"Grandfather," said the girl, "may I wait for you in the cab?"
"Certainly not," he answered with decision. "I wish you to see men and things as part of your education. Live and learn, Maisrie—every moment of your life."
Leaving the Scotch plaid in the cab, he crossed the pavement and went into the office, she meekly following. The wine-merchant was sent for, and presently he made his appearance.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Glover," old George Bethune said, with something of an air of quiet patronage, "I wish to order some claret from you."
The tall, bald, bland-looking person whom he addressed did not seem to receive this news with any joy; but the young lady was there, and he was bound to be courteous; so he asked Mr. Bethune to be kind enough to step into the back-premises where he could put some samples before him. Maisrie was for remaining where she stood; but her grandfather bade her come along; so she also went with them into the back portion of the establishment, where she was accommodated with a chair. At this table there were no illustrated books to which she could turn; there were only bottles, glasses, corkscrews, and a plateful of wine-biscuits; so that she kept her eyes fixed on the floor—and was forced to listen.
"Claret, Mr. Glover," said the old man, with a certain sententiousness and assumption of importance that he had not displayed in speaking to Lord Musselburgh, "claret was in former days the national drink of Scotland—owing to the close alliance with France, as you know—and the old Scotch families naturally preserve the tradition. So that you can hardly wonder if to one of the name of Bethune a sound claret is scarcely so much a luxury as a necessity. Why, sir, my ancestor, Maximilien de Bethune, duc de Sully, had the finest vineyards in the whole of France; and it was his privilege to furnish the royal table——"
"I hope he got paid," the bland wine-merchant said, with a bit of a laugh; but happening to glance towards the young girl sitting there, and perceiving that the pale and beautiful face had suddenly grown surcharged with colour, he, instantly, and with the greatest embarrassment, proceeded to stumble on—
"Oh, yes, of course," he said, hastily: "a great honour—naturally—the royal table—a great honour indeed—I quite understand—the duc de Sully, did you say?—oh, yes—a great statesman——"
"The greatest financier France has ever possessed," the old man said, grandly. "Though he was by profession a soldier, when he came to tackle the finances of the country, he paid off two hundred millions of livres—the whole of the king's debts, in fact—and filled the royal treasury. It is something to bear his name, surely; I confess I am proud of it; but our family goes far further back than the duc de Sully and the sixteenth century. Why, sir," he continued, in his stately manner, "when the royal Stewarts were known only by their office—Dapifer or Seneschallus they were called—the Beatons and Bethunes could boast of their territorial designation. In 1434, when Magister John Seneschallus, Provost of Methven, was appointed one of the Lords Auditors, it was Alexander de Beaton who administered the oath to him—the same Alexander de Beaton who, some two years thereafter, accompanied Margaret of Scotland to France, on her marriage with the Dauphin. Yes, sir, I confess I am proud to bear the name; and perhaps it is the more excusable that it is about the last of our possessions they have left us. Balloray——" He paused for a second. "Do you see that child?" he said, pointing with a trembling forefinger to his granddaughter. "If there were any right or justice, there sits the heiress of Balloray."
"It was a famous lawsuit in its time," the wine-merchant observed—but not looking in Maisrie's direction.