplates lit up by the westering sun?

But, on the other hand, Mrs. Ellison was not displeased by this one-sided conversation; quite the contrary; she wanted to know all about these strange people with whom her nephew had taken up; and the more the old man talked the better she resented the intervention of a race which Master Vin dragged them all away to see; and as soon as it was over—they were now seated in the stern-sheets of the boat—she turned to Mr. Bethune with a question.

"I understand," she said, in a casual sort of way, "that you know Lord Musselburgh?"

At this Maisrie looked up startled.

"Oh, yes," said her grandfather, in his serene and stately fashion. "Oh, yes. A most promising young man—a young man who will make his mark. Perhaps he is riding too many hobbies; and yet it might not be prudent to interfere and advise; a young man in his position is apt to be hot-headed—"

"Mrs. Ellison," interposed Maisrie, "we are only slightly acquainted with Lord Musselburgh—very slightly indeed. The fact is, he was kind enough to interest himself in a book, that my grandfather hopes to bring out shortly."

"Ob, really," said the pretty widow with a most charming smile (perhaps she was glad of this opportunity of talking to the young lady herself) "and may I ask—pardon my curiosity—what the subject is."

"It is a collection of poems written by Scotchmen living in America and Canada," answered Maisrie, quite simply. "My grandfather made the acquaintance of several of them, and heard of others; and he thought that a volume of extracts, with a few short biographical notices, might be interesting to the Scotch people over here. For it is about Scotland that they mostly write, I think, and of their recollections—perhaps that is only natural."

"And when may we expect it?" was the next question.

Maisrie turned to her grandfather.

"Oh, well," the old man made answer, with an air of magnificent unconcern, "that is difficult to say. The book is not of such great importance; it may have to stand aside for a time. For one thing, I should most likely have to return to the other side to collect materials; whereas, while we are here in the old country, there are so many opportunities for research in other and perhaps more valuable directions, that it would be a thousand pities to neglect them. For example, now," he continued, seeing that Mrs. Ellison listened meekly, "I have undertaken to write for my friend Carmichael of the Edinburgh Chronicle a series of papers on a branch of our own family that attained to great distinction in the Western Isles during the reign of the Scotch Jameses—the learned Beatons of Islay and Mull."

"Oh, indeed," said Mrs. Ellison, affecting much interest.

"Yes," resumed old George Bethune, with much dignified complacency, "it will be a singular history if ever I find time to trace it out. The whole of that family seem to have been regarded with a kind of superstitious reverence; all their sayings were preserved; and even now, when a proverb is quoted in the Western Isles, they add, 'as the sage of Mull said' or 'as the sage of Islay said.' For ullahm, I may inform you, Mrs.—Mrs.—"

"Ellison," she said, kindly.

"Mrs. Ellison—I beg your pardon—my hearing is not what it was. Ullahm, in the Gaelic tongue means at once a Doctor of Medicine and a wise man—"

"They distinguish between the terms in English," put in Vincent.

"—and doctors most of them appear to have been," continued the old man, quite oblivious of interruption: indeed he seemed to be reading something out of his memory, rather than addressing particularly any one of his audience. "A certain Hector Beaton, indeed, got a considerable grant in Islay for having cured one of the Jameses when all the Edinburgh Faculty had failed; and I myself have seen in the island of Iona the tombstone of the last of the Mull doctors of the name, who died so late as 1657. Hic jacet Johannes Betonus Maclenorum familiæ Medicus: no doubt there must be some mention of those Beatons in the archives of the various families of Maclean in Mull. Then I daresay I could get a drawing of the tombstone—though I can remember the inscription well enough. The coat of arms, too, has the three mascles of the Bethunes—"

"Of the Bethunes?—then you are of the same family?" said Mrs. Ellison, this time with a little genuine curiosity.

But the interruption had the effect of rousing him from his historical reverie.

"I would rather say," he observed, with some stiffness, "that they were originally of our family. The Norman de Bethune would easily be changed into the Scotch Beaton."

"Then there was Mary Beaton, of the Queen's Maries," Mrs. Ellison suggested.

But at this the old man frowned: he did not wish any fictitious characters brought into these authentic annals.

"An idle tale—a popular rhyme," said he. "There is no real foundation for the story of Mary Hamilton that ever I could get hold of. Of course there may have been a Mary Beaton at Queen Mary's court—what more likely?—and Mary Beaton would come trippingly to the popular tongue in conjunction with Mary Seton; but that is all. It is with real people, and important people, I shall have to deal when I get to the Advocates Library in Edinburgh."

"Oh, yes, certainly—of course—I quite understand," she said, humbly. And then she rose. "Well, I must be getting back to my friends, Vin, or they will think I have slipped over the side and been drowned."

"But won't you stay to dinner, aunt?" said he. "I wish you would!"

"Oh, no, thanks, I really couldn't," she answered with a sudden earnestness that became more intelligible to him afterwards. "I couldn't run away from my hosts like that." Then she turned to Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter. "By the way," she said, "Lord Musselburgh is coming down to-morrow—merely for the day—and he will be on board the Villeggiatura. Would you all of you like to come along and have a look over the boat; or shall I send him to pay you a visit here?"

It was Maisrie who replied—with perfect self-composure.

"Our acquaintance with Lord Musselburgh is so very slight, Mrs. Ellison," said she, "that it would hardly be worth while making either proposal. I doubt whether he would even remember our names."

Whereupon the young widow bade good-bye to Maisrie with a pretty little smile; the old gentleman bowed to her with much dignity; and then she took her seat in the stern of the gig, while her nephew put out the sculls. When they were well out of hearing, Mrs. Ellison said—with a curious look in her eyes of perplexity and half-frightened amusement—

"Vin, who is that old man?"

"Well, you saw, aunt," he made answer.

"Ob, yes, I saw. I saw. But I am none the wiser. I could not make him out at all. Sometimes I thought he was a self-conceited old donkey, who was simply gabbling at random; and again he seemed really to believe what he was saying, about his connection with those Beatons and de Bethunes and the Scotch kings. But there's something behind it all, Vin; I tell you there is; and I can't make it out. There's something mysterious about him—"

"There's nothing mysterious at all!" he exclaimed, impatiently.

"But who is he, then?" she persisted. "What is he? Where is his family? Where are his relatives?"

"I don't think he has any, if it comes to that, except his granddaughter," her nephew replied.

"What does he do, then? How does he exist?"

He was beginning to resent this cross-examination; but yet he said civilly enough—

"I am not in the habit of making inquiries about the income of everyone I meet; but I understand they have some small sum of money between them—not much: and then he has published books; and he writes for the Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle. Is that enough?"

"Where does he live?"

"In Mayfair."

"I don't believe a word of it!" she said, and she even ventured to laugh in a half-embarrassed way. "I believe he dwells in a cave—he is a troglodyte—he comes out at dusk—and wanders about with a lantern and a pickaxe. Really, when I looked at his shaggy eyebrows, and his piercing eyes, and his venerable beard, I thought he must be some Druid come to life again—or perhaps one of those mythical island-doctors surviving from the fourteenth century—"

"At all events, aunt," Vincent said, with an ominous distinctness of tone, "his age and what he has come through might procure for him a little respect. It isn't like you to jeer and jibe simply because a man is old—"

"My dear boy, I am not jibing and jeering!" she protested. "I tell you I am puzzled. There's something about that old man I can't make out."

"How could you expect to understand anybody—in half-an-hour's talk at Henley Regatta!" he said, indignantly. "I gave you the opportunity of getting to know them both, if only you had come along this evening, and spent some time with them. I am not aware that either of them wants to conceal anything. They are not ashamed of their poverty. Perhaps the old man talks too much: you, at least, pretended to find what he said interesting. And as for the girl, no doubt she was silent: she isn't used to be stared at and examined by critical and unsympathetic eyes."

The young widow elevated her brows: here was something unexpected!

"Vin Harris," she said, solemnly, "are you quarrelling with me because—because I am not glamoured? Is it as bad as that? If so, then I am extremely glad I did not accept your invitation for this evening. I am compromised far enough already—"

"What do you mean by compromised?" he demanded.

But just at this moment she had to call to him to look out, for they had almost arrived at the Villeggiatura. He glanced over his shoulder, pulled a stroke with his right oar, shipped the other, and then, having gripped the stern of the house-boat, he affixed the painter of the gig, and, letting her back fall into the stream, returned to the thwart he had occupied.

"I wish to ask you, aunt," said he, in a sufficiently stiff and formal tone, "how you consider you have been compromised through meeting any friends of mine."

"Oh," said she, half inclined to laugh, yet a little bit afraid too, "don't ask me. It isn't as serious as that—I mean, I didn't think you would take it seriously. No doubt it's all right, Vin, your choosing your own friends; and I have nothing to say against them; only I would rather you left me out, if you don't mind. You see, I don't know your intentions—"

"Supposing I have none?" he demanded again.

"Well, no one can say what may happen," the young widow persisted; "and I should not like to be appealed to—Now, now, Vin, don't be so passionate!—have I said a single word against your new friends? Not one. I only confess that I'm a selfish and comfort-loving woman, and I don't wish to be drawn into any family strife. There may be no family strife? Very well; so much the better. But my having no further acquaintance with Mr. Bethune and Miss Bethune—my having no knowledge of them whatever, for it practically comes to that—cannot injure them; and leaves me free from responsibility. Now don't quarrel with me, Vin; for I will not allow it; I have been talking common sense to you—but I suppose that is what no man of twenty-five understands."

He hauled up the gig to the stern of the house-boat, as an intimation that she could step on board when she chose.

"There," said she, as she gave him her hand in parting, "I see I have offended you; but what I have said has been for your sake as well as mine."

Well, he was vexed, disappointed, and a little inclined to be angry. But all that darkness fled from his spirit—he forgot all about Mrs. Ellison's friendly monitions—he had no care for any speculations as to the future—when he was back again in the White Rose, sitting by Maisrie Bethune, he and she together looking abroad on the gay crowd, and the boats, and the trembling willows, and the slow-moving skies now growing warmer with the afternoon sun. Then, when the last of the races was over, came dinner; and as twilight stole over the river and the meadows, the illuminations began, the rows of coloured lanterns showing one after the other, like so many fire-flies in the dusk. Of course they were sitting outside now—on this placid summer night—in fairyland.

CHAPTER VII.

CLAIRE FONTAINE.

But something far more strange and wonderful happened to him the next morning; and that was his first tête-à-tête conversation with Maisrie Bethune. It was quite unexpected, and even unsought; nay, when he stepped outside and found that she was alone on deck, he would have shrank back, had that been possible, rather than break in upon her solitude. For even here at Henley, during the regatta-time, which may be regarded as the High Festival of Joyance and Flirtation, there was no thought of pretty and insidious love-making in this young man's head or heart. There was something mysteriously remote and reserved about this isolated young creature, whose very beauty was of a strangely pensive and wistful kind. Even the gentle self-possession and the wisdom beyond her years she showed at times seemed to him a pathetic sort of thing; he had a fancy that during her childhood she never had had the chance of playing with young children.

But it was too late to retreat; and indeed she welcomed him with a pleasant smile as she bade him good morning. It was he who was embarrassed. He talked to her about the common things surrounding them, while anxiously casting about for something better fitting such a rare opportunity. And at last he said—

"Yes, I am sure your grandfather and I get on very well. And I have been wondering whether, when you and he make that pilgrimage through Scotland, he would let me accompany you."

In her beautiful and child-like eyes there was a swift flash of joy that made his heart leap, so direct and outspoken an expression it was of her gladness to think of such a thing; but instantly she had altered her look, and a faint flush of colour had overspread her face—the pale wild-rose had grown pink.

"Your way of travelling and ours are so different," the said, gently.

"Oh, but," said he, with eagerness, "you don't understand how the idea of a long wandering on foot has fascinated me: why, that would be the whole charm of it! You don't know me at all yet. You think I care for the kind of thing that prevails here—that I can't get on without pine-apples and chairs with gilt backs? Why—but I don't want to talk about myself at all: if you would let me come with you on that pilgrimage you would find out a little. And what an opportunity it will be, to go with your grandfather: history, poetry, and romance all brought together: Scotland will be a wonderful country for you before you have done with it. And—and—you see—I have gone on pedestrian excursions before—I have a pretty broad back—I can carry things. You might engage me as porter; for even when you send your luggage on, there will be a few odds and ends to fill a knapsack with; and I can tramp like any gaberlunzie."

She smiled a little, and then said more seriously—

"I am glad to have the chance of speaking to you about that scheme of my grandfather's; because, Mr. Harris, you must try to dissuade him from it as much as possible."

"Dissuade him?"

"Yes," said she, quietly. "You must have seen how completely my grandfather lives in a world of imagination, and how one thing captivates him after another, especially if it is connected with Scotland and Scottish song. And I have no doubt he would write a beautiful book about such a tour as that; for who knows more about all the places and the legends and ballads? It would be a pleasure for me too—I have dreamed of it many a time. But it is impossible for the present; and it will be a kindness to me, Mr. Harris, if you will not encourage him in it. For the fact is," she continued, with a little embarrassment, "my grandfather has undertaken to write something else—and—and he is under personal obligations about it—and he must not be allowed to forget them."

"Oh, yes, I quite understand," Vincent said. "I have heard of that volume about the Scotch poets in America. Well, you know what your grandfather says, that he would have to go to the other side to collect materials; while, being here in this country just now, he might as well take you to those scenes and places that would make up another book, to be written subsequently. However, I have no doubt you are right. The possibility of my going along with you two on such an excursion has been a wonderful thing for me to speculate on; but whatever you wish, that is enough. I am against the Scotch trip now, so far as I have any right to speak."

She was looking at him enquiringly, and yet diffidently, as if she were asking herself how far she might confide in him.

"Perhaps you have not noticed it, Mr. Harris," she added, still regarding him, "but my grandfather has a strange faculty for making himself believe things. I daresay, if he only planned the American book, he could convince himself that he had written it, and so got rid of those—those obligations. Well, you will help me, will you not?—for I am anxious to see it done; and he may say I am too young and too ignorant to give advice—as I am—"

"Why," said Vincent, almost indignantly, "do you think I cannot see how you guide and lead him always, and with such a tact and wisdom and gentleness as I never beheld anywhere!"

Maisrie flashed downright red this time; but she sought to conceal her confusion by saying quickly—

"Then again you must not misunderstand me, Mr. Harris; you must not think I am saying anything against my grandfather; I am only telling you of one little peculiarity he has. Saying anything against him!—I think I could not well do that; for he has been goodness itself to me since ever I can remember anything. There is nothing he would not sacrifice for my sake; sometimes it is almost painful to me to see an old man, who should be the petted one and the cared for, so ready to give up his own wants and wishes, to please a mere girl who is worthy of no consideration whatever. And consideration is not the word for what I have received from my grandfather always and always; and if I could forget all he has done for me and been to me—if I could be so ungrateful as to forget all those years of affection and sympathy and constant kindness—"

She never finished the sentence. He fancied her eyes were moist as she turned her head away; anyhow he dared not break in upon the silence; these confidences had been sacred things. And indeed there was no opportunity for further speech on this subject; for presently old George Bethune made his appearance, radiant, buoyant, high-spirited, with a sonorous stanza from Tannahill to greet the awakening of the new day.

Now no sooner had Lord Musselburgh arrived on board the Villeggiatura on the same morning than Mrs. Ellison went to him and told him all her story, which very much surprised him, and also concerned him not a little, for it seemed as though he was in a measure responsible for what had happened to Vincent.

"My dear Mrs. Ellison," said he, "I can assure you of one thing: it is quite true that your nephew was in the room when Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter called on me, but I am positively certain that there was no introduction and that he did not speak a single word to them there. How he got to know them I cannot imagine; nor how they could have become so intimate that he should ask them to be his guests down here at Henley. And his sole guests, you say?—Yes, I admit, it looks queer. I hope to goodness there is no kind of entanglement—"

"Oh," said Mrs. Ellison, in sudden alarm; "don't imagine anything from what I have told you I There may be nothing in it: he as good as declared there was nothing in it: and he is so fiery and sensitive—on this one point—why, that is the most serious feature of it all! He looks you straight in the face, and dares you to suspect anything. But really—really—to have those two companions—and no others—on a house-boat at Henley: it is a challenge to the world!"

"Looks rather like it," said Lord Musselburgh; and then he added: "Of course you know that Vin has always been a Quixotic kind of chap—doing impossible things if he thought them right—and all that sort of thing. But it's very awkward just at this moment. There must be some powerful attraction, of one kind or another, to have made him give himself over so completely to these new friends; for he has not been near me of late; and yet here I have in my pocket a letter that concerns him very closely, if only he would pay attention to it. I don't mind telling you, Mrs. Ellison, for you are discretion itself—"

"I think you may trust me, Lord Musselburgh," she said, with a smile.

"Very well, then," said he, lowering his voice. "I hear that there will be a vacancy at Mendover—certainly at the next General Election, but more probably much sooner: old Gosford has become such a confirmed hypochondriac that he will hardly leave his room; and his constituents are grumbling as much as they dare—for he has got money, you know, and the public park he gave them wants further laying out, and statues, and things. Very well; now I have in my pocket a darkly discreet letter from the Committee of the Mendover Liberal Association asking me to go down and deliver an address at their next meeting, and hinting that if I could bring with me an acceptable candidate—"

He paused, and for a second a cynical but perfectly good-humoured laugh appeared in his eyes.

"My dear Mrs. Ellison," said he, "I am deeply grateful. I thought you might express some astonishment at my being consulted in so important an affair. But the fact is, I, also, am expected to do something for that park; and perhaps this invitation was only a little hint to remind me of my local responsibilities. However, that is how the case stands; and I had thought of taking your nephew down with me—

"A vacancy at Mendover," said Mrs. Ellison, in awe-struck tones, "where you are simply everybody! Oh, Lord Musselburgh, what a chance for Vin!"

"And then, you know," continued the young peer, "I want to bring him out as a Tory Democrat, for that is a fine, bewildering sort of thing, that provokes curiosity: you call yourself a Tory and can be as revolutionary as you like, so that you capture votes all round. Why, I've got Vin's programme all ready for him in my pocket: a graduated income-tax, free education, leasehold enfranchisement, compulsory insurance, anything and everything you like except disestablishment—disestablishment won't work at Mendover. Now, you see, Mrs. Ellison, if I could get Vin properly coached, he has all the natural fervour that unhappily I lack; and after I had made my few little jokes which they kindly take for a speech, I could produce him and say 'Here, now, is the young politician of the new generation; here's your coming man; this is the kind of member the next quarter-of-a-century must return to the House of Commons.' But if there is any Delilah in the way—"

Mrs. Ellison crimsoned.

"No, Lord Musselburgh," she said. "No. You need have no fear."

However, she seemed perturbed—perhaps in her anxiety that her nephew should not miss this great opportunity. Presently she said—

"Tell me, what do you know of this old man?—I can't make him out at all."

"I? I know nothing, or next to nothing," he said, lightly, as he gazed abroad on the busy river. "I remember Vin asking me the same question—I suppose out of curiosity about the girl. My recollection of her is that she was extremely pretty—refined-looking—lady-like, in fact—"

"She is, indeed," said Mrs. Ellison, with decision, "and that is what makes the situation all the more dangerous—assuming, of course, that there is any ground for one's natural suspicions. No, Vin is the last man in the world to be captured by any vulgar adventuress; he is at once too fastidious and too proud. But then, you see, he is well known to be the son of a very wealthy man; and there might be a design—" She hesitated for a moment: then she said, half impatiently: "Lord Musselburgh, tell me how you came to know this old man: he could not have sprung out of the earth all of a sudden."

He told her, as briefly as might be.

"That was all?" she repeated, eyeing him shrewdly.

"Yes."

"You are sure?"

"What do you mean? That is really all I know of the old gentleman: isn't that what you asked?"

"But was that the whole of the interview, if I may be so impertinent as to inquire?" she demanded again.

"Ob, yes, it was," Lord Musselburgh said; and then he added, indifferently: "Of course I subscribed something towards the publication of a book he mentioned—he had written to me before about the project."

"Oh, there was money?" she said.

A slight tinge on Lord Musselburgh's forehead showed that he had not intended to make this admission.

"Oh, nothing—a trifle—it is usual when a book is coming out by subscription."

Mrs. Ellison sate silent for a little while: there was plenty going on on the river to interest her companion. Then by-and-bye she said slowly—

"Well, I had intended to keep clear of these new friends of Vin's. I thought it would be more prudent for me to know nothing. It is true, I was introduced to them yesterday afternoon; but I wished that to be all; I thought I would rather withdraw; and let things take their course. But I don't know that that would be honest and right. Vin is a young man with many fine and noble qualities—perhaps a little too fine and noble for the ordinary work-a-day world; and I think he ought to have the benefit of my sadly-earned experience and callous nature—"

Lord Musselburgh laughed: he did not take her too seriously.

"He is my own boy," she continued, "I would do anything for him. And I'm not going to let him be entrapped—if that is what all this means. I know he is very angry with me just now; probably he would not speak to me if he were to meet me this minute; but that won't prevent my speaking to him. I'm going to put my pride in my pocket, Lord Musselburgh. I'm going to find out something more about this picturesque old gentleman, who talks so grandly about the Beatons, and the de Bethunes, and their coats of arms, and who accepts a £10 note—or perhaps only a £5 note?—on account of a book that is not yet published. And if there is any sort of scheme on foot for getting hold of the son of so notoriously wealthy a man as Harland Harris, then I want to make a little inquiry. Yesterday Vin indignantly complained that I was prejudiced, and that I had no right to form any opinion about those friends of his because I would not go along and dine with him and them last evening. Very well, I will go to him, and make up the quarrel, and ask him to repeat the invitation for this evening—"

"For this evening?" repeated Lord Musselburgh, in tones of deep disappointment. "You don't mean you are going to leave all your friends here and go and dine somewhere else?"

"If I can procure an invitation. It is my duty. I'm not going to let my boy be made a fool of, even if I have to sacrifice a little of my own personal comfort."

"Yes, that's all very well," said Lord Musselburgh, gloomily, "but I did not bargain for your going away like that on the only evening I shall be here. If I had known—"

He was on the point of saying he would not have come down: but that would have been too bold an avowal. He suddenly hit upon another happy suggestion.

"You said that Vin had only those two on board with him? Well, if he asks you to dine with him, won't he ask me too?"

Mrs. Ellison laughed, and shook her head.

"No, no. Another stranger would put them on their guard. I must manage my Private Investigation all by myself. But you need not look so disconsolate. There are some really nice people here, as you'll find out by-and-bye; and the Drexel girls are driving over from Great Marlow—they are Americans, so you will be properly appreciated: they will try their best to make you happy."

"How late shall you stay on board Vin's boat?" he asked, heedless of these smaller attractions.

"I shall be back here by ten—perhaps by half-past nine."

"Is that a promise?"

"Yes, it is—ten at latest."

"Otherwise I should go back to town in the afternoon," said he, frankly.

"What nonsense!" the young widow exclaimed (but she did not seem resentful). "Well, now, I must go along to the White Rose, and make my peace, and angle for an invitation; and then, if I get it, I must concoct my excuses for Mrs. Lawrence. Anyhow I shall be on board the Villeggiatura all the afternoon; and then I hope to have the pleasure of introducing you to Louie Drexel—that is the young lady I have designed for Vin, when he has shaken off those adventurers and come to his right mind."

Almost immediately thereafter Mrs. Ellison had secured a boatman to pull her along to the White Rose; and as she drew near, she perceived that Maisrie Bethune was alone in the stern of the house-boat, standing upright on the steering-thwart, and with both hands holding a pair of field-glasses to her eyes—an unconscious attitude that showed the graceful figure of the girl to the best advantage.

The observant visitor could also remark that her costume was simplicity itself: a blouse of white soft stuff, with wide sleeves and tight cuffs; a belt of white silk round her waist; and a skirt of blue serge. She wore no head-covering; and her neatly-braided hair caught several soft-shining hues from the sun—not a wonder and glory of hair, perhaps, (as Vin Harris would have deemed it) but very attractive all the same to the feminine eye, and somehow suggestive of girlhood, and making for sympathy. And then, when a "Good-morning!" brought round a startled face and a proud, clear look that was nothing abashed or ashamed, Mrs. Ellison's conscience smote her that she had made use of the word adventuress, and bade her wait and see.

"Good-morning!" Maisrie Bethune answered; and there came a touch of colour to the fine and sensitive features as she knew that the young matron was regarding her with a continuation of the curiosity of the preceding afternoon.

"Have the gentlemen deserted you? Are you all alone?" Mrs. Ellison said.

"Oh, no; they are inside," was the response. "Would you like to see Mr. Harris? Shall I call him?"

"If you would be so kind!"—and therewith Maisrie disappeared into the saloon, and did not return.

It was Vincent that came out—with terrible things written on his brow.

"Don't look at me like that, Vincent Harris!" Mrs. Ellison exclaimed, half-laughing and half-annoyed. "What have I done? It is you who are so hasty and inconsiderate. But I've come to make it all up with you; and to ask you to ask me to dine with you to-night."

"No, thank you, aunt," he said, civilly enough. "You are very kind; but the fact is you would come with a prejudice; and so you'd better not come at all."

Well, she had to be circumspect; for not only was her own boatman behind her, but there was a possibility of some stray sentence penetrating into the saloon.

"Come," she said, in a sort of undertone, to him; and she had a pretty, coaxing, goodnatured way with her when she chose, "I am not going to allow you to quarrel with me, Vin; and I bring a flag of truce; and honourable proposals. I saw you were offended with me last evening; and perhaps I was a little selfish in refusing your invitation; but you see I confess the error of my ways, for here I am begging you to ask me again."

"Oh, if you put it that way, aunt—"

"Oh, no, I don't put it that way!" she said. "Not if you speak like that. Come, be amiable! I've just been talking to Lord Musselburgh—"

"And, of course, you crammed all your wild ideas into his head!" he exclaimed.

"Whoever heard of poor me having ideas!" she said, with a winning good-humour to which he could not but yield. "It isn't for me to have ideas; but I may have prejudices; and I'm going to leave them, all on board the Villeggiatura this evening, if you say yes."

"Of course I say yes—when you are like yourself, aunt," he responded at once, "and I shall be very glad indeed. And what is more," said he, in a still lower tone, "when you have really met—certain people—and when you have to confess that you have been unjust, I don't mean to triumph over you. Not a bit. If you have done any injustice, you know yourself how to make it up—to them. Now that's all right and settled: and I'm really glad you're coming. Seven o'clock; and the dress you've got on."

"Oh, but, mind you," said she, "you don't seem to appreciate my goodness in humbling myself so as to pacify your honourable worship. Do you know what I shall have to do besides? How am I to explain to the Lawrences my running away from their party? And here is Lord Musselburgh come down; and the Drexel girls are expected; so you see what I am doing for you, Vin—"

"You're always good to me, aunt—when you choose to be reasonable and exercise your common-sense—"

"Common-sense!" she retorted, with a malicious laugh in her eyes. Then she said, quite seriously: "Very well, Vin: seven o'clock: that is an excellent hour, leaving us all a nice long evening; for I must get back to the Villeggiatura early."

And so that was all well and amicably settled. But Master Vin, though young in years, had not tumbled about the world for nothing; and a little reflection convinced him that his pretty aunt's change of purpose—her abandonment of her resolve to remain discreetly aloof—had not been prompted solely, if at all, by her wish to have that little misunderstanding between him and her removed. That could have been done at any time; a few words of apology and appeal, and there an end. This humble seeking for an invitation which she had definitely refused the day before meant more than that; it meant that she had resolved to find out something further about these strangers. Very well, then, she was welcome: at the same time he was resolved to receive this second visit not as he had received the first. He was no longer anxious about the impression these two friends of his might produce on this the first of his relatives to meet them. She might form any opinion she chose: he was indifferent. Nay, he would stand by them on every point; and justify them; and defy criticism. If he had dared he would have gone to Maisrie and said: "My aunt is coming to dinner to-night; but I will not allow you to submit yourself to any ordeal of inspection. You shall dress as you like, as carelessly or as neatly as you like; you shall wear your hair hanging down your back or braided up, without any thought of her; you shall be as silent as you wish—and leave her, if she chooses, to call you stupid, or shy, or sulky, or anything else." And he would have gone to the old man and said: "Talk as much and as long as ever you have a mind; you cannot babble o' green fields too discursively for me; I, at all events, am sufficiently interested in your claims of proud lineage, in your enthusiasm about Scotland and Scottish song, in your reminiscences of many lands. Be as self-complacent and pompous as you please; fear nothing; fear criticism least of all." And perhaps, in like manner, he would have addressed Mrs. Ellison herself: "My dear aunt, it is not they who are on their trial, it is you. It is you who have to show whether you have the courage of honest judgment, or are the mere slave of social custom and forms." For perhaps he, too, had imbibed a little of the "Stand Fast, Craig Royston!" spirit? Bravado may be catching—especially where an innocent and interesting young creature of eighteen or so is in danger of being exposed to some deadly approach.

Of course this carelessly defiant attitude did not prevent his being secretly pleased when, as seven o'clock drew near, he perceived that Maisrie Bethune had arranged herself in an extremely pretty, if clearly inexpensive, costume; and also he was in no wise chagrined to find that Mrs. Ellison, on her arrival, appeared to be in a very amiable mood. There was no need to ask her "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?": her manner was most bland; in particular she was adroitly flattering and fascinating towards old George Bethune, who accepted these little attentions from the charming widow with a grave and consequential dignity. The young host refused to sit at the head of the table; he had the places arranged two and two—Mrs. Ellison, of course, as the greater stranger and the elder woman, on his right, and Maisrie opposite to him. During the general dinner-talk, which was mostly about the crowd, and the races, and the dresses, Mrs. Ellison casually informed her nephew that she had that afternoon won two bets, and also discovered that she and Lord Musselburgh were to meet at the same house in Scotland the coming autumn: perhaps this was the explanation of her extreme and obvious good humour.

And if any deep and sinister design underlay this excessive amiability on her part, it was successfully concealed; meantime all was pleasantness and peace; and the old gentleman, encouraged by her artless confidences, spoke more freely and frankly about the circumstances of himself and his granddaughter than was his wont.

"I see some of the papers are indignant about what they call the vulgar display of wealth at Henley regatta," the young widow was saying, in a very unconcerned and easy fashion; "but I wish those gentlemen would remember that there is such a thing as imputation of motives, and that imputing motives is a common resource of envy. If I have a house-boat, and try to make it as pretty as ever I can, both inside and out, why should that be considered display of wealth—display of any sort? I like nice things and comfortable things around me; I don't mind confessing it; I am a selfish woman—"

"There are some who know better, aunt," her nephew interposed.

"Young gentleman," said she, promptly, "your evidence isn't worth anything, for you have expectations. And I am not to be flattered. I admit that I am a selfish and comfort-loving woman; and I like to see pretty things around me, and an abundance of them; and if I can only have these at the cost of being charged with ostentation and display, very well, I will pay the price. If it comes to that, I never saw anything beautiful or desirable in poverty. Poverty is not beautiful; never was, never is, never will be beautiful; it is base and squalid and sordid; it demeans men's minds, and stunts their bodies. I dare say poverty is an excellent discipline—for the rich, if they would only submit to a six mouths' dose of it now and again; but it is not a discipline at all for the poor; it is a curse; it is the most cruel and baleful thing in the world, destroying self-respect, destroying hope, ambition, everything. Oh, I know the heresy I'm talking. There's Master Vin's papa: he is never done preaching the divine attributes of poverty; and I have no doubt there are a good many others who would be content to fall down and worship la bonne déesse de la pauvreté—on £30,000 a year!"

Master Vin sniggered: he was aware that this was not the only direction in which the principles of the philosopher of Grosvenor Place were somewhat inconsistent with his practice. However, it was old George Bethune who now spoke—as one having experience.

"I quite agree," said he to Mrs. Ellison. "I can conceive of nothing more demoralising to the nature of man or woman than harsh and hopeless poverty, a slavery from which there is no prospect of escape. My granddaughter and I have known what it is to be poor; we know it now; but in our case every day brings possibilities—we breathe a wider air, knowing that at any moment news may come. Then fancy plays her part; and imagination can brighten the next day for us, if the present be dark enough. Hopeless poverty—that is the terrible thing; the weary toil leading to nothing; perhaps the unfortunate wretch sinking deeper and deeper into the Slough of Despond. Maisrie and I have met with trials; but we have borne them with a stout heart; and perhaps we have been cheered—at least I know I have been—by some distant prospect of the Bonnie Mill-dams o' Balloray, and a happier future for us both."

"Balloray?" she repeated, inquiringly.

"Balloray, in Fife. Perhaps you have never heard of the Balloray law-suit, and I will not inflict any history of it upon you at present," he continued, with lofty complaisance. "I was merely saying that poverty is not so hard to bear when there are brighter possibilities always before you. If, in our case, we are barred in law by the Statute of Limitations, there is no Statute of Limitations in the chapter of accidents. And some remarkable instances have occurred. I remember one in which a father, two sons, and a daughter were all drowned at once by the sinking of a ship, and the property went bodily over to the younger branch of the family, who had been penniless for years. It is the unexpected that happens, according to the saying; and so we move from day to day towards fresh possibilities; and who can tell what morning may not bring us a summons to make straight for the Kingdom of Fife? Not for myself do I care; I am too old now; it is for my granddaughter here; and I should pass happily away and contented if I could leave her in sole and undisputed possession of the ancient lands of the Bethunes of Balloray."

What pang was this that shot through Vincent's heart? He suddenly saw Maisrie removed from him—a great heiress—unapproachable—guarded by this old man with his unconquerable pride of lineage and birth. She might not forget old friends; but he? The Harris family had plenty of money; but they had nothing to add to the fesse between three mascles, or, and the otter's head; nor had any of their ancestors, so far as was known, accompanied Margaret of Scotland on her marriage with the Dauphin of France, or taken arms along with the great Maximilien de Bethune, duc de Sully. In imagination the young man saw himself a lonely pedestrian in Fifeshire, regarding from a distance a vast baronial building set amid black Scotch firs and lighter larches, and not daring even to draw near the great gate with the otter's head in stone over the archway. He saw the horses being brought round to the front entrance—a beautiful white Arab and a sturdy cob: the hall door opens—the heiress of Balloray descends the wide stone steps—she is assisted to mount, and pats that beautiful white creature on the neck. And will she presently come cantering by—her long hair flowing to the winds, as fair as it used to be in the olden days when the shifting lights and mists of Hyde Park gave it ever-varying hues? Can he steal aside somewhere?—he has no desire to claim recognition! She has forgotten the time when, in the humble lodgings she used to sing "Je ne puis rien donner, qu' mon coeur en mariage"; she has wide domains now; and wears an ancient historic name. And so she goes along the white highway, and under the swaying boughs of the beeches, until she is lost in a confusion of green and gold...

"And in the meantime," said Mrs. Ellison (Vincent started: had that bewildering and far-reaching vision been revealed to him all in one brief, breathless second?) "in the meantime, Mr. Bethune, you must derive a great deal of comfort and solace from your literary labours."

"My literary labours," said the old man, slowly and absently, "I am sorry to say, are mostly perfunctory and mechanical. They occupy attention and pass the time, however; and that is much. Perhaps I have written one or two small things which may survive me for a year or two; but if that should be so, it will be owing, not to any merit of their own, but to the patriotism of my countrymen. Nay, I have much to be thankful for,", he continued, in the same resigned fashion. "I have been spared much. If I had been a famous author in my younger days, I should now be reading the things I had written then with the knowledge that I was their only reader. I should be thinking of my contemporaries and saying 'At one time people spoke of me as now they are speaking of you.' It is a kind of sad thing for a man to outlive his fame; for the public is a fickle-minded creature, and must have new distractions; but now I cannot complain of being forgotten, for I never did anything deserving of being remembered."

"Grandfather," said Maisrie, "surely it is unfair of you to talk like that! Think of the many friends you have made through your writings."

"Scotch friends, Maisrie, Scotch friends," he said. "I admit that. The Scotch are not among the forgetful ones of the earth. If you want to be made much of," he said, turning to Mrs. Ellison, "if you want to be regarded with a constant affection and gratitude, and to have your writings remembered and repeated, by the lasses at the kirn, by the ploughman in the field, by gentle and simple alike, then you must contrive to be born in Scotland. The Scottish heart beats warm, and is constant. If there is a bit of heather or a blue-bell placed on my grave, it will be by the hand of a kindly Scot."

Dinner over, they went out and sate in the cool twilight and had coffee, while the steward was clearing away within. Mrs. Ellison, faithful to her promise to Lord Musselburgh, said she had not long to stay; but her nephew, having a certain scheme in his mind, would not let her go just yet; and by and bye, when the saloon had been lit up, he asked her, in a casual kind of fashion, whether before she went she would not like to hear Miss Bethune sing something.

"Oh, I should like it of all things!" she replied instantly, with a reckless disregard of truth.

Maisrie glanced at her grandfather.

"Yes, certainly—why not?" said he.

"Then," said their young host, "I propose we go in to the saloon again; it will be quieter." For there was still a plash of oars on the river, and an echoing call of voices in the meadows beyond.

When they had returned into the saloon, Maisrie took up her violin; and Mrs. Ellison bravely endeavoured to assume an air of interested expectancy. The fact was she disliked the whole proceeding; here would be some mere exhibition of a schoolgirl's showy accomplishments; she would have to say nice things; and she hated telling lies—when nothing was to be gained. Maisrie made some little apology; but said that perhaps Mrs. Ellison had not heard the Claire Fontaine, which is a favourite song of the Canadians. Then she drew her bow across the strings.

Vincent need not have been so anxious. Hardly had Maisrie begun with

"A la claire fontaine,

M'en allant promener—"

than Mrs. Ellison's air of forced attention instantly vanished; she seemed surprised; she listened in a wondering kind of way to the low, clear tones of the girl's voice that were so curiously sincere and penetrating and simple. Not a schoolgirl's showing off, this; but a kind of speech, that reached the heart.

"Sur la plus haute branche

Le rossignol chantait.

Chante, rossignol, chante,

Toi qui as le coeur gai.

Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,

Jamais je ne t'oublierai."

Did she notice the soft dwelling on the r's, Vincent asked himself; and had she ever heard anything so strangely fascinating? Then the simple pathos of the story—if there was any story—

"Chante, rossignol, chante,

Toi qui as le coeur gai;

Tu as le coeur à rire,

Moi je l'ai-t-à pleurer.

Tu as le coeur à rire,

Moi j'e l'ai-t-à pleurer:

J'ai perdu ma maîtresse

Sans l'avoir mérité.

Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,

Jamais je ne l'oublierai."

"That is enough," said Maisrie, with a smile, and she laid the violin in her lap. "It is too long. You never hear it sung altogether in Canada—only a verse here and there—or perhaps merely the refrain—"

"But is there more?—oh, please sing the rest of it—it is delightful—so quaint, and simple, and charming!" Mrs. Ellison exclaimed; and Master Vin was a proud and glad young man; he knew that Maisrie had all unaided struck home.

The girl took up her violin again, and resumed:

"J'ai perdu ma maîtresse

Sans l'avoir mérité.

Pour un bouquet de roses

Que je lui refusai.

Pour un bouquet de roses

Que je lui refusai.

Je voudrais que la rose

Fût encore au rosier.

Je voudrais que la rose

Fût encore au rosier,

Et moi et ma maîtresse

Dans les mem's amitiés.

Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,

Jamais je ne t'oublierai!"

Well, when the singing, if it could be called singing, was over, Mrs. Ellison made the usual little compliments, which nobody minded one way or the other. But presently she had to leave; and while she was being rowed up the river by her nephew she was silent. When they reached the Villeggiatura (the people were all outside, amid the confused light of the lanterns in the dusk) she said to him, in a low voice, as she bade him good-bye—

"Vin, let me whisper something to you—a confession. Claire Fontaine has done for me. That girl is a good girl. She is all right, any way."

CHAPTER VIII.

AN ALARM.

On a certain still, clear, moonlight night a dog-cart containing two young men was being driven away from the little town of Mendover, out into the wide, white, silent country. The driver was Lord Musselburgh, and he seemed in high spirits, talking to his companion almost continuously, while he kept the stout little cob going at a rattling pace.

"I am more pleased than I can tell you," he was saying. "Quite a triumph! Why, you took to it as a duck takes to water. Of course there's something in having a responsive audience; and you can always get a noble band of patriots to cheer your proposal for a progressive income-tax when not one in ten of them has any income-tax to pay. I'm afraid they weren't quite so enthusiastic about your scheme of compulsory insurance; indeed they seemed a little disappointed and offended; the Champion of the Proletariat was playing it a little low down on them; but a heavily increasing income-tax—oh, yes, that was splendid!—they saw the Rothschilds caught at last, and had visions of a land in which there shall be no more poor-rates or police-rates, perhaps not even water-rates or gas-rates. But it was your confounded coolness that surprised me—no beating about the bush—walking straight into it—and without preparation, too—"

"I knew what I had to say," Vincent interposed, with a becoming modesty, "and it seemed simple enough to say it."

"Yes, and so it is—when you have acquired the knack of forgetting yourself," said the young nobleman, oracularly. "And that appears to have come naturally to you, my boy. However, this is why I am so particularly pleased with your successful first appearance," Lord Musselburgh proceeded, as the dog-cart went bowling along the silent, white highway, between the black hedges. "I am about to unfold to you a great idea, Vin—perhaps prematurely, but you will be discreet. The project is mine; but I want help to carry it through; you and I must work together; and years and years hence we shill be recognised as the Great Twin Brethren, who saved the falling fortunes of England."

Was he in jest or earnest? Vincent, knowing his friend's sub-cynical habit of speech, listened without interposing a word.

"We shall earn for ourselves a deathless renown, at very little cost—to us; it's the other people who will have to pay, and we shall have all the glory. Now what I propose is briefly this: I propose to give all those good folk who profess a warm regard for their native country a chance of showing what their patriotism is worth. I don't want them to fight; there isn't any fighting going on at present to speak of; and in any case the rich old merchants, and maiden ladies, and portly bishops, and ponderous judges—well, they'd make an awkward squad to drill; but I mean to give them an opportunity of testifying to their affection for the land of their birth; and you, my blazing young Tory-Democrat, if you can speak as freely as you spoke to-night, you must carry the fiery torch north, south, east, and west—till you've secured Westminster Abbey for both of us, or at least a tablet in St. Paul's. Then look what a subject for your eloquence you have—the guarding of England from any possible combination of her foes—the island-citadel made impregnable—'compass'd by the inviolate sea'—defence not defiance—you understand the kind of thing. But really, Vin, you know, there is going to be an awful stramash, as my old nurse used to say, in Europe before the century is out; and England's safety will lie in her being strong enough to remain aloof. And how? Why, by trebling her present navy."

"Trebling her present navy!" Vincent repeated, in a vague sort of way.

"Yes," Musselburgh went on, coolly. "And it can easily be done, without involving a single farthing of taxation. I want the people of this country to show what they can do voluntarily; I want them to make a tremendous effort to render Great Britain secure from attack for a century at least; and the manner of doing it is to form a National Patriotic Fund, to which everybody, man and woman, merchant and apprentice, millionaire and club-waiter, can subscribe, according to their means and the genuineness of their patriotism. Here is a chance for everybody; here is a test of all those professions of love of country. Why, it would become a point of honour, with the very meanest, if the nation were thoroughly aroused, and if a splendid example were set in high places. The Queen, now—who is more directly interested in the safety of the country than she is?—why should she not head the list with £100,000? I would call the fund the Queen's Fund; and I should not wonder if we were to get two or three maniacs—very useful maniacs—patriots they would have been called in other days—to cut their possessions in half, and hand the one half bodily over to Her Majesty: that would be something like an example!"