"DEAR SIR,
"I hope you will be so kind as to consider the contents of this note as strictly private and confidential. In a recent conversation with Lord Musselburgh he informed me that it was you who had given a letter of introduction to him to Mr. George Bethune; and from Mr. Bethune himself I learn that he, Mr. Bethune, is about to bring out a volume on the Scottish poets in America, as soon as he can conveniently get the materials together. But to this end it would appear that he must revisit the United States and Canada, to obtain particulars of the lives of the various poets and verse-writers, and perhaps, also, examples of their work. Now I wish to ask you, as a friend of Mr. Bethune's, whether all this fatigue and travel might not be spared him, supposing there were some person or persons in this country willing to defray the cost of having those materials collected for him. To speak plainly, do you, sir, know of any writer, connected with the press or otherwise, who would undertake, for a sufficient consideration, to bring together biographical memoranda of the authors in question, along with specimens of their work, which could be sent over here to Mr. Bethune, for him to put into shape and issue in book-form? Mr. Bethune, as you know, is an old man, who must surely have had enough of travelling; moreover he has in mind a leisurely ramble through Scotland which, while also leading to literary results, would involve much less fatigue than a voyage to the United States and Canada. I should be greatly obliged if you would tell me whether you consider it practicable to collect those materials by deputy; also, if you know of anyone capable of undertaking the task; and what remuneration he would probably require. I beg you to forgive me, a stranger, for thus appealing to you; but I know you will not grudge a little trouble for the sake of a friend and a fellow Scotchman.
"Yours faithfully and obediently,
"VINCENT HARRIS."
After sending off that letter the young man's spirits lightened considerably; he saw there was still a chance that Maisrie Bethune, her grandfather, and himself might together set out on that coveted perambulation of the legend-haunted districts of the North. And now he and they had returned to their ordinary mode of life—which perhaps pleased him better than the ostentatious festivities of Henley. Here was no staring crowd, here were no suspicious friends, to break in upon their close and constant companionship. He rejoiced in this isolation; he wished for no fourth person at the quiet little dinners in the restaurants; he had no desire that anyone should share the privacy of the hushed small parlour where old George Bethune loftily discoursed of poetry and philosophy, of ancient customs and modern manners, and where Maisrie played pathetic Scotch airs on the violin, or sang in her low clear voice of le pont d'Avignon or perhaps of Marianson, dame jolie. Moreover, he could not fail to perceive, and that with an ever-increasing delight, that her old expression of sad and wistful resignation was gradually being banished from her eyes; and not only that, but a quite fresh colour was come into her cheeks, so that the pale sun-tinge was less perceptible. Perhaps it was the companionship of one nearer to her own age that had made a difference in her life; at all events much of her former shyness was gone; she met his look frankly, sometimes with a touch of gratitude, sometimes with simple gladness, as if his mere presence was something that pleased her. When she was watering the flowers in the little balcony, and caught sight of him over the way, she nodded and smiled: he wondered whether it was that faint-sun-tinge of the complexion that made her teeth seem so clearly white. He began to forget those dreams of a wide intervening sea: this present existence was so peaceable, and contented, and happy. And in spite of Maisrie's injunction, those dreams of Scotland would recur: he saw three newly-arrived strangers walking along Princes Street, Edinburgh, in the silver glare of the morning; and the middle one of the three—looking away up to the dusky shadows of the Castle rock—was no other than Maisrie Bethune herself, with light and gladness shining in her eyes.
And what had old George Bethune to say to this constant association and this fast friendship between the two young people? Well, old George Bethune had an admirable capacity for enjoying the present moment; and so long as the dinner was fairly cooked and the claret to his taste, so long as he had a small and faithful audience to listen to his rhapsodies about Scottish song and Scottish heroism, and so long as Maisrie's violin was in tune and her hand as sensitive as ever on the trembling strings, he did not seem to pay much heed to the future. Perhaps it was but natural that one who had wandered so far and wide should welcome a little peace at last; and perhaps he intentionally blinded his eyes; at all events the young people were allowed the utmost freedom of companionship—it was as if these three formed but one family.
One night, as Vincent was about to leave, the old gentleman said to him—
"About to-morrow evening: I presume we dine at Mentavisti's?"
"Oh, yes, certainly: we've tried a good many places, and we can't do better than Mentavisti's," the young man answered—as if it mattered one brass farthing to him what sort of dinner there was, or where he got it, so long as Maisrie was at the same table!
"Ah, very well. For this is how I am situated," said Mr. Bethune, gravely and grandly as befitted the seriousness of the theme. "I have an appointment in Jermyn-street at six o'clock. I may be detained. Now I can undertake to be at Mentavisti's Restaurant at seven—and when the dinner-hour is once fixed, to play shilly-shally with it seems to me abominable—but I am not so sure that I shall have time to return home first. It will be better, therefore, and everyway safer, for Maisrie to come down by herself in a cab—"