Chapter V: Qu' Mon Coeur En Mariage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, you have ordered dinner?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'It fell on a day, a bonnie summer's day,
When the corn grew green and fairly,
That the great Argyle, wi' a' his men,
Cam' to plunder the bonnie house o' Airlie.'

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

'Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved,
O could my warmth to life restore thee!--
Ye'd lie all night between my breasts;
No youth lay ever there before thee.'

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

'And ever as the year returns,
The charm-bound sailors know the day;
For sadly still the mermaid mourns
The lovely chief of Colonsay.'

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

'I see--but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
A ray of fancy still survives--
Her sunshine plays upon thee!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When she came down again, her grandfather said--

"Sing something, Maisrie."

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

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

_C' etait une fregate_
_(Mon joli coeur de rose)_
_Dans la mer a touche_
_(Joli coeur d' un rosier)._

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

_Y avait une demoiselle_
_(Mon joli coeur de rose)_
_Su' l' bord d' la mer pleurait,_
_(Joli coeur d' un rosier)._

_--Dites-moi donc, la belle,_
_(Mon joli coeur de rose)_
_Qu' a' vous a tant pleurer?_
_(Joli coeur d' un rosier)._

_--Je pleur; mon anneau d' or,_
_(Mon joli coeur de rose)_
_Dans la mer est tombe,_
_(Joli coeur d' un rosier)._

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

_--Je suis trop pauvre fille,_
_(Mon joli coeur de rose),_
_Je ne puis rien donner,_
_(Joli coeur d' un rosier)._

_Qu' mon coeur en mariage_
_(Mon joli coeur de rose)_
_Pour mon anneau dore_
_(Joli coeur d' un rosier)._

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

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

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

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

At last there came a proposition that was somewhat startling in its boldness. Cunningly he deferred bringing it forward until the very end of the evening, for then he knew that the old gentleman would be more inclined to welcome any gay and audacious scheme, without particularly weighing pros and cons. Accordingly having chosen his opportunity, he informed them that he had been offered the use of a house-boat during the Henley week (which was literally true: he had been offered it--for the sum of L30) and said that he had a great mind to accept if only he could persuade Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter to go down as his guests.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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