Chapter VI: Fairy Land

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

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

"'The Canadian Boat Song,' grandfather."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it was not to sleep that Vincent devoted the early hours of this night and morning. His mind was tossed this way and that by all kinds of moods and projects, the former piteous and the latter wildly impracticable. He had never before fully realised how curiously solitary was the lot of these two wanderers, how strange was their isolation, how uncertain was their future. And while the old man's courage and bold front provoked his admiration, he could not help looking at the other side of the shield: what was to become of her, when her only protector was taken from her? He knew that they were none too well off, those two; and what would she do when left alone? But if on the very next day he were to go to Mrs. Ellison and borrow L10,000 from her, which he would have mysteriously conveyed to old George Bethune? He could repay the money, partly by the sacrifice of his own small fortune, and partly by the assigning over of the paternal allowance; while he could go away to Birmingham, or Sheffield, or wherever the place was, and earn his living by becoming Mr. Ogden's private secretary. They need never know from whom this bounty came, and it would render them secure from all the assaults of fortune. Away up there in the Black Country he would think of them; and it would lighten the wearisome toil of the desk if he could imagine that Maisrie Bethune had left the roar and squalor of London, and was perhaps wandering through these very Thames-side meadows, or floating in some white-garnitured boat, under the shade of the willows. There would be rest for the pilgrims at last, after their world-buffetings. And so he lay and dreamed and pitied and planned, until in the window of the small state-room there appeared the first blue-gray of the dawn, about which time he finally fell asleep.

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

"Hey, Jonnie Cope, are ye waukin yet,
And are your drums a-beatin yet,
If ye were waukin, I would wait
To meet Jonnie Cope in the morning?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" he demanded.

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

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

"Why?" he demanded again.

So she was driven to confession.

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

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

And apparently it staggered the pleasant-eyed young widow.

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

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

She laughed and was not displeased.

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

"In a house-boat down there--the _White Rose_."

"The _White Rose_? I noticed it yesterday--very pretty--whose is it?"

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

"Who are the other members of your party?"

"None--only those two."

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

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

He turned and looked at her, with straight eyes.

"Oh, it's quite right," she said, hastily. "It's quite right, of course--but--but so much _en evidence_--so prominent--people might talk--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At this Maisrie looked up startled.

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

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

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

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

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

Maisrie turned to her grandfather.

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

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

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

"Ellison," she said, kindly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Vin, who is that old man?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where does he live?"

"In Mayfair."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Supposing I have none?" he demanded again.

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

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

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

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