Chapter IV: Enlightenment

Next morning he was up and out betimes--wandering through this town that somehow seemed to be pervaded by Maisrie's presence, or, at least, by recollections of her and associations with her. He had hardly left his hotel when he heard a telegraph-boy whistling the air of 'Isabeau s'y promene.' He went from one street to another, recognising this and that public building: the polished marble pillars shining in the cold, clear sunlight. Then he walked away up College Avenue, and entered Queen's Park; and there, after some little delay, he obtained permission to ascend to the top of the University tower. But in vain he sought along the southern horizon for the cloud of soft white smoke of which Maisrie had often spoken; the distant Niagara was frozen motionless and mute. When he returned to the more frequented thoroughfares, the business-life of the city was now in full flow; nevertheless he kept his eyes on the alert; even amid this hurrying crowd, the figure of George Bethune would not readily escape recognition. But, indeed, he was only seeking to pass the time, for he thought he ought not to call on the banker before mid-day.

Mr. Daniel Thompson he found to be a tall, spare man, of well over sixty, with short white whiskers, a face otherwise clean shaven, and eyes that were shrewd and observant, but far from unkindly. He listened to the young man's tale with evident interest.

"And so you have come all the way across the Atlantic," said he, "to look for my old friend George Bethune and little Maggie."

"Maggie," repeated Vincent, somewhat startled. "Maisrie, you mean."

"Maisrie!" the banker said, with a certain impatience. "Does he still keep up that nonsense? The girl's name is Margaret; Margaret Bethune--surely a good enough name for any Christian. But his head is just full of old ballads and stuff of that kind; any fancy that strikes him is just as real to him as fact; I dare say he could persuade himself that he was intimately acquainted with Sir Patrick Spens and the Scots lords who were drinking in Dunfermline town----"

"But in any case," Vincent protested (for how could he surrender the name that was so deeply graven on his heart)? "Maisrie is only a form of Margaret--as Marjorie is--a pet name--"

"Maisrie!" said the banker, contemptuously. "Who ever heard of any human creature being called Maisrie--outside of poetry-books and old ballads? I warned the little monkey, many and many a day ago, when I first got her to write to me, that she must sign her own name, or she would see what I would do to her. Well, how is the little Omahussy? What does she look like now? A sly little wretch she used to be--making people fond of her with her earnest eyes--"

"I don't think you quite understand," said Vincent, who resented this familiar tone, though in truth it only meant an affectionate kindliness. "Miss Bethune is no longer the little girl you seem to imagine; she is quite a young lady now--and taller than most."

"The little Omahussy grown up to be a tall young lady?" said he, in a pleased fashion. "Yes, yes, I suppose so. No doubt. And tall, you say? Even when she was here last she was getting on; but the only photograph I have of her was done long before that--when she was hardly more than twelve; and then I'm an old bachelor, you see; I'm not accustomed to watch children grow up; and somehow I remember her mostly as when I first knew her--a shy young thing, and yet something of a little woman in her ways. Grown up good-looking, too, I suppose?--both her father and mother were handsome."

"If you saw her now," said Vincent, "I think you would say she was beautiful; though it might not be her beauty that would take your attention the most."

The elderly banker regarded this young man for a second or so--and with a favouring glance: he was clearly well impressed.

"I hope you will not consider me intrusive or impertinent if I ask you a question," said he. "I am an old friend of George Bethune's--perhaps the oldest alive now; and besides that I have always regarded myself as a sort of second father to the little Margaret--though their wandering way of life has taken her out of my care. Now--don't answer unless you like--tell me to mind my own business--but at the same time one would almost infer, from your coming over here in search of them, that you have some particular interest in the young lady----"

"It is the chief interest of my life," said Vincent, with simple frankness. "And that is why I cannot rest until I find them."

"Well, now, one question more," the banker continued. "I don't wish to pry into any young lady's secrets--but--but perhaps there may be some understanding between her and you?"

"I hope so," said Vincent.

"And the young wretch never wrote me a line to tell me of it!" Mr. Thompson exclaimed--but it was very obvious that this piece of news had caused him no chagrin. "The little Omahussy grows up to be a fine and tall young lady; chooses her sweetheart for herself; thinks of getting married and all the rest of it; and not a word to me! Here is filial gratitude for you! Why, does she forget what I have promised to do for her? Not that I ever said so to her; you don't fill a school-girl's head full of wedding fancies; but her grandfather knew; her grandfather must have told her when this affair was settled between you and her----"

But here Vincent had to interpose and explain that nothing was settled; that unhappily everything was unsettled; and further he went on to tell of all that had happened preceding the disappearance of Maisrie and her grandfather. For this man seemed of a kindly nature; he was an old friend of those two; then Vincent had been very much alone of late--there was no one in Omaha in whom he could confide. Mr. Thompson listened with close attention; and at last he said--

"I can see that you have been placed in a very peculiar position; and that you have stood the test well. The description of my old friend Bethune that your father put before you could be made to look very plausible; and I imagine that most young men would have been staggered by it. I can fancy that a good many young men would have been apt to say 'Like grandfather, like granddaughter'--and would have declined to have anything more to do with either. And yet I understand that, however doubtful or puzzled you may have been, at least you never had any suspicion of Margaret?"

"Suspicion?" said Vincent. "Of the girl whom I hope to make my wife? I need not answer the question."

Mr. Thompson give a bit of a laugh, in a quiet, triumphant manner.

"Evidently my little Omahussy had her eyes widely and wisely open when she made her choice," said he, apparently to himself.

"And what can I do now?" Vincent went on, in a half-despairing way. "You say you are certain they are not in Canada or they would have come to see you. The Scotchmen in New York told me they were positive Mr. Bethune was not there, or he would have shown up at the Burns Anniversary. Well, where can I go now? I must find her--I cannot rest until I have found her--to have everything explained--and--and to find out her reason for going away----"

"I wonder," said Mr. Thompson, slowly, "what old George had in his head this time? To him, as I say, fancies are just as real as facts, and I cannot but imagine that this has been his doing. She would not ask him to break up all his arrangements and ways of living for her sake; she was too submissive and dependent on him for that; it is she who has conformed to some sudden whim of his. You had no quarrel with him?"

"A quarrel? Nothing of the kind--not the shadow of a quarrel!" Vincent exclaimed.

"Did you mention to him those reports about himself?" was the next question.

"Well, yes, I did, in a casual sort of way," the young man answered honestly. "But it was merely to account for any possible opposition on the part of my father; and, in fact, I wanted Mr. Bethune to consent to an immediate marriage between Maisrie and myself."

"And what did Margaret say to that?" Mr. Thompson proceeded to ask; he was clearly trying to puzzle out for himself the mystery of this situation.

"You mean the last time I saw her--the very last time?" the young man answered him. "Well, she seemed greatly troubled: as I mentioned to you, there was some wild talk about degradation--fancy degradation having anything to do with Maisrie Bethune!--and she said it would be better for us to separate; and she made me promise certain things. But I wouldn't listen to her; I was going down to Mendover; I made sure everything would come right as soon as I could get back. And then, when I got back, they were gone--and not a trace of them left behind."

"Had old George got any news about the Balloray estates?" the banker asked, with a quick look.

"Not that I know of," Vincent answered. "Besides, if there had been any news of importance, it would have been in the papers; we should all have seen it!"

"And you and Margaret parted on good terms?"

"Good terms?" said Vincent. "That is hardly the phrase. But beyond what I told you, I cannot say more. There are some things that are for myself alone."

"Quite right--quite right," said Mr. Thompson, hastily, "I quite understand."

At this moment a card was brought in.

"Tell the gentleman I will see him directly," was the reply.

Vincent, of course, rose.

"I confess," said the banker, "that the whole affair perplexes me; and I should like a little time to think it over. Have you any engagement for this evening?"

"No," said Vincent; "I only arrived in Toronto last night: and I don't suppose I know any one in the town."

"Come and dine with me at my club, then, this evening, will you? Just our two selves: the ---- club, at seven. I want to talk to you about this matter; for I have a particular interest, as you may suppose, in the little Maggie; and I want to know what it all means. I should like to learn something more about you, too, in view of certain possibilities. And perhaps I can give you a few hints about my old friend George, for you don't quite seem to understand, even with all the chances you have had. Yes, I can see a little doubt in your mind at times. You would rather shut your eyes--for Margaret's sake, no doubt; but I want to show you that there isn't much of that needed, if you only look the right way. However, more of that when we meet. At seven, then. Sorry to seem so rude--but this is an appointment----"

That proved to be a memorable evening. To begin with small things: Vincent, after his late solitary wanderings in unfamiliar conditions of life, now and suddenly found himself at home. The quiet, old-fashioned unobtrusive comfort of this club; the air of staid respectability; the manner of the waiters; the very cooking, and the order in which the wines were handed--all appeared to him to be so thoroughly English; and the members, judging by little points here and there, seemed also to be curiously English in their habits and ways. He had received a similar impression on his first visit to Toronto; but on this occasion it was more marked than ever; perhaps the good-humoured friendliness of this Scotch banker had something to do with it, and their being able to talk about people in whom they had a common concern. However, it was after dinner, in a snug corner of the smoking-room, that Mr. Thompson proceeded to talk of his old friend in a fashion that considerably astonished the young man who was his guest.

"Yes," he continued, after he had examined and cross-examined Vincent with regard to certain occurrences, "there is no doubt at all that George Bethune is a rank old impostor; but the person on whom he has mostly imposed, all his life through, has been--George Bethune. I suppose, now, every one of us has in his nature a certain amount of self-deception; it would be a pity if it weren't so. But here is this man who has been gifted with a quite unlimited faculty of self-deception; and with a splendid imagination, too--the imagination of a poet, without a poet's responsibilities; so that he lives in a world entirely of his own creation, and sees things just as he wants to see them. As I say, he has the imagination of a poet, and the unworldliness of a poet, without any one calling him to do anything to prove his powers; he is too busy constructing his own fanciful universe for himself; and all the common things of life--debts, bills, undertakings, and so forth--they have no existence for him. Ah, well, well," Mr. Thompson went on, as he lay back in his chair, and watched the blue curls of smoke from his cigar, "I don't know whether to call it a pity or not. Sometimes one is inclined to envy him his happy temperament. I don't know any human creature who has a braver spirit, whose conscience is clearer to himself, who can sleep with greater equanimity and content. Why should he mind what circumstances are around him when in a single second he can transport himself to the Dowie Dens o' Yarrow or be off on a raid with Kinmont Willie? And there's nothing that he will not seize if he has a mind to it--a sounding name, a tradition, a historical incident--why, he laid hold of the Bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie, carried them off bodily to Balloray, and I suppose wild horses wouldn't tear from him the admission that Balloray never had anything to do with those mill-dams or the story of the two sisters----"

"I know," said Vincent; "Maisrie told me about that."

"Maisrie!" said Mr. Thompson, with a return of his former impatience. "That is another of his fantasticalities. I tell you her name is Margaret----."

"But she has been Maisrie to me, and Maisrie she will be to me always," Vincent made answer stoutly--for surely he had some right to speak on this matter too. "As I said this morning, it is only a pet name for Margaret; and if she chooses to use it, to please her grandfather, or to please herself even----"

"Stay a moment: I want to show you something."

The banker put his hand into his breast-pocket; and pulled out an envelope.

"Not the photograph?" said Vincent, rather breathlessly.

Mr. Thompson smiled in his quiet, sagacious way.

"When I mentioned this portrait to you to-day," said he, "I saw something in your eyes--though you were too modest to put your request into words. Well, I have brought it; here it is; and if you'll look at the foot you'll see that the little Omahussy signs herself, as she ought to sign herself, 'Margaret Bethune.'"

And what a revelation was this, of what Maisrie had been in the years before he had known her! The quaint, prim, small miss!--he could have laughed, with a kind of delight: only that here were those calm, grave, earnest eyes, that seemed to know him, that seemed to speak to him. Full of wistfulness they were, and dreams: they said to him, 'I am looking forward; I am waiting till I meet you--my friend; life has that in store--for you and me.'

"I thought you would be interested," said Mr. Thompson, blandly. "And I know you would like me to give you that photograph: perhaps you think you have some right to it, having won the young lady herself----"

"Won her?" said Vincent, still contemplating this strange, quaint portrait that seemed to speak to him somehow. "It hardly looks like it."

"Well, I cannot give you the photograph," the elderly Scotchman continued, in his friendly way, "but, if you like, I will have it copied--perhaps even enlarged, if it will stand it--and I will send you one----"

"Will you?" said Vincent, with a flash of gratitude in his eyes. "To me it would be simply a priceless treasure."

"I just thought it would be," Mr. Thompson said, considerately. "I've seen something of the ways of young people in my time. Yes; I'll send you a copy or two as soon as I can get them done."

Vincent handed back the photograph--reluctantly, and keeping his eyes on it until it had disappeared.

"I brought it out to show you she could sign her name properly when under proper instruction," the banker continued. "And now to return to her grandfather, who seems to have puzzled you a little, as well might be the case. I can see how you have been trying to blind yourself to certain things: no doubt you looked towards Margaret, and thought she would make up for all. But I surmise you have been a little unjust to my old friend; notwithstanding your association with him, you have not quite understood him; and perhaps that is hardly to be wondered at. And certainly you would never take him to be what I consider him to be--a very great man who has been spoiled by a fatal inheritance. I do truly and honestly believe there were the makings of a great man in George Bethune--a man with his indomitable pluck and self-reliance, his imagination, his restless energy, his splendid audacity and independence of character. Even now I see something heroic in him: he seems to me a man of heroic build--of heroic attitude towards the rest of the world: people may say what they like about George Bethune; but I know him better than most, and I wholly admire him and love him. If it hadn't been for that miserable property! I suppose, now, a large estate may turn out a fortunate or unfortunate legacy accordingly as you use it; but if your legacy is only the knowledge that the estate ought to be yours, and isn't, that is a fine set of circumstances! And I have little doubt it was to forget that wretched lawsuit, to escape from a ceaseless and useless disappointment, that he took refuge in a world of imagination, and built up delusions round about him--just as other people take refuge in gin or in opium. At all events, his spirit has not been crushed. Did you ever hear him whine and complain?--I should think not! He has kept a stout heart, has old George Bethune. Perhaps, indeed, his pride has been excessive. Here am I, for example: I'm getting well on in years, and I haven't a single near relative now living; I've scraped together a few sixpences in my time; and nothing would give me greater pleasure than if George Bethune were to come to me and ask me to share my purse with him. And he knows it too. But would he? Not a bit! Rather than come to me and get some useful sum, he would go and get a few pounds out of some newspaper-office on account of one of his frantic schemes to do something fine for poor old Scotland. No," the banker proceeded, with rather an injured air, "I suppose I'm not distinguished enough. Friend George has some very high and mighty notions about the claims of long descent--and _noblesse oblige_--and all that. It is a condescension on his part to accept help from any one; and it is the privilege of those who have birth and lineage like himself to be allowed to come to his aid. I'm only Thompson. If I were descended from Richard Coeur de Lion I suppose it would be different. Has he ever accepted any money from you?"

"Never," said Vincent--who was not going to recall a few restaurant bills and cab fares.

"No," resumed the banker, "Your name is Harris. But when it comes to Lord Musselburgh, that is quite different, that is all right. No doubt Lord Musselburgh was quite proud to be allowed to subscribe--how much was it?--towards a book that never came out."

"Oh, but I ought to explain that that money was paid back," said Vincent, quickly.

"Paid back?" repeated the banker, staring. "That is a new feature, indeed! The money paid back to Lord Musselburgh? How did that come about? How did friend George yield to a weakness of that kind?"

"The fact is," said Vincent, blushing like a school-boy, "I paid it."

"Without letting the old gentleman know?"

"Yes."

"Then excuse my saying so," Mr. Thomson observed, "but you threw away your money to very little purpose. If George Bethune is willing to take a cheque from Lord Musselburgh--if he can do so without the slightest loss of self-respect or dignity--why should not his lordship be allowed to help a brother Scot? Why should you interfere?"

"It was for Maisrie's sake," said Vincent, looking down.

"Ah, yes, yes," the banker said, knitting his brows. "That is where the trouble comes in. I shouldn't mind letting George Bethune go his own way; he is all right; his self-sufficiency will carry him through anything: but for a sensitive girl like that it must be terrible. I wonder how much she suspects," he went on. "I wonder how much she sees. Or if it is possible he has blinded her as well as himself to their circumstances? For you must remember this--I am talking to you now, Mr. Harris, as one who may have a closer relationship with these two--you must remember this, that to himself George Bethune's conscience is as clear as that of a one-year-old child. Do you think he sees anything shady or unsatisfactory in these little transactions or forgetfulnesses of his? He is careless of money because he despises it. If he had any, and you wanted it, it would be yours."

"I know that," said Vincent, eagerly; and he told the story of their meeting the poor woman in Hyde Park.

"Take that string of charges you spoke of," the banker resumed. "I have not the least doubt that from the point of view of the people who discovered those things their story was quite accurate. Except, perhaps, about his calling himself Lord Bethune: I don't believe that, and never heard of it; that was more likely a bit of toadyism on the part of some bar-loungers. But, as I say, from a solicitor's point of view, George Bethune would no doubt be regarded as a habitual impostor; whereas to himself he is no impostor at all, but a perfectly honourable person, whose every act can challenge the light of day. If there is any wrong or injury in the relations between him and the world, be sure he considers himself the wronged and injured one: though you must admit he does not complain. The question is--does Margaret see? Or has he brought her up in that world of imagination--careless of the real facts of life--persuading yourself of anything you wish to believe--thinking little of rent or butchers' bills so long as you can escape into the merry green-wood and live with Burd Helens and May Colleans and the like? You see, when I knew her she was little more than a child; it would never occur to her to question the conduct of her grandfather; but now you say she is a woman--she may have begun to look at things for herself----"

Mr. Thompson paused, and eyed his companion curiously. For a strange expression had come into Vincent's face.

"What then?" asked the banker.

"I am beginning to understand," the young man said, "and--and--perhaps here is the reason of Maisrie's going away. Suppose she imagined that I suspected her grandfather--suppose she thought I considered those reports true: then she might take that as a personal insult; she might be too proud to offer any defence; she would go to her grandfather and say 'Grandfather, if this is what he and his friends think of us, it is time we should take definite steps to end this companionship.' It has been all my doing, then, since I was so blind?" Vincent continued, evidently in deep distress. "I don't wonder that she was offended and insulted--and--and she would be too proud to explain. I have all along had a kind of notion that she had something to do, perhaps everything to do, with their going away. And yet----"

He was silent. Mr. Thompson waited for a second or two, not wishing to interrupt: then he said--

"Of course you know her better than I do; but that is not how I should read the situation. It is far more probable that her own eyes have been gradually opening--not to what her grandfather is, but to what he may appear to be in the eyes of the world; and when she has come more and more to perceive the little likelihood of his being considerately judged, she may have determined that you should be set free from all association with him and with her. I think that is far more likely, in view of the things you have told me. And I can imagine her doing that. A resolute young creature; ready to sacrifice herself; used to wandering, too--her first solution of any difficulty would be to 'go away.' A touch of pride, perhaps, as well. I dare say she has discovered that if you look at George Bethune through blue spectacles, his way of life must look rather questionable; but if you look at him through pink spectacles, everything is pleasant, and fine, and even grand. But would she ask anyone to put on a pair of pink spectacles? No; for she has the stiff neck of the Bethunes. I imagine she can hold her head as high as any one, now she is grown up. And of course she will not ask for generous interpretation; she will rather 'go away.'"

Vincent was still silent; but at length he said--as if speaking to himself--

"I wonder what Maisrie must have thought of me."

He had evidently been going over all that had happened in those bygone days--by the light of this new knowledge.

"What do you mean?" the banker said.

"Why, if there were any generous interpretation needed or expected, surely it should have come first of all from me. The outside world might be excused for thinking this or that of Mr. Bethune; but I was constantly with him; and then, look at the relations that existed between Maisrie and myself. I thought I was doing enough in the way of generosity when I tried to shut my eyes to certain things; whereas I should have tried to see more clearly. I might have understood--if any one. I remember now Maisrie's saying to me on one occasion--it was about that book on the Scottish-American poets--she said quite piteously: 'Don't you understand? Don't you understand that grandfather can persuade himself of anything? If he has thought a thing over, he considers it done, and is ready for something else.' And then there was another time----"

"Come, come," said Mr. Thompson, good-naturedly, "I don't see you have much to reproach yourself with. You must admit that that affair--if he really did see the proof-sheets in New York--looked pretty bad. You say yourself that Hugh Anstruther was staggered by it----"

"Yes, he was," said Vincent, "until I explained that the money had been repaid to Lord Musselburgh, and also that I had no doubt Mr. Bethune considered himself, from his knowledge of the subject, quite entitled to publish a volume on the other side of the water. Mr. Ross's book was published only on this side--at least, that is my impression."

"Did you tell Anstruther who repaid the money to Lord Musselburgh?" Mr. Thompson asked, with a shrewd glance.

"No," answered Vincent, looking rather shame-faced.

"Ah, well," the banker said, "a freak of generosity is very pardonable in a young man, especially where a young lady is concerned. And you had the means besides. Your father is a rich man, isn't he?"

"Oh, yes, pretty well."

"And you--now forgive my curiosity--it only arises from my interest in Margaret--I dare say you are allowed a sufficient income?"

"I have more money than I need," said Vincent, frankly, "but of course that would not be the case if I married Maisrie Bethune, for then I should have to depend on my own resources. I should have to earn my own living."

"Oh, earn your own living? Well, that is very commendable, in any case. And how do you propose to earn your own living?"

"By writing for the newspapers."

"Have you had any experience?" Maisrie's 'second father' continued.

"Yes, a little; and I have had fair encouragement. Besides, I know one or two important people in the newspaper world."

"And what about your seat in Parliament?"

"That would not interfere: there are several journalists in the House."

The banker considered for a little while.

"Seems a little hazardous, doesn't it, to break away from a certainty of income?" he asked, at length. "Are you quite convinced that if you married Margaret your relatives would prove so implacable?"

"It isn't what they would do that is the question," Vincent responded, with promptitude. "It is what I should be inclined to do. At present they regard Maisrie as nothing more nor less than a common adventuress and swindler--or rather an uncommon one--a remarkably clever one. Now do you think I am going to take her by the hand, and lead her up to them, and say, 'Dear Papa,' or 'Dear Aunt,' as the case may be, 'Here is the adventuress and swindler whom I have married, but she is not going to be wicked any more; she is going to reform; and I beg you to receive her into the family, and forgive her all that she has been; and also I hope that you will give me money to support her and myself.' You see," continued Vincent, "before I did that I think I would rather try to find out how much a week I could make by writing leading-articles."

"Quite right--quite right," said Mr. Thompson, with a smile: for why this disdain?--_he_ had not counselled the young man to debase himself so.

"And then it isn't breaking away from any certainty of income," Vincent proceeded, "but quite the reverse. The certainty is that as soon as I announce my intention of marrying Miss Bethune, my father will suggest that I should shift for myself. Very well. I'm not afraid. I can take my chance, like another. They say that poverty is a good test of affection: I am ready to face it, for one."

"Oh, as for that," the banker interposed, "I wish you to understand this--that your bride won't come to you empty-handed. George Bethune may hold aloof from me as long as he likes. If he thinks it is more dignified for him to go cadging about with vague literary projects--all for the honour and glory of Scotland, no doubt--instead of letting his oldest friend share his purse with him, I have nothing to say. My name's only Thompson; _noblesse oblige_ has nothing to do with me. But when my little Margaret walks into church to meet the man of her choice, it will be my business to see that she is suitably provided for. I do not mean to boast, or make rash promises, or raise false expectations; but when her husband brings her away it will be no pauper he is taking home with him. And I want to add this, since we are talking in confidence: I hope her husband will be none other than yourself. I like you. I like the way you have spoken of both grandfather and granddaughter; and I like your independence. By all means when you get back to the old country: by all means carry out that project of yours of earning an income for yourself. It can do you no harm, whatever happens; it may be invaluable to you in certain circumstances. And in the meantime, if I may still further advise, give up this search of yours for the present. I dare say you are now convinced they are not on this side the water; well, let that suffice for the time being. Here is Parliament coming together; you have your position to make; and the personal friend and protege of ---- should surely have a great chance in public life. Of course, you will say it is easy to talk. But don't misunderstand me. What can you do except attend to these immediate and practical affairs? If George Bethune and Margaret have decided, for reasons best known to themselves, to sever the association between you and them, mere advertising won't bring them back. And searching the streets of this or that town is a pretty hopeless business. No; if you hear of them, it will not be in that way: it will be through some communication with some common friend, and just as likely as not that friend will be myself."

All this seemed very reasonable--and hopeless. Vincent rose.

"I must not keep you up too late," said he, in am absent sort of way. "I suppose you are right--I may as well go away back to England at once. But of course I will call to see you before I go--to-morrow if I may--to thank you for all your kindness."

"Ah, but you must keep up your heart, you know," the banker said, regarding the young man in a favouring way. "No despair. Why, I am sure to hear from one or other of them; they cannot guess that you have been here; even if they wish to keep their whereabouts concealed from you they would have no such secret from me. And be sure I will send you word the moment I hear anything. I presume the House of Commons will be your simplest and surest address."

As he walked away home that night Vincent had many things to ponder over; but the question of questions was as to whether Maisrie had indignantly scorned him for his blindness in not perceiving more clearly her grandfather's nature and circumstances, or for his supineness in wavering, and half-admitting that these charges might bring disquiet. For now the figure of old George Bethune seemed to stand out distinctly enough: an amiable and innocent monomaniac; a romantic enthusiast; a sublime egotist; a dreamer of dreams; a thaumaturgist surrounding himself with delusions and not knowing them to be such. And if Daniel Thompson's reading of the character of his old friend was accurate--if George Bethune had merely in splendid excess that faculty of self-deception which in lesser measure was common to all mortals--who was going to cast the first stone?