Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume I)

"But Louie Drexel isn't racing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The perfervid old Scotchman – yes!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, aunt?" he said, encouragingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, yes, sir."

"May I go upstairs?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, thank you."

"Or a glass of claret?"

"No, thanks."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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