Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1890-08-24

anu GuteFcO, anu NCuE lQIo tQe Ollll8Tu
room, where cigars and soda water and
similar things had been set ont in readiness
for them; and here Lord Musselburgh,
lying back in q csne-bottomed chair, pro-
ceeded to talk In q less random fashion
about this project Of his, until he had
almost persuaded bis companion that there
was something reasonable and practicable
in it If only it could be properly initiated.
Anyhow" said be to his guest, as they
were both retiring for the night "it is some
big movement like that, Vim, my lad. that
you want to get identified with, if your aim
is to make a position in English public life.
You have advantages You can speak well.
You will have plenty of money. You are
beginning with the proletarist-that Is lay
ing foundation Of popularity. You have
youth and heaps of strength on your side.
Then Grandson is known to be your friend.
What more?"
What more, indeedl The future seemed
to smile on this young man; and il his
dreams, waking or sleeping, had been of
great achievements and public triumphs,
who could have wondered2 But curiously
enough, just at this time, the forecasts that
came to him in moments of quiet were apt
TO be somber. He dreaded he hardly knew
what And these vague forebodings of the
day took a more definite shape in the far
reaching visions of the night; for again and
again there REQUIRED to him that phantasmal
picture that had suddenly startled him
when old George Bethure was talking of
the possibilities that might be lying
in store for his granddaughter. Vim Harris
had never seen Balloray-did not know
where it was in fact; but night after night
he beheld with strange distinctness the
big baronial building, and the black frs,
and the gate with the otter's head in stone.
Had that been ALL But as regularly
there came forth the tall young girl
with the long flowing hair; and be was
poor wanderer, covering away from recog-
milton; and again she would ride by, along
the white road, until she was lost in the
dappled sun and shadow under the beeches
Then there was a song somewkere-perhaps
it was the trembling leaves that whispered
the reirain-but it was all about separation,
and loneliness, and the sadness of remem-
brance ana of loss. "Chante, rossignol,
chante, toi qui as le ceur gai"-this was
what be heard, or seemed to hear, away in
that distant land, where he had been lett
alone. y al perdu ma maitresse, sans
Pavoir merite" 1t was strange that no
birds sang in these woods, that no lark hung
quivering in those skies; all was silence
save for that continuous murmur of fare
well. "Lui va longtemps que ie |
t'sime, jsmais je ne t'oublierai." And |
sometimes the murmur rose into a larger |
monotone; the big gray building and the |
black frs, and the highway, and the beeches, |
disappeared; and behold in their stead was |
q great breadth of sea, desolate and rain |
swept, and void of all sign OF life. And was |
this the barrier now between him and her? |
Then the gray dawn would come; and be |
would awake TO the knowledge that he had |
been tortured by mere phantasies; and vet |
these lie something in his mind, even dur
ing the actual and practical daylight hours.
He began to wish that there was some bond
-ot what nature he had not determined
for ii was all vague longing and wIstul
desire-that could so bind Maisrie and him
together that that great width of sea should
not intervene. For it was a sorrowful kind
of thing-even when the white hours of the
daylight told him he had only seen it in
dream.
But apart from all these dim anxieties
and this haunting unrest, came the strictly
matter-of-fact consideration that within an
appreciable time old George Bethune and
his granddaughter would be returning to
the United States. That was no spectral
ocean that would then lie between Maisrie
and him, but 3, 600 miles of the Atlantic;
and who could tell when the two wanderers
might ever see England again? Nay, had
not he himself been implored to help in
bringing about this separation? Maisrie
had begged of him to urge upon her grand
father the necessity OF getting the American
book done first, before setting out on the
poetic pilgrimage through Scotland which
was to yield lruit OF another kind; and, of
course, ii the old man consented, the first
step to be taken was a voyage to New York.
Vincent had drawn many q fancy picture of
little group of three, wandering away
through the rich-hued autumn davs, BY
''lone St Mary's silent lake" or by the
banks o. the silver Tweed; but now all that
was to be sacrificed; and be himself was to
do what he could toward sending the oid
man back to America and Maisrie
with him. Then there would be no
more OF the long, quiet days of
study, made happy by anticipations
of the evening; no more of the pleasant
little dinners in this or that restaurant; no
more of those wonderful twilights in the
little parlor, with their enchaDtments of
music and happy converse. London, with |
Maisrie Bethune 5000 miles away; that
would be strange thing-that be could
even now hardly imagine to himself.
Nay, it was thing that he looked for
ward to with such an unreasoning dread
and dismay that he began to construct all
sorts OF mad schemes for defeating any such
possibility; and at last he hit upon one that |
seemed more or less practicable, while it {
would In the meantime virtually absolve
him from his promise to Maisrie. On the
morning after the meeting of ihe Mendover {
Liberal Association, the two young men |
were returning to town by train; and Vim {
cent said to his companion
"You we're telling me the other night of J
the Scotch newspaper man whom you got {
to know in New York; what did you say his
name WASP" {
"Oh. you mean Hugh Anstruther? I hope
I spoke no i'll of him; for an enthusiastic t
patriotism such as his is really something 4
to admire in these days. A capital fellow, (
Hugh; until fell across him in New York
did not know that 1 had one virtue
all the other virtues, and that
was simply my being a brother Scot n
wv hat did you say was the name Of the 8
paper he edits?'
''The Western Scotsman" s
"And it was he who gave Mr.. Bethune q q
etter OF Introduction to you?" O
But here Musselburgh's manner instantly r
,hanged; he had been answering these cues '
ions in a careless way, looking out OF the Q
,arriage window most of the time; now he '
urned to his companion, and regarded him c
With some scrutiny. Q
"Why do you ask, VIM" he said. "Do i
7ou want to find out something further I
bout the old man?"
Vincent's forehead flushed; and his ewes S
yloomed dark. '
Il do not. be made answer, in distinct c
ones. 81 thank goodness my nature is not a
% suspicious 1t seems to me extraordinary v
hat two human beings who have done moth. o
ng In the world to deserve it should be re- O
Iarded by constant mistrust and doubt. 8
Why? Do you suspect everybody else in | f