Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume III). William Black

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      "Why, really, Madge, there's a sort of furious activity about you this morning," said he. "You quite take one's breath away. I shouldn't be surprised to see you on a platform yourself."

      "It's all for Vin's sake I am so anxious," she exclaimed. "I can see how miserable and sad the poor boy is – though he bears it so bravely – never a word to one of us, lest we should ask him if he believes in those people now. I wonder if he can. I wonder if he was so blinded that even now he will shut his eyes to their true character?"

      "They are quite gone away, then?" her companion asked.

      "Oh, yes," she made answer. "I hope so. Indeed, I know they are. And on the whole it was opportune, just as this election was coming on; for now, if ever, Vin will have a chance of throwing off an infatuation that seemed likely to be his ruin, and of beginning that career of which we all hope such great things."

      She glanced round, cautiously; and lowered her voice.

      "But, oh, my goodness, if ever he should find out the means we took to persuade them to go, there will be the very mischief to pay: he will tear us to pieces! You know how impetuous and proud he is; and then those people have appealed to him in a curious way – their loneliness – their poverty – and their – Yes, I will admit it – certain personal qualities and characteristics. I don't deny it; any more than I would deny that the girl was extremely pretty, and the old man picturesque, and even well-mannered and dignified in his way. All the more dangerous – the pair of them. Well, now they are gone, I breathe more freely. While they were here, no argument was of any avail. Vin looked into the girl's appealing face – and everything was refuted. And at all events we can say this to our own conscience – that we have done them no harm. We are not mediæval tyrants; we have not flung the venerable patriot and the innocent maiden into a dungeon, to say nothing of breaking their bones on a rack. The venerable patriot and the innocent maiden, I have no doubt, consider themselves remarkably well off. And that reminds me that Harland Harris, although he is of opinion that all property should be under social control – "

      "Not all property, my dear Madge," said Lord Musselburgh, politely. "He would say that all property should be under social control – except his property."

      "At all events, it seems to me that he occasionally finds it pretty convenient to have plenty of money at his own individual command. Why, for him to denounce the accumulation of capital," she continued, with a pretty scorn, "when no one makes more ostentatious use of the power of money! Is there a single thing he denies himself – one single thing that is only possible to him through his being a man of great wealth? I shouldn't wonder if, when he dies, he leaves instructions to have the electric light turned on into his coffin, just in case he should wake up and want to press the knob."

      "Come, come, Madge," said Musselburgh. "Be generous. A man cannot always practice what he preaches. You must grant him the privilege of sighing for an ideal."

      "Harland Harris sighing for an ideal," said Mrs. Ellison, with something of feminine spite, "would make a capital subject for an imaginative picture by Watts – if my dear brother-in-law weren't rather stout, and wore a black frock-coat."

      Meanwhile, Vincent returned to London, and renewed his solitary search; it was the only thing he felt fit for; all other employments had no meaning for him, were impossible. But, as day by day passed, he became more and more convinced that they must have left London: he knew their familiar haunts so well, and their habits, that he was certain he must have encountered them somewhere if they were still within the great city. And here was the New Year drawing nigh, when friends far separated recalled themselves to each other's memory, with hopes and good wishes for the coming time. It seemed to him that he would not have felt this loneliness so much, if only he had known that Maisrie was in this or that definite place – in Madrid – in Venice – in Rome – or even in some huge steamship ploughing its way across the wide Atlantic.

      But a startling surprise was at hand. About half-past ten on the last night of the old year a note was brought upstairs to him by a servant. His face grew suddenly pale when he saw the handwriting, which he instantly recognised.

      "Who brought this?" he said, breathlessly.

      "A man, sir."

      "Is he waiting?"

      "No, sir; he said there was no answer."

      "What sort of man?" asked Vincent, with the same rapidity – and not yet daring to open the letter.

      "A – a common sort of man, sir."

      "Very well – you needn't wait."

      The moment that the servant had retired, Vincent tore open the envelope; and the first thing that he noticed, with a sudden sinking of the heart, was that there was no address at the head of the letter. It ran thus – the handwriting being a little tremulous here and there —

      'DEAR VINCENT,

      When you receive this, we shall be far away; but I have arranged that you shall get it just before the New Year, and it brings my heart-felt wishes for your happiness, as well as the good-bye that I cannot say to you personally now. What I foresaw has come to pass; and it will be better for all of us, I think; though it is not with a very light heart that I write these few lines to you. Sometimes I wish that we had never met each other; and then again I should never have known all your kindness to me and to my grandfather, which will always be something to look back upon; and also the companionship we had for a time, which was so pleasant – you would understand how pleasant to me, if you had known what had gone before, and what is now likely to come after. But do not think I repine: more has been done for me than ever I can repay; and as I am the only one to whom my grandfather can look now for help and sympathy, I should be ungrateful indeed if I grudged it.

      Forgive me, dear friend, if I speak so much of myself; my thoughts are far more often concerned about you than with anything that can happen to me. And I know that this step we are taking, though it may pain you for a little while, will be salutary in the end. You have a great future before you; your friends expect much of you; you owe it to yourself not to disappoint them. And after a little while, you will be able to go back to the places where we used to go; and there will be nothing but friendly recollections of pleasant evenings; and I am sure nothing need ever come between us (as you feared) I mean in the way of having kind thoughts of each other, always and always; and when you marry no one will more heartily wish you every happiness and blessing than I shall. This is to be my last letter to you; I have promised. I wish I could make it convey to you all I think; but you will understand, dear Vincent, that there is more in it than appears in these stiff and cold words. And another kindness I must beg of you, dear friend, before saying good-bye – and farewell – it is this, Would you try to forget a littleof what I said to you that morning on the pier? If you thought anything I said was a little more than a girl should have confessed, would you try to forget it, dear Vincent? I was rather miserable – I foresaw we should have to say good-bye to each other, when you would not see it, for you were always so full of courage and confidence; and perhaps I told you more than I should have done – and you will try to forgot that. I don't want you to forget it all, dear Vincent; only what you think was said too frankly – or hurriedly – at such a moment.

      And now, dearest friend, this is good-bye; and it is good-bye for ever, as between you and me. I will pray for your happiness always.

MAISRIE.

      P.S. – There was one thing I said to you that you promised you would not forget.

M.'

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