Front matter (continued 3)

"Hands off!" said Vincent; and he slung the fellow a clip on the ear that sent him staggering, until his legs got mixed up somehow, and away he went headlong on to the grass.

Then he said in a rapid undertone to the two girls—

"Off you go to the carriage—quick!"

He turned to the now murmuring group.

"What do you want?" he said. "I can't fight all of you: I'll fight the soldier—make a ring, to see fair play——"

He glanced over his shoulder: the two girls had disappeared: now he breathed freely.

"But, look here," said he in a most amicable tone, "you've had a glass—any one can see that—and it's no use a man trying to fight if he's a bit unsteady on his pins; you know that quite well. And I don't want to fight any of you. If you ask me in a friendly way, I'll go down to the Royal Oak and have something with you; or I'll treat you, if you like that better. I call that fair."

And they seemed to think it fair, too; so they picked up their companion (who looked drowsy) and helped him along. But they hadn't gone half-a-dozen yards when two dark figures appeared at the top of the chalk cutting; and these, when they came quickly up, Vincent to his surprise discovered to be the coachman and footman.

"Where are the young ladies?" he demanded, instantly and angrily.

"Miss Drexel is on the box, sir—she sent us to you," said the coachman—staring with amazement at the revellers, and no doubt wondering when the fighting was about to begin.

"Oh, go away back!" said he. "Get the ladies into the carriage and drive them home! I'm going to have a drink with these good fellows—I'll follow on foot!"

"I'm quite sure, sir, Miss Drexel won't go," said the coachman.

But here the soldier stepped forward. He had arrived at some nebulous perception of the predicament; and he constituted himself spokesman of the party. They had no wish to inconvenience the gentleman. He hoped some other night—proud to see such a gentleman—wouldn't interfere with ladies—not interfere with anybody—all gentlemen and good friends—no use in animosity—no offence I meant—no offence taken——

This harangue might have gone on all night had not Vincent cut it short by requesting to be allowed to hand his friends five shillings to drink his health withal; and away the jocund brethren went to obtain more liquor—if haply they could induce the landlord of the Royal Oak to serve them.

And here, sure enough, was Miss Louie Drexel seated sedately on the box, whip and reins in hand; and there was Miss Anna, in the white moonlight, at the horses' heads. When Vincent and his two companions were in the carriage again, he said to the elder of them—

"Why didn't you drive away home?"

"Drive away home?" said she, with some touch of vibrant indignation in her voice. "And leave you there? I was just as near as possible going back myself, with the whip in my hand. Do you think I couldn't have lashed my way through those drunken fools?"

CHAPTER VI.

A SPLIT AT LAST.

The renovation of Musselburgh House took more time than had been hoped; bride and bridegroom remained abroad, basking in the sweet airs and sunlight of the Mediterranean spring; and it was not until well on in the month of May that they returned to London. Immediately after their arrival Vincent called on them—one afternoon on his way down to St. Stephen's. He stayed only a few minutes; and had little to say. But the moment he had left Lady Musselburgh turned to her husband.

"Oh, Hubert, isn't it dreadful! Did you ever see such a change in any human being? And no one to tell us of it—not even his own father—nor a word from Louie Drexel, though she wrote often enough about him and what he was doing in the House——"

"Yes, he does look ill," said Lord Musselburgh, with a seriousness not usual with him. "Very ill, indeed. Yet he doesn't seem to know it—declares there is nothing the matter with him—shows a little impatience, even, when you begin to ask questions. I suppose he has been working too hard; too eager and anxious all the way round; too ambitious—not like most young men. He'd better give up that newspaper-nonsense, for one thing."

"Oh, it isn't that, Hubert; it isn't that!" she exclaimed, in rather piteous accents; and she walked away to the window (this was the very room in which Vincent had first set eyes on Maisrie Bethune and her grandfather).

She stood there, alone, for a time. Then her husband went and joined her, and linked his arm within hers. She was crying a little.

"I did it for the best, Hubert," she sobbed.

"Did what for the best?"

"Getting that girl away. I never thought it would come to this."

"Now, now, Madge," said he, in a very affectionate fashion, "don't you worry about nothing—or rather, it isn't nothing, for Vin does look pretty seedy; but you mustn't assume that you are in any way responsible. People don't die nowadays of separation and a broken heart—not nowadays. He is fagged; he is not used to the late hours of the House of Commons; then there's that newspaper work——"

"But his manner, Hubert, his manner!" she exclaimed. "He seemed as if he no longer cared for anything in life; he hardly listened when I told him where we had been; he appeared to be thinking of something quite different—as if he were looking at ghosts."

"And perhaps he was looking at ghosts," said her husband. "For it was by that table there he first saw those two people who have made all this trouble. But why should you consider yourself responsible, Madge? It wasn't your money that sent them out of the country. It wasn't you who found out what they really were."

She passed her handkerchief across her eyes.

"I was quite sure," she went on—not heeding this consolation—"that as soon as she was got away—as soon as he was removed from the fascination of her actual presence—he would begin to see things in their true light. And then, thrown into the society of a charming and clever girl like Louie Drexel, I hoped everything for him. And is this all that has come of it, that he looks as if he were at death's door? It isn't the House of Commons, Hubert; and it isn't the newspaper-work: it is simply that he still believes in that girl, and that he is eating his heart out about her absence, and has no one to confide in. For that is the worst of it all: it is all a sealed book now, as between him and us. He was for leaving my house in Brighton—oh, the rage he was in with me about her!—and it would have been for the last time too, I know; only that I promised never again to mention the subject to him, and on that condition we have got on fairly well since. But how am I to keep silence any longer? I cannot see my boy like that. I must speak to him; I must ask him if he is still so mad as to believe in the honesty of those two people; and then, if I find that his infatuation still exists, even after all this time, then I must simply tell him that they took money to go away. How can he get over that? How can he get over that, Hubert?"

In her despair, this was almost a challenge as well as an appeal. But her husband was doubtful.

"When a man is in love with a woman," said he, "he can forgive a good lot—confound it, he can forgive everything, or nearly everything, so long as she can persuade him she loves him in return——"

"But not this, Hubert, not this!" the young wife exclaimed. "Even if he could forgive her being a thief and the accomplice of an old charlatan and swindler—and what an 'if!—imagine that of Vincent—of Vincent, who is as proud as Lucifer—imagine that of him!—but even if he were willing to forgive all that, how could he forgive her being bought over, her taking money to remain away from him? No, no, Hubert: surely there is a limit, even to a young man's folly!"

"Of course you know best," her husband said, in a dubious kind of way. "I've seen some queer things in my time, with young men. And Vin is an obstinate devil, and tenacious: he sticks to anything he takes up: look at him and that wretched newspaper-work, for example. If he has persuaded himself of the innocence and honour of this girl, it may be hard to move him. And I remember there was something very winning and attractive about her—something that bespoke favour——"

"That was what made her so useful to that old impostor!" Lady Musselburgh said, vindictively.

"Of course," he admitted, "as you say, here is the undoubted fact of their taking the money. If Vin is to be convinced at all, it is possible that may convince him."

"Very well, then," said she, with decision, "he must and shall be convinced; and that no further off than to-morrow morning. I'll tell Harland I'm coming along to lunch; so that he may be in the house, to give me any papers I may want. And surely, surely, when Vincent perceives what these people are, and what an escape he has had, he will cease to mope and fret: at his time of life there ought to be other things to think of than a girl who has deceived him all the way through, and ended by taking money to leave the country!"

But notwithstanding all this brave confidence, Lady Musselburgh felt very nervous and anxious as she went down next morning to Grosvenor Place. She was alone—her husband was coming along later, for lunch; and she went on foot, to give her a little more time to arrange her plan of procedure. For this was her last bolt, and she knew it. If his fatal obstinacy withstood this final assault, then there was no hope for him, or for her far-reaching schemes with regard to him.

She went into the drawing-room; and he came as soon as he was sent for. These two were now alone.

"Do you know, Vin," she began at once, "Hubert and I have been much concerned about you; for though you won't admit there is anything the matter, the change in your appearance struck us yesterday the moment you came in: indeed, it made me quite anxious; and after you were gone, Hubert and I talked a little about you and your affairs—you may be sure with only the one wish in our minds. Hubert thinks you are over-fagged; that you are too close in your attendance at the House; and that you should give up your newspaper-writing for a time. I wish it were no more than that. But I suspect there is something else——"

"Aunt," said he, interrupting her—and yet with something of a tired air, "do you think there is any use in talking, and inquiring, and suggesting? What has happened, has happened. It is something you don't understand; and something you couldn't put right—with all your good wishes."

"Yes, yes," she said eagerly, for she was rejoiced to find that he took her interference so amiably: "that is quite right; and mind you, I don't forget the agreement we came to at Brighton, that a certain subject should never be referred to by either of us. I quite remember that; and you know I have never sought to return to it again in any way whatever. But your looks yesterday, Vin, frightened me; and at this moment—why, you are not like my dear boy at all. I wish in all seriousness you had come over to Paris with us—you and Louie—and gone with us to the Mediterranean; we should not have allowed you to fall into this condition—"

"Oh, I'm well enough, aunt!" said he.

"You are not well!" she insisted. "And why? Because your mind is ill at ease—"

"And very little comfort I have to hope for from you," said he, remembering former conversations: but there was no bitterness in his tone—only a sort of resigned hopelessness.

"Now, that is not fair, Vin!" she protested. "If I said things to you you did not like, what motive had I but your happiness? And now at this moment, if I re-open that subject, it is not the kind of comfort you apparently hope for that I am prepared to bring you, but something quite different. I should like to heal your mental ailment, once and for all, by convincing you of the truth."

"Yes, I think we have heard something of that sort on previous occasions," he said, rather scornfully. "The truth as it is in George Morris! Well, I will tell you what would be more useful, more to the point, and more becoming. Before saying anything further about that old man and his granddaughter, I think you ought to go and seek them out, and go down on your knees to them, and ask their pardon—"

"For what?"

"For what you have already said of them—and suspected."

"Really you try my patience too much!" she exclaimed, with some show of temper. "What have I said or suspected of them that was not amply justified by the account of them that your father offered to show you? Of course you wouldn't look at it. Certainly not! Facts are inconvenient things, most uncomfortable things, where one's prepossessions are involved. But I had no objection to looking at it—"

"I suppose not!" said he.

"And my eyes were not blinded: I could accept evidence when it was put before me."

"Evidence!" he repeated. "You forget that I have been across the Atlantic since that precious document was compiled. I heard how that evidence had been got: I could see how it could be perverted to suit the malignant theories of a pack of detectives. And if I came back with any settled conviction, it was that you and one or two others—myself, too, in a way—could do no better than go and humble ourselves before that old man and that girl, and beg for their forgiveness, and their forgetfulness of the wrongs and insults we have put upon them."

"Oh, this is beyond anything!" she cried—rather losing command of herself. "You drive me to speak plain. Everything your father and I could think of was tried to cure you of this mad infatuation—the most patient inquiry—expenditure of money—representations that would have convinced any sane person. Nothing was of any use. What was to be done next? Well, we could only buy up those honourable persons—who were not adventurers in any kind of way—oh, certainly not!—but all the same they were willing to be bought; and so, on payment of a substantial consideration, they agreed to pack up their traps and be off. What do you think of that? What do you say to that? Where was the old gentleman's indomitable pride?—where was the girl's pretended affection for you?—when they consented to take a good round sum of money and be off? How can you explain that away?"

She regarded him with a certain defiance—for she was moved to anger by his obduracy. But if she expected him to wince under this sudden stab she was mistaken.

"How do I know that this is true?" he said, calmly.

"I am not in the habit of speaking untruths," she said, slightly drawing herself up.

"Oh, of course not," he answered. "But all through this matter there has been a good deal of twisting about and misrepresentation. I should like to know from whom Mr. Bethune got this money—and in what form."

Well, she was prepared.

"I suppose you would be convinced," said she, "if I showed you the receipt—a receipt for £5,000—which he signed and gave to George Morris?"

"Where is that receipt?" he asked.

"In this house. I will go to your father, and get it. Shall I ask him at the same time for those other documents which you would not read? Perhaps all taken together they might enable you to realise the truth at last."

"No, thank you," said he, coldly. "I know how those other documents were procured. I shall be glad to see the receipt."

She hurried away, anxious to strike while the iron was hot, and certain she had already made a profound impression. And so she had, in one way, all unknowing. When she left the room, he remained standing, gazing blankly at the sides of the books on the table: outwardly impassive, but with his brain working rapidly enough. He made no manner of doubt that she could produce this receipt. He took it for granted that George Bethune had accepted the money. Of course, Maisrie had nothing to do with it; her grandfather kept her in ignorance of his pecuniary affairs; and it would be enough for him to say that she must go away with him from England—she was obedient in all things. And no doubt the old man had been cajoled and flattered into believing he was acting justly and in the best interests of every one concerned; there could have been little difficulty about that; he was quick to persuade himself of anything that happened to fall in with the needs of the moment. All this Vincent understood at once. But when he came to consider that it was his own relatives who had brought upon him all the long torture and suffering of these bygone months—and not only that: for what was he or his hidden pain?—but also that they had once more driven forth those two tired wanderers—the old man who had some wistful notion of ending his days in his own country, the young girl whose maiden eyes had just made confession of her love-secret—then his heart grew hot within him. It was too cruel. When Lady Musselburgh returned with the receipt in her hand, he took the paper, and merely glanced at it.

"And whose clever and original idea was this?" he demanded—with what she took to be indifference.

"But Vincent—are you convinced at last!" she exclaimed. "Surely you must see for yourself now. You will give up thinking of them—thinking of that girl especially when you see what she is——"

"Whose idea was it to get them sent away?" he repeated.

"Well, it was my idea," she said; "but your father paid the money."

He was silent for a second or two, and then he said slowly——

"And you are my nearest relatives; and this is what you have done, not to me only, but to one who is dearer to me than life. So be it. But you cannot expect me to remain longer under this roof, or to sit down at table, anywhere, with my cruellest enemies——"

She turned very pale.

"Vincent!" she exclaimed.

"It is a question of taking sides," he went on, with perfect composure; "and I go over to the other side. They most need help: they are poor and friendless. I hope the mischief you have done is not irreparable; I cannot tell; but I dare say when you and I meet again time will have shown."

She was thunderstruck and stupefied; she did not even seek to detain him as he left the room. For there was a curious air of self-possession, of resolution, about his manner: this was no pique of disappointed passion, nor any freak of temper. And she could not but ask herself, in a breathless sort of way, whether after all he might not be in the right about those people; and, in that case, what was this that she had brought about? She was frightened—too frightened to reason with herself, perhaps: she only saw Vincent leaving his father's roof—cutting himself off from his own family—and she had a dumb consciousness that it was her work, through some fatal error of judgment. And she seemed to know instinctively that this step that he had taken was irrevocable—and that she was in some dim way responsible for all that had occurred.

When Lord Musselburgh arrived, he and Harland Harris came upstairs together; and almost directly afterwards luncheon was announced. As they were about to go down to the dining-room the great Communist-capitalist looked round with a little air of impatience and said—

"But where is Vin?"

"He was here a short time ago," said Lady Musselburgh: she dared not say more.

Mr. Harris, from below, sent a message to his son's room: the answer—which Lady Musselburgh heard in silence—was that they were not to wait luncheon for him.

"Too busy with his reply to the Sentinel," Musselburgh suggested. "Sharp cuts and thrusts going. I wonder that celestial minds should grow so acrid over such a subject as the nationalisation of tithe."

There was some scuffle on the stairs outside, to which nobody (except Lady Musselburgh, whose ears were painfully on the alert) paid any attention; but when a hansom was called up to the front door, Harland Harris happened to look out.

"What, is he going off somewhere? I never knew any creature so careless about his meals. I presume his indifference means a good digestion."

"Oh, Vin's digestion is all right," Lord Musselburgh said. "I hear he dines every night at the House of Commons—and yet he is alive——"

"But there are his portmanteaus!" Mr. Harris exclaimed, and he even rose and went to the window for a second. Well, he was just in time to see Vincent step into the cab, and drive off; and therewith he returned to his place at table, and proceeded, in his usual bland and somewhat patronising manner, to tell Lord Musselburgh of certain experiments he was having made in copper-lustre. He was not in the least concerned about that departing cab; nor did he know that that was the last glimpse of his son he was to have for many and many a day.

And meanwhile Lady Musselburgh sate there frightened, and guilty, and silent. And that without reason; for what she had done she had done with the full concurrence and approval of her brother-in-law and her fiancé (as he then was). Yet somehow she seemed to feel herself entirely answerable for all that had happened—for the failure of all her schemes—for the catastrophe that had resulted. And the moment she got outside her brother-in-law's house, she began and confessed the whole truth to her husband.

"But why didn't you tell Harris?" said he, pausing as if even now he would go back.

"Oh, I couldn't, Hubert; I daren't!" she said, evidently in great distress. "I was so confident everything would come right—I advised him—I persuaded him to pay the £5,000——"

"Oh, nonsense!" was the impatient reply. "A man doesn't hand over £5,000 unless he is himself convinced that it is worth while. And he got what he bargained for. Those people have gone away; they don't interfere any more——"

"Ah, but that is not all," Lady Musselburgh put in, rather sadly. "I made so sure that Vin would forget—that as soon as the hallucination had worn off a little, he would see what those people really were, and turn his eyes elsewhere: yet apparently he believes in their honesty more firmly than ever—talks of my going and asking their pardon—and the like; and now he has wholly broken away from us—declares he will never be under the same roof with us, or sit down at the same table with us. He has gone over to the other side, he says, because they are poor and friendless. Poor and friendless!" she repeated, with a snap of anger—"living on the fat of the land through their thieving! And yet——"

And here again she paused, as if recalling something to herself: "Do you know, Hubert, I was startled and frightened by Vin's manner to-day; for I had suddenly to ask myself whether after all it was possible he might be in the right, and we altogether wrong. In all other things he shows himself so clear-headed and able and shrewd; and then he has seen the world; you would not take him to be one who could be easily deceived. Sometimes I hardly know what to think. But at all events, this is what you must do now, Hubert: you must get hold of him, and persuade him to go back home, before Harland knows anything of what had been intended. He can invent some excuse about the portmanteaus. You can go down to the House to-night, and see him there; and if you persuade him to return to Grosvenor Place, that will be so much of the mischief set straight. That is the first thing to be done; but afterwards——"

It was quite clear that she knew not what to think, for she went on again, almost as if talking to herself—

"Of course, if the girl were a perfectly good and honest girl, and above suspicion of every kind, Vin's constancy and devotion to her would be a very fine and noble thing; and I for one should be proud of him for it. But as things are, it is a monomania—nothing else than a monomania! He must see that she is in league with that old man to get money on false pretences."

"He sees nothing of the kind," said her husband bluntly. "She may or she may not be; I know little or nothing about her; but if she is, Vin doesn't see it: you may make up your mind about that."

"And yet he seems sharp-sighted in other things," said Lady Musselburgh in a pensive sort of way; and then she added: "However, the first step to be taken is to get him back to his own family; and none can do that so well as you, Hubert; you are his old friend; and you stand between us, as it were. And there's one thing about Vin: he can't disappear out of the way; you can always get hold of him—at the House of Commons."

Lord Musselburgh had not been long married; he did as he was bid. And very eagerly did Vincent welcome this ambassador, when he encountered him in the Lobby.

"Come out on to the Terrace. I was just going to write to you: I want you to do me the greatest service you can imagine!"

"Here I am, ready to do anybody any number of services," said Lord Musselburgh, as they proceeded to stroll up and down this dark space, with the wide river flowing silently by, and the innumerable small beads of gold showing where London lay in the dusk. "Only too happy. And I am in the best position for being mediator, for I have nothing to gain from either side—except, of course that I should be extremely sorry to see you quarrelling with your relations. This is always a mistake, Vin, my boy: bad for you, bad for them. And I hope you will let me go back with the important part of my commission done—that is to say, I was to persuade you to return to Grosvenor Place, just as if nothing had happened. My wife is awfully upset about it—thinks it is entirely owing to her; whereas I don't see that it is at all. She has been trying to do her best for everybody—for your father as well as for yourself. And the notion that you should cut yourself off from your family naturally seems very dreadful to her; and if I can take her the assurance that you don't mean anything of the kind—very well!"

"Oh, but look here, Musselburgh," said Vincent, "you entirely mistake. It was not about that I wished to see you: not at all: on that point it is useless saying anything. You must assure Lady Musselburgh that this is no piece of temper on my part—nothing to be smoothed over, and hushed up. I have seen all along that it was inevitable. From the moment that my aunt and my father took up that position against—against Maisrie Bethune and her grandfather—I foresaw that sooner or later this must come. I have tried to reason with them; I have assured them that their suspicions and their definite charges were as cruel as they were false; and all to no purpose. And this last thing: this bribing of an old man, who can be too easily persuaded, to take his granddaughter away with him and subject her to the homeless life she had led for so many years—perhaps there are some other considerations I need not mention—this is too much. But I knew that sooner or later a severance would come between them and me; and I am not unprepared. You wondered at my drudging away at that newspaper work, when my father was allowing me a handsome income. Now do you see the use of it? I am independent. I can do as I please. I can't make a fortune; but I can earn enough to live—and something more. Let them go their way, as I go mine: it has not been all my doing."

Lord Musselburgh was disconcerted; but he was a dutiful husband; he went on to argue. He found he might as well attempt to argue with a milestone. Nothing could shake this young man's determination.

"I told Lady Musselburgh I had gone over to the other side, this time for good," said he. "We are in opposite camps now. We have been so all along—but not openly. This piece of treachery has been too much for me: we are better apart: I could not sit down at table with people who had acted like that—whatever their motives were. But you, Musselburgh, you were not concerned in that wretched piece of scheming; and as I tell you, you can do me the greatest possible service. Will you do it? Or will you rather cast in your lot with them?"

"Oh, well," said Musselburgh, rather disappointedly, "I don't see why I should be compelled to take sides. I want to do my best for everybody concerned. I've just come into the family, as you might say; and it seems a pity there should be any quarrel or break up. I had a kind of notion that we should all of us—but particularly my wife and myself and you and—and—your wife—I thought our little party of four might have a very pleasant time together, both at home and abroad. My wife and I have often talked of it, and amused ourselves with sketching out plans. Seems such a pity——"

"Yes," said Vincent, abruptly, "but there are other things in life besides going to Monte Carlo and staking five-franc pieces."

"What is this that you want me to do?" his friend asked next—seeing that those inducements did not avail.

"Well," said Vincent, "I suppose you know that Lady Musselburgh showed me this morning the receipt Mr. Bethune gave George Morris for the £5,000. It was a simple receipt: nothing more. But everybody knows George Morris is not the man to part with money unconditionally; there must have been arrangements and pledges; and I want to discover what Mr. Bethune undertook to do, where he undertook to go. Morris won't tell me, that is certain enough: but he would probably tell you."

Lord Musselburgh hesitated.

"Why," said he, "you know why that money was paid. It was paid for the express purpose of getting them away—so that you should not know where they are——"

"Precisely so," said Vincent. "And you would therefore be undoing a part of the wrong that has been done them, by your wife and my father."

"Oh, I don't call it doing a wrong to a man to give him £5,000," said Lord Musselburgh, with a touch of resentment. "He needn't have taken the money unless he liked."

"Do you know what representations were made to him to induce him to take it?" Vincent said.

"Well, I don't," was the reply. "They settled all that amongst themselves; and I was merely made acquainted with the results. It would hardly have been my place to interfere, you see; it was before my marriage, remember; in any case, I don't know that I should have wanted to have any say in the matter. However, the actual outcome we all of us know; and you must confess, Vin, whatever persuasions were used, it looks a rather shady transaction."

"Yes—on the part of those who induced him to accept the bribe!" Vincent said, boldly.

"Oh, come, come," Lord Musselburgh interposed, rather testily, "don't be so bigoted. It isn't only your considering that girl to be everything that is fine and wonderful—I can understand that—the glamour of love can do anything; but you go too far in professing the greatest admiration and respect for this old man. Leave us some chance of agreeing with you, of believing you sane. For you can't deny that he took the money: there is the plain and simple fact staring you in the face. More than that, his taking it was the justification of those who offered it: it proved to them that he was not the kind of person with whom you should be connected by marriage. I say nothing about the young lady; I don't know her; perhaps her association all these years with this old—well, I won't call him names—has not affected her in any way; perhaps she believes in him as implicitly as you appear to do. But as for him: well, take any unprejudiced outsider, like myself; what am I to think when I find him accepting this money from strangers?"

"Yes," said Vincent, a little absently, "I suppose, to an outsider, that would look bad. But it is because you don't know him, Musselburgh; or the story of his life; or his circumstances. I confess that at one time there were things that disquieted me; I rather shut my eyes to them; but now that I understand what this man is, and what he has gone through, and how he bears himself, it isn't only pity I feel for him, it is respect, and more than respect. But it's a long story; and it would have to be told to sympathetic ears; it would be little use telling it to my father or to my aunt—they have the detectives' version before them—they have the detectives' reading of the case."

"Well, tell me, at least," said his friend. "I want to get at the truth. I have no prejudice or prepossession one way or the other. For another thing, I like to hear the best of everybody—and to believe it, if I can; it makes life pleasanter; and I can't forget, either, that it was through me you got to know George Bethune."

It was a long story, as Vincent had said; and it was a difficult one to set in order and in a proper light: but it was chiefly based on what had been told him by the Toronto banker; and Mr. Thompson's generous interpretation of it ran through it all. Lord Musselburgh listened with the greatest interest and attention. What seemed mostly to strike him was the banker's phrase—'Call George Bethune an impostor, if you like; but the man he has imposed on, his whole life through, has been—George Bethune.'

"Well, it's all very extraordinary," he said, when Vincent had finished. "I wish I had taken the trouble to become a little better acquainted with him; one is so apt to judge by the outside; I thought he was merely a picturesque old fellow with a mad enthusiasm about Scotland. And yet I don't know what to say even now. All that you have told me sounds very plausible and possible—if you take that way of looking at it; and the whole thing seems so pitiable, especially for the girl: he has his delusions and self-confidence—she has only her loneliness. But at the same time, Vin, you must admit that these little weaknesses of his might easily be misconstrued——"

"Certainly," said Vincent, with promptitude. "It is just as Mr. Thompson said: if you choose to look at George Bethune through blue spectacles, his way of life must appear very doubtful: if you choose to look at him through pink spectacles, there is something almost heroic about him. And I think, Musselburgh, if you knew the lion-hearted old man a little better, you wouldn't shrink from acknowledging that there was something fine and even grand in his character. As for Maisrie—as for Miss Bethune—she asks for no generous consideration, or forbearance, or anything of the kind; she asks for no leniency of judgment, and needs none; she is beyond and above all that. I know her—none better than I; and she has only to remain what she is—'dass Gott sie erhalte, so schön und rein und hold'!"

There was a break in his voice as he spoke. Lord Musselburgh was silent for a moment—he felt like an intruder upon something too sacred. And yet he had his mission; so presently he forced himself to resume:

"Well, after all, Vin, I think you must grant that there is something to be said for your relatives, even if they have been mistaken. They could not know all that you know—all that you learned in Canada as well; they could only judge from the outside; they could only believe what they heard——"

"Why did they interfere at all?" Vincent demanded, in his turn. "Why had they Mr. Bethune's steps dogged by detectives?"

"You should be the last to protest. It was entirely for your sake that it was done."

"Yes," said Vincent, with a certain scorn. "It was for my sake they were so ready to suspect—it was for my sake they were so eager to regard everything from the attorney's point of view! They would not take my word for anything; they would rather trust to their private enquiry offices. I was supposed to be so easily blinded; the swindlers had such a willing dupe; no reliance was to be placed but on the testimony of spies. What childish rubbish! Why, I introduced my aunt to Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter: she could not find a word to say against them—but her suspicions remained all the same! And then apparently she went and consulted with my father. It was so dreadful that I was being cheated by those two dangerous characters! Couldn't the lawyers and their private inquiry agents—couldn't they make out some story that would appal me? Couldn't they make up some bogey—straw, and an old coat—that would terrify me out of my wits? And then when I wasn't appalled by their idle trash of stories—oh, for goodness sake, get those desperate creatures smuggled away out of the country! No safety unless they were hidden away somewhere! And then they went to the old man; and I can imagine how they persuaded him. The greatest kindness to every one concerned if only he would fall in with their views; he would save his granddaughter from entering a family who had mistaken, but undoubted, prejudices against her; and of course they couldn't allow him to put himself so much about without endeavouring to pay part of the cost. It was no solatium to the young lady—oh, no, certainly not!—probably she was destined for much higher things; and it was no gift to himself; it was merely that the relatives of that hot-headed young man were desirous of pleasing themselves by showing how much they appreciated his, Mr. Bethune's, generosity in making this little sacrifice. Well, they succeeded: but they little knew—and they little know—what they have done!"

Perhaps there was something in the proud and withal disdainful tones of the young man's voice that was quite as convincing as his words; at all events, his friend said—

"Well, I sympathise with you, Vin, I do really. But you see how I am situated. I am an emissary—an intermediary—I want peace——"

"It is no use saying peace where there is no peace," Vincent broke in. "Nor need there be war. Silence is best. Let what has been done go; it cannot be undone now."

"Vincent—if you would only think how fond your aunt is of you—if you would think of her distress——"

"It was she who ought to have considered first," was the rejoinder. "Do you imagine I have suffered nothing, before I went to America, and then, and since? But that is of little account. I could forgive whatever has happened to myself. It is when I think of some one else—sent adrift upon the world again—but it is better not to talk!"

"Well, yes," persisted Lord Musselburgh, who was in a sad quandary; for the passionate indignation of this young man seemed so much stronger than any persuasive argument that could be brought against it, "I can perfectly understand how you may consider yourself wronged and injured; and how much more you feel what you consider wrong and injury done to others; but you ought to be a little generous, and take motives into account. Supposing your father and your aunt were mistaken in acting as they did, it was not through any selfishness on their part. It was for your welfare, as they thought. Surely you must grant that to them."

"I will grant anything to them, in the way of justification," said Vincent, "if they will only take the first step to make atonement for the mischief they have wrought. And that they can do through you. They can tell you on what conditions Mr. Bethune was persuaded to take the money; so that I may go to him, and bring him back—and her."

"But probably they don't know where he is!" his friend exclaimed, in perfect honesty. "My impression was that Mr. Bethune agreed to leave this country for a certain time; but of course no one would think of banishing him to any particular spot."

"And so they themselves don't know where Mr. Bethune has gone?" said Vincent, slowly.

"I believe not. I am almost certain they don't. But I will make inquiries, if you like. In the meantime," said Musselburgh, returning to his original prayer, "do consider, Vin, and be reasonable, and go back to your father's house to-night. Don't make a split in the family. Give them credit for wishing you well. Let me take that message from you to my wife—that you will go home to Grosvenor Place to-night."

"Oh, no," said Vincent, with an air of quiet resolve. "No, no. This is no quarrel. This is no piece of temper. It is far more serious than that; and, as I say, I have seen all along that it was inevitable. After what I have told you, you must recognise for yourself what the situation is. I have spoken to you very freely and frankly; because I know you wish to be friendly; and because I think you want to see the whole case clearly and honestly. But how could I talk to them, or try to explain? Do you think I would insult Miss Bethune by offering them one word of excuse, either on her behalf or on that of her grandfather? No, and it would be no use besides. They are mad with prejudice. No doubt they say I am mad with prepossession. Very well; let it stand so."

Lord Musselburgh at length perceived that his task was absolutely futile. His only chance now was to bring Vincent into a more placable disposition by getting him the information he sought; but he had not much hope on that score; for people do not pay £5,000 and then at once render up all the advantages they fancy they have purchased. So here was a deadlock—he moodily said to himself, as he walked away home to Piccadilly.

And as for Vincent? Well, as it chanced, on the next morning—it was a Wednesday morning—when he went across from the Westminster Palace Hotel to the House of Commons, and got his usual little bundle of letters, the very first one that caught his eye bore the Toronto post-mark. How anxiously he had looked for it from day to day—wondering why Mr. Thompson had heard no news—and becoming more and more heart-sick and hopeless as the weary time went by without a sign—and behold! here it was at last.

CHAPTER VII.

NEW WAYS OF LIFE.

But no sooner had he torn open the envelope than his heart seemed to stand still—with a sort of fear and amazement. For this was Maisrie's own handwriting that he beheld—as startling a thing as if she herself had suddenly appeared before him, after these long, voiceless months. Be sure the worthy banker's accompanying letter did not win much regard: it was this sheet of thin blue paper that he quickly unfolded, his eye catching a sentence here and there, and eager to grasp all that she had to say at once. Alas! there was no need for any such haste: when he came to read the message that she had sent to Toronto, it had little to tell him of that which he most wanted to know. And yet it was a marvellous thing—to hear her speak, as it were! There was no date nor place mentioned in the letter; but none the less had this actual thing come all the way from her; her fingers had penned those lines; she had folded up this sheet of paper that now lay in his hands. It appeared to have been written on board ship: further than that all was uncertain and unknown.

He went into the Library, and sought out a quiet corner; there was something in the strange reticence of this communication that he wished to study with care. And yet there was an apparent simplicity, too. She began by telling Mr. Thompson that her grandfather had asked her to write to him, merely to recall both of them to his memory; and she went on to say that they often talked of him, and thought of him, and of bygone days in Toronto. "Whether we shall ever surprise you by an unexpected visit in Yonge-street," she proceeded, "I cannot tell; for grandfather's plans seem to be very vague at present, and, in fact, I do not think he likes to be questioned. But as far as I can judge be does not enjoy travelling as much as he used; it appears to fatigue him more than formerly; and from my heart I wish he would settle down in some quiet place, and let me care for him better than I can do in long voyages and railway-journeys. You know what a brave face he puts on everything—and, indeed, becomes a little impatient if you show anxiety on his behalf; still, I can see he is not what he was; and I think he should rest now. Why not in his own country?—that has been his talk for many a day; but I suppose he considers me quite a child yet, and won't confide in me; so that when I try to persuade him that we should go to Scotland, and settle down to a quiet life in some place familiar to him, he grows quite angry, and tells me I don't understand such things. But I know his own fancy goes that way. The other morning I was reading to him on deck, and somehow I got to think he was not listening; so I raised my head; and I saw there were tears running down his cheeks—he did not seem to know I was there at all—and I heard him say to himself—'The beech-woods of Balloray—one look at them—before I die!' And now I never read to him any of the Scotch songs that mention places—such as Yarrow, or Craigieburn, or Logan Braes—he becomes so strangely agitated; for some time afterwards he walks up and down, by himself, repeating the name, as if he saw the place before him; and I know that he is constantly thinking about Scotland, but won't acknowledge it to me or to any one.

"Then here is another piece of news, which is all the news one can send from on board a ship; and it is that poor dear grandfather has grown very peremptory! Can you believe it? Can you imagine him irritable and impatient? You know how he has always scorned to be vexed about trifles; how he could always escape from everyday annoyances and exasperations into his own dream-world; but of late it has been quite different; and as I am constantly with him, I am the chief sufferer. Of course I don't mind it, not in the least; if I minded it I wouldn't mention it, you may be sure; I know what his heart really feels towards me. Indeed, it amuses me a little; it is as if I had grown a child again, it is 'Do this' and 'Do that'—and no reason given. Ah, well, there is not much amusement for either of us two: it is something." And here she went on to speak of certain common friends in Toronto, to whom she wished to be remembered; finally winding up with a very pretty message from "Yours affectionately, Margaret Bethune."

Then Vincent bethought him of the banker; what comments had he to make?

"Dear sir, I enclose you a letter, received to-day, from the pernicious little Omahussy, who says neither where she is nor where she is going, gives no date nor the name of the ship from which she writes, and is altogether a vexatious young witch. But I imagine this may be the old gentleman's doing; he may have been 'peremptory' in his instructions; otherwise I cannot understand why she should conceal anything from me. And why should he? There also I am in the dark; unless, indeed (supposing him to have some wish to keep their whereabouts unknown to you) he may have seen an announcement in the papers to the effect that you were going to the United States and Canada, in which case he may have guessed that you would probably call on one whose name they had mentioned to you as a friend of theirs. And not a bad guess either: George Bethune is long-headed—when he comes down from the clouds; though why he should take such elaborate precautions to keep away from you, I cannot surmise."

Vincent knew only too well! The banker proceeded:—

"I confess I am disappointed—for the moment. I took it for granted you would have no difficulty in discovering where they were; but, of course, if friend George is not going to give his address to anybody, for fear of their communicating with you, some time may elapse before you hear anything definite. I forgot to mention that the postmark on the envelope was Port Said——"

Port Said! Had Maisrie been at Port Said—and not so long ago either? Instantly there sprang into the young man's mind a vision of the place as he remembered it—a poor enough place, no doubt, but now all lit up by this new and vivid interest: he could see before him the rectangular streets of pink and white shanties, the sandy roads and arid squares, the swarthy Arabs and yellow Greeks and Italians, the busy quays and repairing-yards and docks, the green water and the swarming boats. And did Maisrie and her grandfather—while the great vessel was getting in her coals, and the air was being filled with an almost imperceptible black dust—did they escape down the gangway, and go ashore, and wander about, looking at the strange costumes, and the sun-blinds, and the half-burnt tropical vegetation? Mr. Thompson went on to say that he himself had never been to Port Said; but that he guessed it was more a calling-place for steamers than a pleasure or health resort; and no doubt the Bethunes had merely posted their letters there en route. But were they bound East or West? There was no answer to this question—for they had not given the name of the ship.

So the wild hopes that had arisen in Vincent's breast when he caught sight of Maisrie's handwriting had all subsided again; and the world was as vague and empty as before. Sometimes he tried to imagine that the big steamer which he pictured to himself as lying in the harbour at Port Said was homeward-bound; and that, consequently, even now old George Bethune and his granddaughter might have returned to their own country; and then again something told him that it was useless to search papers for lists of passengers—that the unknown ship had gone away down the Red Sea and out to Australia or New Zealand, or perhaps had struck north towards Canton or Shanghai. He could only wait and watch—and he had a sandal-wood necklace when he wished to dream.

But the truth is he had very little time for dreaming; for Vin Harris was now become one of the very busiest of the millions of busy creatures crowding this London town. He knew his best distraction lay that way; but there were other reasons urging him on. As it chanced, the great statesman who had always been Vincent's especial friend and patron, finding that his private secretary wished to leave him, decided to put the office in commission; that is to say, he proposed to have two private secretaries, the one to look after his own immediate affairs and correspondence, the other to serve as his 'devil,' so to speak, in political matters; and the latter post he offered to Vincent, he having the exceptional qualification of being a member of the House. It is not to be supposed that the ex-Minister was influenced in his choice by the fact that the young man was now on the staff of two important papers, one a daily journal, the other a weekly; for such mundane considerations do not enter the sublime sphere of politics; nor, on the other hand, is it to be imagined that Vincent accepted the offer with all the more alacrity that his hold on those two papers might probably be strengthened by his confidential relations with the great man. Surmises and conjectures in such a case are futile—the mere playthings of one's enemies. It needs only to be stated that he accepted the office with every expectation of hard work; and that he got it. Such hunting up of authorities; such verification of quotations; such boiling-down of blue-books; such constant attendance at the House of Commons: it was all hardly earned at a salary of £400 a year. But very well he knew that there were many young men in this country who would have rejoiced to accept that position at nothing a year; for it is quite wonderful how private secretaries of Parliamentary chiefs manage, subsequently, to tumble in for good things.

Then it is probable that his journalistic enterprises—which necessarily became somewhat more intermittent after his acceptance of the secretaryship—brought him in, on the average, another £400 a year. On this income he set seriously to work to make himself a miser. His tastes had always been simple—and excellent health may have been at once the cause and the effect of his abstemiousness; but now the meagre fare he allowed himself, and his rigidly economical habits in every way, had a very definite aim in view. He was saving money; he was building up a miniature fortune—by half-crowns and pence. Food and drink cost him next to nothing; if he smoked at all, it was a pipe the last thing in the morning before going to bed. Omnibusses served his turn unless some urgent business on behalf of his chief demanded a hansom. He could not give up his club; for that was in a way a political institution; and oftentimes he had to rush up thither to find someone who was not in the precincts of St. Stephen's; but then, on the other hand, in a good club things are much cheaper than in any restaurant or in the members' dining-room of the House of Commons. It was remarkable how the little fortune accumulated; and it was a kind of amusement in a fashion. He pinched himself—and laughed. He debated moral questions—for example as to whether it was lawful to use club-stationery in writing articles for newspapers; but he knew something of the ways of Government offices, and perhaps his conscience was salved by evil example. What the manager of the Westminster Palace Hotel thought of his manner of living can be imagined—if so august an official cared to enquire into such details. His solitary room, breakfast, and washing: no more: those were small bills that he called for week by week. And so his little hoard of capital gradually augmented—very gradually, it is true, but surely, as the rate of interest on deposits rose and fell.

In the meanwhile Lord Musselburgh had not been very successful in his endeavours to bring about a reconciliation between Vin Harris and his family; nor had he been able to obtain the information that Vincent demanded.

"You see, Vin," he said (they were again walking up and down the lamp-lit Terrace, by the side of the deep-flowing river), "my wife is awfully upset over this affair. She thinks it is entirely owing to her mismanagement. She would never have told you about the £5,000 if she had not been certain that that would be conclusive proof to you of the character of those two people; and now that she sees what has come of her telling you so much, she is afraid to tell you any more. Not that I suppose there is much to tell. Mr. Bethune and Miss Bethune are no longer in this country; but I doubt whether any one can say precisely where they are——"

"Nonsense!" Vincent broke in, impatiently. "They're humbugging you, Musselburgh. Consider this for a moment. Do you imagine that George Morris handed over that £5,000, as a lump sum, without making stipulations, and very definite stipulations? Do you imagine he would be content to take the word of a man whom he considered a thief? It is absurd to think so. Do ut facias would be his motto; and he would take precious good care to keep control over the money in case of non-fulfilment——"

"But there is the receipt!" put in Lord Musselburgh.

"A receipt—for theatrical purposes!" said Vincent, with something of contempt. "You may depend on it the money was not handed over in that unconditional fashion: that is not the way in which George Morris would do business. He has got some hold over Mr. Bethune; and he must know well enough where he is. Supposing Mr. Bethune had that money in his pocket, what is to prevent his returning to this country to-morrow? Where would be the penalty for his breaking his covenant? You don't trust a man whom you consider a swindler; you must have some guarantee; and the guarantee means that you must be able to get at him when you choose. It stands to reason!"

"Yes, I suppose so—it would seem so," said Lord Musselburgh, rather doubtfully; "but at all events it isn't George Morris who is going to open his mouth. I've been to him; he declines; refers me to your family. And then, you see, Vin, I'm rather in an awkward position. I don't want to take sides; I don't want to be a partisan; I would rather act as the friend of all of you; but the moment I try to do anything I am met by a challenge—and a particularly inconvenient challenge it is. Do I believe with them, or do I believe with you? I told your aunt what you said about Mr. Bethune—how you described his character, and all that; but I didn't do it as well as you; for she remains unconvinced. As you told the story, it seemed natural and plausible; but as I told it—and I was conscious of it at the time—it was less satisfactory. And mind you, if you stick to hard facts, and don't allow for any interpretation——"

"If you look through the blue spectacles, in short——"

"Precisely. Well, then, you are confronted with some extremely awkward things. I don't wonder that your aunt asks pertinently why, if you are to begin and extend this liberal construction of conduct—this allowing for motives—this convenient doctrine of forgiving everything to self-deception—I don't wonder that she asks why anybody should be sent to prison at all."

"Oh, as for that," said Vincent, frankly, "I don't say it would be good for the commonwealth if all of us were George Bethunes. Far from it. I look upon him as a sort of magnificent lusus naturæ; and I would not have him other than he is—not in any one particular. But a nation of George Bethunes?—it would soon strike its head against the stars."

"Very well, then," said his friend, "you are not contending for any general principle. I don't see why you and your family shouldn't be prepared to agree. You may both of you be right. You don't insist upon having the justifications you extend to Mr. Bethune extended to everyone else, or to any one else; you make him the exception; and you needn't quarrel with those who take a more literal view of his character."

"Literal?" said Vincent, with a certain coldness. "Blindness—want of consideration—want of understanding—is that to be literal? Perhaps it is. But I thought you said something just now about Mr. Bethune and a prison: will you tell me of any one action of his that would suggest imprisonment?"

"Your aunt was merely talking of theories," said Musselburgh, rather uneasily, for he had not intended to use the phrase. "What I urge is this—why shouldn't both of you admit that there may be something in the other's view of Mr. Bethune, and agree to differ? I stand between you: I can see how much can be advanced on both sides."

"And so you would patch up a truce," said Vincent. "How long would it last? Of course I do not know for what period of banishment my kind relatives stipulated; £5,000 is a considerable sum to pay; I suppose they bargained that Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter should remain away from England for some time. But not for ever? Even then, is it to be imagined that they cannot be found? Either in this country or abroad, Miss Bethune and I meet face to face again; and she becomes my wife—I hope. It is what I live for. And then? Where will your patched-up truce be then? Besides, I don't want any sham friendships with people who have acted as they have done——"

"It was in your interest, Vin," his friend again urged. "Why not give them a little of the lenient judgment you so freely extend to those others——"

"To those others?" replied Vincent, firing up hotly. "To whom?"

"To Mr. Bethune, then," was the pacific reply.

"I don't think Mr. Bethune ever consciously wronged any human being. But they—were they not aware what they were doing when they played this underhand trick?—sending that girl out into the world again, through her devotion to her grandfather? I have told you before: there is no use crying peace, peace, when there is no peace. Let them undo some of the mischief they have done, first: then we will see. And look at this silly affectation of secrecy! They told me too much when they told me they had paid money to get George Bethune out of the country: then I understood why Maisrie went: then I knew I must have patience until she came back—in the same mind as when she left, that I know well. I was puzzled before, and sometimes anxious; but now I understand; now I am content to wait. And I have plenty to do in the meantime. I have to gain a proper foothold—and make some provision for the future as well: already I am independent of anybody and everybody. And perhaps, in time to come, when it is all over, when all these things have been set right, I may be able to forgive; but I shall not be able to forget."

This was all the message that Lord Musselburgh had to take home with him, to his wife's profound distress. For she was very fond of her nephew, and very proud of him, too, and of the position he had already won for himself; and what she had done she had done with the best intentions towards him. Once, indeed, she confessed to her husband that in spite of herself she had a sort of sneaking admiration for Vincent's obdurate consistency and faith; insomuch (she said) that—if only the old man and all his chicaneries were out of the way—she could almost find it in her heart to try to like the girl, for Vincent's sake.

"The real question," she continued, "the thing that concerns me most of all to think of is this: can a girl who has been so dragged through the mire have retained her purity of mind and her proper self-respect? Surely she must have known that her grandfather was wheedling people out of money right and left—and that he took her about with him to enlist sympathy? Do you suppose she was not perfectly aware that Vincent invariably paid the bills at those restaurants? When tradespeople were pressing for money, do you fancy she was in ignorance all the time? Very well: what a life for any one to lead! How could she hold up her head amongst ordinarily honest and solvent people? Even supposing that she herself was all she ought to be, the humiliation must have sunk deep. And even if one were to try to like her, there would always be that consciousness between her and you. You might be sorry for her, in a kind of way; but you would be still sorrier for Vincent; and that would be dreadful."

"My dear Madge," her husband said—in his character of mediator and peacemaker, "you are arguing on a series of assumptions and prejudices. If Vin does hold on to his faith in those two—and if he does in the end marry Miss Bethune—I shall comfort myself with the conviction that he was likely to know more about them than anybody else. He and they have been on terms of closest intimacy, and for a long time; and you may be pretty sure that the girl Vin wants to marry is no tarnished kind of a person—in his eyes."

"Ah, yes—in his eyes!" said Lady Musselburgh, rather sadly.

"Well, his eyes are as clear as most folks'—at least, I've generally found them so," her husband said—trying what a little vague optimism would do.

One afternoon Vincent was walking along Piccadilly—and walking rapidly, as was his wont, for the twin purposes of exercise and economy—when he saw, some way ahead of him, Lady Musselburgh crossing the pavement to her carriage. She saw him, too, and stopped—colour mounting to her face. When he came up he merely lifted his hat, and would have kept on his way but that she addressed him.

"Vincent!" she said, in an appealing, half-reproachful fashion.

And then she said—

"I want you to come into the house for a few minutes—I must speak with you."

"Is there any use?" he asked, rather coldly.

However, she was very much embarrassed, as her heightened colour showed; and he could not keep her standing here in Piccadilly; he said 'Very well,' and followed her up the steps and into the house. When they had got into the drawing-room she shut the door behind them, and began at once—with not a little piteous agitation in her manner.

"Vin, this is too dreadful! Can nothing be done? Why are you so implacable? I suppose you don't understand what you have been to me, always, and how I have looked to your future as something almost belonging to me, something that I was to be proud of; and now that it is all likely to come true, you go and make a stranger of yourself! When I see your name in the papers, or hear you spoken of at a dinner-table—it is someone who is distant from me, as if I had no concern with him any longer. People come up to me and say 'Oh, I heard your nephew speak at the Mansion House the other afternoon,' or 'I met your nephew at the Foreign Office last night;' and I cannot say 'Don't you know; he has gone and made himself a stranger to us—?'"

"I wonder who it was who made a stranger of me!" he interposed—but quite impassively.

"I can only say, again and again, that it was done for the best, Vin!" she answered him. "The mistake I made was in letting you know. But I took it for granted that as soon as you were told that those people had accepted money from us to go away—"

"Those people? What people?" he demanded, with a sterner air.

"Oh, I meant only Mr. Bethune himself," said she, hastily. "Oh, yes, certainly, only him; there were no negotiations with any one else."

"Negotiations!" he said, with a touch of scorn. "Well, perhaps you can tell me what those negotiations were? How long did Mr. Bethune undertake to remain out of this country?"

"Three years, Vin," said she, timidly regarding him.

"Three years?" he repeated, in an absent way.

"But there is no reason," she added quickly, "why he should not return at any moment if he wishes: so I understand: of course, I did not make the arrangement—but I believe that is so."

"Return at any moment?" he said, slowly. "Do you mean to tell me that you put £5,000 into that old man's hands, on condition he should leave the country for three years, and that all the same you left him free to return at any moment?"

"Of course he would forfeit the money," said she, rather nervously.

"But how could he forfeit the money if he already has it? He has got the money: you showed me the receipt. Come, aunt," said he, in quite a different tone, "Let us be a little more honest and above-board. Shall I tell you how I read the whole situation? You can contradict me if I am wrong. But that receipt you showed me: wasn't it produced for merely theatrical purposes? Wasn't it meant to crush and overwhelm me as a piece of evidence? The money wasn't handed over like that, was it? Supposing I were to conjecture that somebody representing you or representing my father has still got control over that money; and that it is to be paid in instalments as it is earned—by absence? Well isn't that so?"

He fixed his eyes on her; she hesitated—and was a little confused.

"I tell you, Vin," she said, "I had personally nothing to do with making the arrangement; all that was left in George Morris's hands; and of course he would take whatever precautions he thought necessary. And why should you talk about theatrical purposes? I really did think that when I could show you Mr. Bethune was ready to take money from strangers to go away from England you would change your opinion of him. But apparently, in your eyes, he can do no wrong. He is not to be judged by ordinary rules and standards. Everything is to be twisted about on his behalf, and forgiven, or even admired. Nobody else is allowed such latitude of construction; and everything is granted to him—because he is George Bethune. But I don't think it is quite fair: or that you should take sides against your own family."

This was an adroit stroke, following upon a very clever attempt to extricate herself from an embarrassing position; but his thoughts were otherwise occupied.

"I should like you to tell me," said he, "if you can, what moral wrong was involved in Mr. Bethune consenting to accept that money. Where was the harm—or the ignominy? Do you think I cannot guess at the representations and inducements put before him, to get him to stay abroad for three years? Why, I could almost tell you, word for word, what was said to him! Here was an arrangement that would be of incalculable benefit to everybody concerned. He would be healing up family dissensions. He would be guarding his granddaughter from a marriage that could only bring her disappointment and humiliation. Three years of absence and forgetfulness would put an end to all those projects. And then, of course, you could not ask him to throw up his literary engagements and incur the expense of travel, without some compensation. Here is a sum of £5,000, which will afford him some kind of security, in view of this disturbance of his engagements. A receipt? oh, yes, a receipt, if necessary! But then, again, on second thoughts, wouldn't it only be prudent to lodge this £5,000 with some third person, some man of position whom all could trust, and who would send it in instalments, to avoid the risk of carrying so large a sum about with one? There might be a little harmless condition or two attached, moreover. You undertake, for example, that the young people shall not have communication with each other; you say your granddaughter will do as you wish in all things. Very well, take her away: disappear, both of you; you are doing us an immense kindness, and you are acting in the best interests of all concerned. Never mind a little misery here or there, or the risk of a broken heart; we can afford to pay for such things; we can afford to have the moulds of a dessert service destroyed—and a little matter of £5,000 is not much, when we have plans.... And so those two go out into the world again." He paused for a second. "Well, aunt, you've had your way; and there's no more to be said, except this, perhaps, that you don't seem to realise the greatest of all the mistakes you have made. Your three years, even if they should be three years of absence, will not be years of forgetfulness on either Maisrie Bethune's part or mine. Oh, no; nothing of the kind; don't cherish any illusions on that score. It happened curiously that just before they left Brighton she and I had a little talk over one or two things; and she asked me for a promise, which I gave her, and which I mean to keep."

Well, the handsome lad now standing before her had a great hold on her affection; and she even admired, in a covert way, this very bigotry of constancy and unswerving faith of his, so that for an instant her head swam, and she was on the point of crying out 'Vincent—Vincent—go and bring her to me—and I will take her to my heart—for your sake!' But the next moment she had recovered from that mad impulse: she saw that what had been done was not to be undone in that happy-go-lucky fashion, even if it could be undone at all; and she was silent and embarrassed. It was he who spoke.

"Well, you must excuse me, aunt; I've to be down at the House by question time."

"You're not going like that, Vin!" she exclaimed.

"What do you want of me?" he asked in a coldly civil way.

"I—I—want you to be as you once were, to all of us," she cried, rather incoherently. "I want you to go back to Grosvenor Place; and to accept the allowance your father has made you ever since you came of age; and to resume the old bygone relations with us. Surely it might be possible, with a little consideration on both sides. What we have done was done entirely out of thoughtfulness for you; and if we have made a mistake—we are only human beings! And remember, it is quite possible that you may be mistaken too, Vin; you may be mistaken just as much as we—and—and—"

"What you propose, aunt," said he (for time was precious with him) "even if it were practicable, would only be temporary. I am looking forward to marrying Maisrie Bethune—in spite of your three years of forgetfulness!—and when that happens, your patched-up state of affairs would all come to bits again. So what is the use of professing a sort of sham reconciliation? I have no wish to return to Grosvenor Place. I have taken some rooms at the foot of Buckingham-street; and I have a key that lets me through by the Embankment Gardens into Villiers-street; it will be convenient for getting to the House. And I can tide along pretty well without any allowance from my father; in fact, I'm saving a little money in a quiet way—"

"But at what a cost, Vincent—at what a cost!" she protested. "I wish you could see how worn and ill you are looking—

"Well, I've had some things to think of lately—thanks to my kind relatives!" said he. "But really I must be off—"

"Vincent," she said, making one last despairing effort to bring things back to their former footing, "when are you going to ask Louie Drexel and me to dine with you at the House?"

"I'm so busy, aunt, just now," said he, as he opened the door for her. Then he saw her into her carriage; and she drove away—a most perplexed and unhappy woman.

These rooms that Vincent had taken at the foot of Buckingham-street were right up at the top of the building; and commanded a spacious prospect of the river, the Embankment gardens, the bridges, the great dusky world of London lying all around, and the dome of St. Paul's rising dim and phantasmal in the east. They were bachelor chambers, that had doubtless seen many tenants (the name of one, George Brand, was still over the door, and Vincent did not think it worth while to change it), but the young man had no sooner entered into possession than he began a series of alterations and improvements that bachelor chambers did not seem to demand. Not in any hurry, however; nor perhaps with any fixed intent; it was a kind of amusement for this or that odd half-hour he could snatch from his multifarious duties. To begin with, he had the woodwork painted a deep Indian red, and the walls a pearly-blue grey: while the former colour was repeated in the Japanese window-curtains, and the latter by the great world outside, on the lambent moonlight nights, or sometimes in the awakening of the dawn, as he lay in a low easy-chair, and watched the vast, silent city coming out of its sleep. This top-floor was a very still place, except for the early chattering of the tree-sparrows, into whose nests, swaying on the branches just beneath him, he could have tossed a biscuit. And then his peregrinations through London, rapid though they were as a rule, occasionally brought him face-to-face with a bric-a-brac shop; and from time to time he picked up one thing or another, just as it happened to strike his fancy. Perhaps these modest purchases were just a trifle too elegant for a bachelor's apartments; the sitting-room away up in that lofty situation came to look rather like a boudoir; for example, there was a music-stand in rosewood and ormulu—a tall stand it was, as if for a violin player—which he himself never used. Pictures he could not afford; but books he could; and the volumes which were one by one added to those shelves were of a more graceful and literary stamp than you would have expected to find in the library of a young and busy member of Parliament. It was not a lordly palace of art, this humble suite of apartments in the neighbourhood of the Strand; but there was a prevailing air of selection and good taste; perhaps, one ought to say, of expectancy, also, in the presence of things not yet in use. Then the two large and low windows of the sitting-room were all surrounded with ivy, of long training; but besides that, there were flower-boxes; and at a moment's notice, and at small expense, these could be filled with potted geraniums, if one wished to be gay. And always outside was the varied panorama of the mighty city; the wide river and the bridges, the spires and the towers, the far masses of buildings becoming more and more spectral as they receded into the grey and wavering mist. Sometimes the rose and saffron of the dawn were there, ascending with a soft suffusion behind the purple dome of St. Paul's; sometimes there were blown and breezy days, with flying showers and watery gleams of sunlight; and sometimes the night lay blue and still and clear, the Surrey side in black and mysterious shadow, the white moon high in the south. These silent altitudes were a fine place for dreaming, after all the toil and moil of the working-hours were over; and a fine place for listening, too; sometimes, towards the morning, just as the leaves began to stir, you could fancy the wind was bringing a message with it—it seemed, coming from far away, to say something about Claire Fontaine.

CHAPTER VIII.

IN A NORTHERN VILLAGE.

But there were to be no three years of absence, still less of forgetfulness. One afternoon, on Vincent's going down to the House, he found a telegram along with his letters. He opened it mechanically, little thinking; but the next moment his eyes were staring with amazement. For these were the words he saw before him:—"Grandfather very ill; would like to see you. Maisrie Bethune, Crossmains, by Cupar." Then through his bewilderment there flashed the sudden thought: why, the lands of Balloray were up in that Fifeshire region!—had, then, the old man, tired of his world-wanderings, and feeling this illness coming upon him, had he at length crept home to die, perhaps as a final protest? And Maisrie was alone there, among strangers, with this weight of trouble fallen upon her. Why could not these intervening hours, and the long night, and the great distance, be at once annihilated?—he saw Maisrie waiting for him, with piteous eyes and outstretched hands.

He never could afterwards recall with any accuracy how he passed those hours: it all seemed a dream. And a dream it seemed next day, when he found himself in a dogcart, driving through a placid and smiling country, with the sweet summer air blowing all around him. He talked to the driver, to free his mind from anxious and futile forecasts. Crossmains, he was informed, was a small place. There was but the one inn in it—the Balloray Arms. Most likely, if two strangers were to arrive on a visit, they would put up at the inn; but very few people did go through—perhaps an occasional commercial traveller.

"And where is Balloray House—or Balloray Castle?" was the next question.

"Just in there, sir," said the man, with a jerk of his whip towards the woods past which they were driving.

And of course it was with a great interest and curiosity that Vincent looked out for this place of which he had heard so much. At present nothing could be seen but the high stone wall that surrounds so many Scotch estates; and, branching over that, a magnificent row of beeches; but by and bye they came to a clearing in the "policies"; and all at once the Castle appeared in sight—a tall, rectangular building, with a battlemented parapet and corner turrets, perched on a spacious and lofty plateau. It looked more modern than he had imagined to himself; but perhaps it had been recently renovated. From the flag-staff overtopping the highest of the turrets a flag idly dropped and swung in the blue of the summer sky: no doubt the proprietor was at home—in proud possession; while the old man who considered himself the rightful owner of the place was lying, perhaps stricken unto death, in some adjacent cottage or village inn. Then the woods closed round again; and the mansion of Balloray was lost from view.

Vincent was not in search of the picturesque, or he might have been disappointed with this village of Crossmains—which consisted of but one long and wide thoroughfare, bordered on each hand with a row of bare and mean-looking cottages and insignificant houses. When they drove up to the inn, he did not notice that it was a small, two-storied, drab-hued building of the most common-place appearance; that was not what he was thinking of at all; his heart was beating high with emotion—what wonder might not meet his eager gaze at any instant? And indeed he had hardly entered the little stone passage when Maisrie appeared before him; she had heard the vehicle arrive, and had quickly come down-stairs; and now she stood quite speechless—her trembling, warm hands clasped in his, her face upturned to him, her beautiful sad eyes all dimmed with tears, and yet having a kind of joy in them, too, and pride. She could not say a single word: he would have to understand that she was grateful to him for his instant response to her appeal. And perhaps there was more than gratitude; she seemed to hunger to look at him—for she had not seen him for so long a while: perhaps she had never thought to see him again.

"Have you any better news, Maisrie?" said he.

She turned and led the way into a little parlour.

"Yes," said she (and the sound of her voice startled him: the Maisrie of his many dreams, sleeping and waking, had been all so silent!). "Grandfather is rather better. I think he is asleep now—or almost asleep. It is a fever—a nervous fever—and he has been so exhausted—and often delirious; but he is quieter now—rest is everything—"

"Maisrie," he said again (in his bewilderment) "it is a wonderful thing to hear you speak! I can hardly believe it. Where have you been all this while? Why did you go away from me?"

"I went because grandfather wished it," said she. "I will tell you some other time. He is anxious to see you. He has been fretting about so many things; and he will not confide in me—not entirely—I can see that there is concealment. And Vincent," she went on, with her appealing eyes fixed on him, "don't speak to him about Craig-Royston!—and don't let him speak about it. When he got ill in Cairo, it was more home-sickness than anything else, as I think; and he said he wanted to go and die in his own country and among his own people; and so we began to come to Scotland by slow stages. And now that we are here, there is no one whom he knows; he is quite as much alone here as he was in Egypt; far more alone than we used to be in Canada. I fancy he expects that a message may come for me from Balloray—that I am to go there and be received; and of course that is quite impossible; I do not know them, they do not know me; I don't suppose they are even aware that we are living in this place. But if he is disappointed in that, it is Craig-Royston he will think of next—he will want to go there to seek out relatives on my account. Well, Vincent, about Craig-Royston——"

She hesitated; and the pale and beautiful face became suffused with a sort of piteous embarrassment.

"But I understand, Maisrie, quite well!" said he, boldly. "Why should you be troubled about that? You have found out there is no such place?—but I could have told you so long ago! There was a district so-named at one time; and that is quite enough for your grandfather; a picturesque name takes his fancy, and he brings it into his own life. Where is the harm of that? There may have been Grants living there at one time—and they may have intermarried with the Bethunes: anyhow your grandfather has talked himself into believing there was such a relationship; and even if it is a delusion, what injury does it do to any human creature? Why," he went on, quite cheerfully, to reassure her and give her comfort, "I am perfectly aware that no Scotch family ever had 'Stand Fast, Craig-Royston!' as its motto. But if the phrase caught your grandfather's ear, why should not he choose it for his motto? Every motto has been chosen by some one at some one time. And then, if he thereafter came to persuade himself that this motto had been worn by his family, or by some branch of his family, what harm is there in that? It is only a fancy—it is an innocent delusion—it injures no one——"

"Yes, but, Vincent," she said—for these heroic excuses did not touch the immediate point—"grandfather is quite convinced about the Grants of Craig-Royston; and he will be going away in search of them, so that I may find relatives and shelter. And the disappointment will be terrible. For he has got into a habit of fretting that never was usual with him. He has fits of distrusting himself, too, and begins to worry about having done this or done that; and you know how unlike that is to his old courage, when he never doubted for a moment but that everything he had done was done for the best. And to think that he should vex himself by imagining he had not acted well by me—when he has given his whole life to me, as long as I can remember——"

"Maisrie," said he, "when your grandfather gets well, and able to leave this place, where are you going?"

"How can I say?" she made answer, wistfully enough.

"For I do not mean to let you disappear again. No, no. I shall not let you out of my sight again. Do you know that I have a house waiting for you, Maisrie?"

"For me?" she said, looking up surprised.

"For whom else, do you imagine? And rather pretty the rooms are, I think. I have got a stand for your music, Maisrie: that will be handier for you than putting it on the table before you."

She shook her head, sadly.

"My place is with my grandfather, Vincent," she said. "And now I will go and see how he is. He wished to know as soon as possible of your arrival."

She left the room and was absent only for a couple of minutes.

"Yes; will you come upstairs, Vincent?" she said on her return. "I'm afraid you will find him much changed. And sometimes he wanders a little in his talking; you must try to keep him as quiet as may be."

As they entered the room, an elderly Scotchwoman—most probably the landlady—who had been sitting there, rose and came out. Vincent went forward. Despite Maisrie's warning he was startled to notice the ravages the fever had wrought; but if the proud and fine features were pinched and worn, the eyes were singularly bright—bright and furtive at the same time. And at sight of his visitor, old George Bethune made a desperate effort to assume his usual gallant air.

"Ha?" said he—though his laboured breathing made this affectation of gaiety a somewhat pitiable thing—"the young legislator—fresh from the senate—the listening senate, the applause of multitudes——"

He turned his restless eyes on Maisrie; and said in quite an altered tone——

"Go away, girl, go away!"

Well, Maisrie's nerves were all unstrung by anxiety and watching; and here was her lover just arrived, to listen to her being so cruelly and sharply rebuked; and so, after a moment of indecision, she lost her self-control, she flung herself on her knees by the side of the bed, and burst out crying.

"Don't speak to me like that, grandfather," she sobbed, "don't speak to me like that!"

"Well, well, well," said he, in an altered tone, "I did not mean to hurt you. No, no, Maisrie; you're a good lass—a good lass—none better in the whole kingdom of Scotland. I was not thinking—I beg your pardon, my dear—I beg your pardon."

She rose, and kissed his hand, and left the room. Then old George Bethune turned to his visitor, and began to talk to him in a curiously rapid way—rapid and disconnected and confused—while the brilliant eyes were all the time fixed anxiously on the young man.

"Yes, I am glad you have come—I have been sorely perplexed," he said, in his husky and hurried fashion; "—perhaps, when one is ill, confidence in one's own judgment gives way a little—and it is not—every one whom you can consult. But that is not the main thing—not the main thing at all—a question of money is a minor thing—but yesterday—I think it was yesterday—my voice seemed to be going from me—and I thought—I would leave you a message. The book there—bring it—"

He looked towards a red volume that was lying on the window-sill. Vincent went and fetched it; though even as he did so, he thought it strange that a man who was perhaps lying on his deathbed should bother about a book of ballads. But when, he might have asked himself, had George Bethune ever seemed to realise the relative importance of the things around him? To him a harebell brought from the Braes of Gleniffer was of more value than a king's crown.

"Open at the mark," said the sick man, eagerly. "See if you understand—without much said—to her, I mean. Poor lass—poor lass—I caught her crying once or twice—while we were away—and I have been asking myself whether—whether it was all done for the best." Then he seemed to pull himself together a little. "Yes, yes, it was done for the best—what appeared best for every one; but now—well, now it may be judged differently—I am not what I was—I hope I—have done no wrong."

Vincent turned to the marked page; and there he found a verse of one of the ballads pencilled round, with the last line underscored. This is what he read:

He turned his face unto the wa',

And death was with him dealing;

"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a'—

Be kind to Barbara Allen!"

The old man was watching him anxiously and intently.

"Yes, I understand," Vincent said. "And I think you may depend on me."

"Then there is another thing," the old man continued—his mind leaping from one point to another with marvellous quickness, though he himself seemed so languid and frail. "I—I wish to have all things left in order. If the summons—comes—I must be able to meet it—with head up—fear never possessed me during life. But who has not made mistakes—who has not made mistakes?—not understood at the time. And yet perhaps it was not a mistake—I am not the man I was—I have doubts—I thought I was doing well by all—but now—I am uneasy—questions come to me in the night-time—and I have not my old strength—I cannot cast them behind me as in better days."