Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume I)

"It is a very quiet little corner, is it not?" the young man said – almost as if answering that unspoken question. "That is why it suits me so well; I can get on with my books without interruption. The street is so small that it isn't worth an organ-grinder's while to waste time in it."

"Music is a sad thing for interrupting study; I know that," the old gentleman observed. "By the way, I hope we do not disturb you – my granddaughter plays the violin sometimes – "

"I could listen to that kind of music all day long," was the response. "I never heard such violin-playing – most beautiful! – most beautiful!"

"Then you are not far away from us?"

"Right opposite," was the straightforward answer.

George Bethune glanced at the young man with a look of quiet amusement; he was thinking of the pale music-mistress – the solitary widow of his imagination.

"And you – you also play a little in the evenings sometimes?"

"I hope you didn't think it rude, sir," the young man said, humbly. "I thought it permissible, as between neighbours."

"Oh, they were pretty little concerts," said George Bethune, good-naturedly. "Very pretty little concerts. I don't know why they were stopped. I suppose Maisrie had some fancy about them – my granddaughter Maisrie – "

It was a kind of introduction. The young man, modestly veiling the quick flash of delight in his eyes at this unexpected happiness, respectfully bowed. Maisrie, with her beautiful pale face suffused with unusual colour, made some brief inclination also; then she seemed to retire again from this conversation – though she could not but overhear.

"My name is Harris," the young man said, as though these confidences were all as a matter of course between neighbours. "It isn't a very distinguished name; but one has to take what is given one. It is not of much consequence."

"I am not so sure about that," the older man rejoined, somewhat sententiously. "A good name is a good thing; it is an honour not to be purchased. It may be the only one of your possessions remaining to you; but of that they cannot rob you."

"Oh, of course, of course," Vincent said, quickly, for he perceived the mistake he had made. "An old historic name is certainly something to be proud of. By the way, sir, did your family originally take their name from Bethon on the Sarthe or from Bethune in the Department of Calais?"

"Bethune – Bethune," said the old man, who appeared to be pleased by this question, which spoke of previous enquiries; and then he added, with a lofty air: "The Duc de Sully, Marquis de Rosny, Sovereign Prince of Enrichemont and Boisbel, Grand Master of the Artillery and Marshal of France, was Maximilien de Bethune – Maximilien de Bethune."

"Oh, really," said the young man, who seemed much impressed.

"The name," continued old George Bethune, in the same oracular vein, "was often spelt Beaton and Beton – especially in Scotland – as everybody knows. Whether James, Archbishop of Glasgow, and his nephew David, Archbishop of St. Andrews, had any immediate relationship with France – beyond that David was consecrated Bishop of Mirepoix when he was negotiating the marriage of James V. at the French Court – I cannot at the moment precisely say; but of this there can be no doubt, that from Bethune in the north came the original territorial designation of the family, not from Bethon in the west. Maximilien de Bethune – Bethune in the Department of the Straits of Calais."

"Oh really," the young man said again, quite humbly.

Now by this time it had become manifest that there was to be no thunderstorm at all. There had been a few more of those quivering strokes of yellow fire (that dwelt longer on the retina than in the clouds) accompanied by some distant mutterings and rumblings; and at one point it seemed as if the dreaded shower were coming on; but all passed off gradually and quietly; the sky slowly brightened; a pale sunshine began here and there to touch the greensward and the shivering elms. This young man had no excuse for remaining here; but he seemed to forget; he was so busy talking – and talking in a very pleased and half-excited fashion, with an occasional glance across at the young lady.

"Grandfather," said Maisrie Bethune, presently, handing him the umbrella as a sort of hint.

But even when Vincent received his property back, he appeared to take no heed. He had observed that the newspaper lying on the old man's knee was the Toronto Globe; he drew attention to the circumstance; and now all his conversation was of Queen's Park, Lake Ontario, of King Street, Queen Street, Church Street, of the Exhibition Grounds, of Park Island, and Block House Bay, and the Royal Canadian Yacht Club. So he had been there too? Oh, yes, he had been all over Canada and America. He was as familiar with Idaho as with Brooklyn. He had fished in the Adirondacks and shot mountain sheep in the Rockies.

"You have been to Omaha, then?" the old man asked.

"Oh, yes, of course."

"For my granddaughter here," he continued, with a smile, "is an Omaha girl."

"Oh, indeed," said Vincent, rather breathlessly, and again he ventured to look across to Maisrie Bethune and her downcast eyes.

"Yes, but only by the accident of birth," said George Bethune, instantly, as if he must needs guard against any misapprehension. "Every drop of blood in her veins is Scotch – and of a right good quality too. Well, you have heard – you have heard. Do you think any one could understand those old Scotch airs who was not herself Scotch in heart and soul?"

"I never heard anything so beautiful," the young man answered, in an undertone; indeed, he seemed hardly capable of talking about her, any more than he could fix his eyes steadily on her face. His forced glances were timorous and fugitive. There was something sacred – that kept him at a distance. It was enough to be conscious that she was there; his only prayer was that she should remain; that he and she should be together, if a little way apart, looking at the same skies and water and trees, breathing the same air, hearkening to the same sounds. So he kept on talking to the old man, in rather a nervous and eager fashion, fearful all the time that either of them should propose to go.

And thus it came about that Vincent Harris seemed to have a good deal to say for himself; he appeared to forget that he was speaking to two strangers; rather he was chatting with two neighbours, whom he wished to be his friends. And the old man, in his self-sufficient and dignified way, was quite content to encourage this new acquaintance. His conversation was something to pass the time withal; he was modest, well-mannered, intelligent; there was an air of distinction about him that showed good up-bringing as well as some decision of character. No doubt he was of a wealthy family, or he could not have spent so much of his time in travel; by accident he had mentioned one or two well-known people as though he were in the habit of familiarly meeting with them; from some passing hint as to the nature of his studies, Mr. Bethune gathered that this pleasant-spoken, pleasant-smiling neighbour was destined for a public career. There was even something interesting, to one who had grown old and callous of the world's shows, in noting the bright enthusiasm of the young man, the clear light in his eyes, the general air of strength and ease and courage that sate lightly on him, as befitting one who was in the very May-morn of his youth.

But at last, for shame's sake, Vincent had himself to rise and break up this all too-attractive companionship. He said, with great humility:

"I am sure I ought to apologise to Miss Bethune for having taken up so much of your time. Rather an unwarrantable intrusion; but I don't think there is any chance of the rain coming now – and – and – so I will say good-bye."

"Good-bye – glad to have made your acquaintance," said old George Bethune, with a grave courtesy.

And Maisrie made him a little bow – for he was looking at her rather supplicatingly – as he raised his hat and withdrew. Their eyes had met once more: she could not well have avoided that. And of course she saw him as he walked away southward, across the bridge, until he disappeared.

"A very agreeable young man, that," said Mr. Bethune, with decision, as he rose to his feet and intimated to his granddaughter that they had better set forth again. "Frank in manner, gentle, courteous, intelligent, too – very different from most of the young men of the day."

His granddaughter was silent as she walked by his side.

"What – don't you think so, Maisrie?" he said, with a touch of impatience, for he was used to her assent.

"I think," she answered, a little proudly, "that he showed a good deal of confidence in coming to speak to you without knowing you; and as for his playing those airs in the evening, and in such a way – well, I don't like to use the word impertinence – but still – "

He was surprised; perhaps a trifle vexed.

"Impertinence? Nonsense! Nonsense! Frankness and neighbourliness – that was all; no intrusion, none: a more modest young man I have never met. And as for his coming up to speak to me, why, bless my life, that merely shows the humanizing effects of travel. It is like people meeting at a table d'hôte; and what is the world but a big table d'hôte, where you speak with your neighbour for a little while, and go your way, and forget him? Confidence? – impertinence? – nonsense! He was natural, unaffected, outspoken, as a young man should be: in fact, I found myself on such friendly terms with him that I forgot to thank him for the little service he did us – did you, I should say. Bashfulness, Maisrie," he continued, in his more sententious manner, "bashfulness and stiffness are among the worst characteristics of the untravelled and untaught. Who are we – whatever may be our lineage and pride of birth – that we should fence ourselves round with a palisade of suspicion or disdain?"

And thus he went on; but he met with no response. And he did not like it; he grew all the more emphatic about this young man; and even hinted that women were curiously perverse creatures, who evinced no toleration, or sympathy, or good nature in their judgment of their fellow beings. What was her objection? To his appearance? – he was remarkably good-looking, and refined in aspect, without a trace of effeminacy. To his manner? – he was almost humble in his anxiety to please. To his talk? – but he had shown himself most bright, good-humoured, alert, and well-informed.

"He had no right to come up and speak to you, grandfather," was all she would say, and that with a quite unusual firmness.

In the evening, after dinner, when the time came at which Maisrie was accustomed to take up her violin, there was obviously a little embarrassment. But George Bethune tried to break through that by a forced display of geniality.

"Come, now, Maisrie," said he, in a gay fashion, "our neighbour over the way was straightforward enough to come up and offer us his hand; and we must return the compliment. One good turn deserves another. Get your violin, and play something: he will understand."

"Grandfather, how can you ask me?" she said, almost indignantly; and there was that in the tone of her voice that forbade him to press her further.

But perhaps the universal stillness that prevailed thereafter conveyed some kind of reproach to her; or perhaps her heart softened a little; at all events she presently said, in rather a low voice, and with a diffident manner —

"Grandfather, if you – if you really think the young gentleman wished to be kind and obliging – and – and if you would like to show him some little politeness in return – couldn't you step across the way – and – and see him, and talk to him for a few minutes? Perhaps he would be glad of that, if he is quite alone."

"A capital idea, Maisrie," the old man said, rising at once. "A capital idea." And then he added, with an air of lofty complacency and condescension, as he selected a couple of volumes from a heap of books on the sideboard: "Perhaps I might as well take over the Mémoires with me; it is not at all unlikely he may wish to know something further about Maximilien de Bethune. I am not surprised – not at all surprised – that a young man called Harris should perceive that there is something in the grandeur of an old historical name."

CHAPTER IV.

STALLED OX AND A DINNER OF HERBS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was immensely relieved.

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

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

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

"Oh. What does he say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who is Madame – What-is-it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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