Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume II)

"Yes, I understand!" he said – and he threw away her hand from him. "I understand now. But why not tell the truth at once – that you do not love me – as I had been fool enough to think you did!"

"Yes, perhaps I do not love you," she said in a low voice. "And yet I was not thinking of myself. I was trying to think of what was best for you – "

Her voice broke a little, and there were tears gathering on her eyelashes: seeing which made him instantly contrite. He caught her hand again.

"Maisrie, forgive me! I don't know why you should talk like that! If I have your love I do not fear anything that may happen in the future. There is nothing to fear. When I spoke to your grandfather yesterday afternoon, I told him precisely how I was situated; and I showed him that, granting there were some few little difficulties, the best way to meet them would be for you and me to get married at once: then everything would come right of its own accord – for one must credit one's relatives with a little common sense. Now that is my solution of all this trouble – oh, yes, I confess there has been a little trouble; but here is my solution of it – if you have courage, Maisrie. Maisrie, will you give me your promise – will you be my wife?"

She looked at him for a second; then lowered her eyes.

"Vincent," she said slowly, "you don't know what you ask. And I have wished that you would understand, without my having to speak. I have wished that you would understand – and go away – and make our friendship a memory, something to think over in after years. For how can I tell you clearly without seeming cruel and ungrateful to one who has through my whole life been kindness and goodness to me? – no! – no!"

She withdrew her hand; she turned away from him altogether.

"Maisrie," said he, "I don't want you to say anything, except that you love me, and will be my wife."

"Your wife, Vincent – your wife!" she exclaimed, in a piteous sort of way. "How can you ask any one to be your wife who has led the life that I have led? Can you not guess – Vincent – without my having to speak?"

He was astounded – but not alarmed: never had his faith in her flinched for a single instant.

"The life you have led?" said he, rather breathlessly; "Why – a – a beautiful life – an idyllic life – constant travel – and always treated with such kindness and care and affection – an ideal life – why, who would not envy you?"

She was sobbing – with her head averted.

"Don't, Vincent, don't! I cannot – I will not – tell you," she said, in a kind of despair. "What is the use? But it is you who have made me think – it is you who have shown me clearly what I have been. I – I was young – I was only a child; my grandfather was everything to me; whatever he did was right. And now I have become a woman since I knew you – I can see myself – and I know that never, never can I be your wife."

"Maisrie!"

But she paid no heed. She was strangely excited. She rose to her feet: and for a moment he thought he saw a look of her grandfather in her face.

"And yet even in my degradation – my degradation," she said, repeating the words with cruel emphasis, "I have some pride. I know what your friends think of me: or I can guess. Perhaps they are right. Perhaps the stories you spoke of were all to be believed. That is neither here nor there now. But, at least, they need not be afraid that I am coming to them as a suppliant. I will not bring shame upon them; they have nothing to fear from me."

He regarded her with astonishment, and with something of reproach also: these proud tones did not sound like Maisrie's voice. And all of a sudden she changed.

"Why, Vincent, why," she said, "should you put yourself in opposition to your friends? Why give up all the splendid future that is before you? Why disappoint all the hopes that have been formed of you – ?"

"If need were, for the sake of your love, Maisrie," he said.

"My love?" she said. "But you have that, Vincent – and – and you shall have that always!"

And here she burst into a passionate fit of weeping; and in vain he tried to soothe her. Nay, she would not have him speak.

"Let this be the last," she said, through her bitter sobs. "Only – only, Vincent, don't go away with any doubt about that in your mind. I love you! – I shall love you always! – I will give my life to thinking of you – when you are far too occupied – ever to think of me. Will you believe me, Vincent! – Will you believe, always, that I loved you – that I loved you too well to do what you ask – to become a drag on you – and a shame." The tears were running down her cheeks; but she kept her eyes fixed bravely and piteously on him, as she uttered her wild, incoherent sentences. "My dearest – my dearest in all the world – will you remember – will you believe that always? Will you say to yourself, 'Wherever Maisrie is at this moment, she loves me – she is thinking of me.' Promise me, Vincent, that you will never doubt that! No – you need not put it into words: your heart tells you that it is true. And now, Vincent, kiss me! – kiss me, Vincent! – and then good-bye!"

She held up her face. He kissed her lips, that were salt with the sea-foam. The tangles of her wind-blown hair touched his cheek – and thrilled him.

He did not speak for a moment. He was over-awed. This pure confession of a maiden soul had something sacred about it: how could he reply with commonplace phrases about his friends and the future? And yet, here was Maisrie on the point of departure; she only waited for a word of good-bye; and her eyes, that were now filled with a strange sadness and hopelessness, no longer regarded him. The farewell had been spoken – on her side.

"And you think I will let you go, after what you have just confessed?" he said to her – and his calm and restrained demeanour was a sort of answer to her trembling vehemence and her despair. "You give me the proudest possession a man may have on this earth: and I am to stand idly by, and let it be taken away from me. Is that a likely thing?"

He took her hand, and put her back into the sheltered corner.

"Sit down there, Maisrie, out of the wind. I want to talk to you. I was a fool when I mentioned those stories the other day: I could have cut my tongue out the next moment. And indeed I thought you took no notice. Why should you take any notice? Insensate trash! And who escapes such things? – and who is so childish as to heed them? Then again I remember your saying that I knew nothing about your grandfather or yourself. Do you think that is so? Do you think I have been all this time constantly in your society – watching you – studying you – yes, and studying you with the anxiety that goes with love – for, of course, you want the one you love to be perfect – do you imagine, after all this that I do not know you and understand you? Degradation! – very well, I accept that degradation: I welcome all the degradation that is likely to be associated with you. If I were to wash my hands in that sort of degradation, I think they would come out a little whiter! I know you to be as pure and noble as the purest and noblest woman alive; and what do I care about your – your circumstances?"

"Don't, Vincent! – don't be kind to me, Vincent!" she said, piteously. "It will be all the harder to think of when – when we are separated – and far away from each other."

"Yes, but we are not going to separate," said he briefly. "Your grandfather has left you to decide for yourself; and surely after what you have said to me this morning, surely I have the right to decide for you. I tell you, we are not going to separate, Maisrie – except for a few days. When I am up in London I mean to look round and see what dispositions can be made with regard to the future. Oh, I assure you I am going to be very prudent and circumspect; and I am ready to turn my hand to anything. Then, in another direction, Maisrie, you might give me a hint," he went on, with much cheerfulness, but watching her to see how she would take it. "What part of London do you think you would like best to live in? If we could get a small house with a garden up somewhere about Campden Hill – that would be pleasant; and of course there must be a library for your grandfather, for we should want the privacy of the morning-room for ourselves."

She shook her head.

"Dreams, Vincent, dreams!" she murmured.

"But sometimes dreams come true," said he, for he was not to be daunted. "And you will see how much dream-work there will be about it when I get things put into trim in London. Now I'm not going to keep you here any longer, Maisrie; for I fancy there is some rain coming across; and you mustn't be caught. I will go in and say good-bye to your grandfather, if I may; and the next you will hear of me will be when I send you some news from town. In the meantime, hearts up, Maisrie! – surely the granddaughter of your grandfather should show courage!"

When, that afternoon, Vincent arrived in London, he did not go to his temporary lodgings (what charm had the slummy little street in Mayfair for him now?) but to Grosvenor Place, where he shut himself up in his own room, and managed to get on somehow with that detested lecture. And next day he went down to Mendover: and next evening he made his appearance before the Mendover Liberal Association; and there were the customary votes of thanks to wind up the proceedings. There was nothing in all this worthy of note: what was of importance happened after, when the President of the Association, who had occupied the chair in the absence of Lord Musselburgh, accompanied Vincent home to the Red Lion. This Mr. Simmons was a solicitor, and a great political power in Mendover; so, when he hinted that the Red Lion had a certain bin of port that was famous all over the county – and, indeed, was powerful enough to draw many a hunt-dinner to this hostelry by its own influence alone – be sure that Master Vin was not long in having a decanter of the wine placed on the table of the private parlour he had engaged. Mr. Simmons, who was a sharp, shrewd-looking little man, with a pale face and intensely black hair and short-cropped whiskers, suggested a cigar, and took the largest he could find in his host's case. Then he proceeded to make himself important and happy – with his toes on the fender, and his shoulders softly cushioned in an easy chair.

"Yes," said he, complacently, when the cigar was going well, "I think I can predict some good fortune for you, and that without having my hand crossed with a shilling. I hope I am breaking no confidence; we lawyers are supposed to be as mum as a priest after confessional; but of course what is said between gentlemen will go no further than the four walls of this room."

"I think you may trust me for that," Vincent said.

"Very well, then," continued Mr. Simmons, with an air of bland consequence. "I will say this at least – that in January you may fairly expect to be offered a very pretty New Year's present."

"Oh, really," said Vincent, without being much impressed: he fancied the Liberal Association were perhaps going to pass a vote of thanks – possibly inscribed on vellum – with the names of all the officials writ large.

"A very pretty present: the representation of Mendover."

But at this he pricked up his ears; and Mr. Simmons smiled.

"Mr. Richard Gosford is my client, as I think you know," the black-a-viced little lawyer went on, "but what I am telling you does not come direct from him to me. I need not particularise my sources of information. But from what I can gather I am almost certain that he means to resign at the end of the year – he did talk of waiting for the next General Election, as Lord Musselburgh may have told you; but his imaginary troubles have grown on him; and as far as I can see there will be nothing for you but to slip easily and quietly into his shoes next January. A very pretty New Year's present!"

"But of course there will be a contest!" Vincent exclaimed.

"Not a bit," Mr. Simmons made answer, regarding the blue curls of smoke from the cigar. "The snuggest little seat in England. Everybody knows you are Lord Musselburgh's nominee; and Lord Musselburgh has promised to do everything for our public park that Mr. Gosford ought to have done when he presented the ground. See? No bribery on your part. Simple as daylight. We'll run you in as if you were an infant on a wheelbarrow."

"It's very kind of you, I'm sure," said Vincent. "Is there anything you would recommend me to do – ?"

"Yes; I would recommend you to go and call on old Gosford to-morrow, before you leave for town."

"Wouldn't that look rather like undue haste in seizing a dead man's effects?" Vincent ventured to ask.

"A dead man?" said Mr. Simmons, helping himself to another glass of port. "He is neither dead nor dying, any more than you or I. And that's what you've got to remember to-morrow, when you go to see him. For goodness' sake, don't tell him he's looking well – as you've got to say to most invalids. Tell him he's looking very poorly. Be seriously concerned. Then he'll be off to bed again – and delighted. For what he suffers from is simply incurable laziness – and nervous timidity; and so long as he can hide himself under the blankets, and read books, he's happy."

"But what excuse am I to make for calling on him?" Vincent asked again.

"Oh," said Mr. Simmons, carelessly, "one public character visiting another. You were here delivering a lecture; and of course you called on the sitting member. You won't want any excuse if you will tell him he should take extraordinary care of himself in this changeable weather."

"And should I say anything about the seat?" Vincent asked further.

"I must leave that to your own discretion. Rather ticklish. Perhaps better say nothing – unless he introduces the subject: then you can talk about the overcrowding of the House, and the late hours, and the nervous wear and tear of London. But you needn't suggest to him, in set terms, that as he is retiring from business he might as well leave you the goodwill: perhaps that would be a little too outspoken."