Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume III)

"No, of course not," said Vincent, in a soothing sort of way. "How could you expect it, with this illness? But these things will all come back. And I'm going to help you as much as I can. When I was in New York I heard your friend, Hugh Anstruther, deliver a speech about those living Scotch poets, and he seemed to be well acquainted with them; I will write to him for any information you may want. So now – now that is all settled; and I would try to rest for a while, if I were you: that is the main thing – the immediate thing."

But the old man went on without heeding him, muttering to himself, as it were:

"Chambers's Journal – perhaps as far back as thirty years since – there's one verse has rung in my ears all this time – but the rest is all blank – and the name of the writer forgotten, if it ever was published … ''Tis by Westray that she wanders … 'Tis by Westray that she strays … O waft me, Heavens, to Westray … in the spring of the young days!' … No, no, it cannot be Westray – Westray is too far north – Westray? – Yet it sounds right … ''Tis by Westray that she wanders … 'tis by Westray that she strays – '"

There was a tap at the door, and the doctor appeared: a little, old, white-haired man, of sharp and punctilious demeanour. Behind him was the landlady, hanging back somewhat as if it were for further instructions; so, she being there to help, Vincent thought he would go downstairs and seek out Maisrie. He found her in the little parlour – awaiting him.

"What do you think, Vincent?" she said, quickly.

"I haven't spoken to the doctor yet," he made answer. "Of course, everyone can see that your grandfather is very ill; but if courage will serve, who could have a better chance? And I will tell you this, Maisrie, he is likely to have more peace of mind now. He has been vexing himself about many things, as you guessed; and although he was wandering a good deal while I was with him – perhaps all the time – I could not quite make sure – still, it is wonderful how he has argued these matters out, and how clearly you can follow his meaning. It was about you and your future he was most troubled – in the event of anything happening to him; and he has not been afraid to look all possibilities in the face; he told me the doors of the domus exilis Plutonia had stood wide open before him, and I know he was not the one to be alarmed, for himself. But about you, Maisrie: do you know that he has given you over to me – if the worst comes to the worst? He asked me to provide a home for you: I told him it was already there, awaiting you. You see I have not forgotten what you said to me at Brighton; and I knew that some day you and I should find ourselves, as we now find ourselves, face to face – perhaps in sad circumstances, but all the more dependent on each other – "

"Do you think he is so very ill, Vincent?" she said: she seemed to have no thought of herself – only of her grandfather.

"You must see he is very ill, Maisrie – very," he answered her. "But, as I say, if splendid courage will serve, then you may hope for the best. And he ought to be quieter in mind now. We will hear what the doctor has to say – "

But at this moment there was an unwonted sound without in the still little village – the sound of carriage-wheels on the stony street; and presently some vehicle, itself unseen, was heard to stop in front of the inn. In another second or so, a servant-girl opened the door of the parlour and timidly said to Maisrie —

"Miss Bethune, Miss."

"Miss Bethune?" Maisrie repeated, wondering.

"From the Castle, Miss," the girl said, in awe-stricken tones.

And it was curious that at such a crisis Maisrie's eyes should turn instinctively to Vincent – as if to appeal for advice. Of course his decision was taken on the instant.

"Ask Miss Bethune to step this way, then," he said to the girl.

Maisrie rose – pale a little, but absolutely self-possessed. She did not know who this might be – perhaps the bearer of grave and harassing tidings for her grandfather; for she had grown to fear Balloray, and all its associations and belongings. As it turned out she had not much to fear from this emissary. There came into the room a tall and elegant lady of about thirty, not very pretty, but very gentle-looking, with kind grey eyes. For a brief second she seemed embarrassed on finding a third person present; but that passed directly; she went up to Maisrie, and took her hand and held it, and said, in a voice so sweet and winning that it went straight to the heart —

"Dr. Lenzie has told me of your trouble. I'm very, very sorry. Will you let me help you in any way that is possible? May I send to Edinburgh for a trained nurse to give you assistance; and in the meantime, if you wished it, I could send along my maid to do anything you wanted – "

Maisrie pressed her to be seated, and tried, in rather uncertain accents, to thank her for her exceeding kindness. For this stranger, with the greatest tact, made no apology for her intrusion; it was no case of the castle coming to the cottage, with acts of officious benevolence; it was simply one woman appealing to another woman to be allowed to help her in dire straits. Whether she knew that the old man upstairs claimed to be the rightful owner of Balloray, whether she knew that the beautiful pensive-eyed girl who was speaking to her had indirectly suffered through that legal decision of generations ago, Vincent could not at the moment guess: what was obvious was merely this womanly act of sympathy and charity, for which Maisrie Bethune showed herself abundantly grateful. When the doctor came down, this visitor with the friendly eyes and the soft voice explained that, just in case the patient should need brandy to keep up his strength, she had taken the liberty of bringing some with her – of good quality: the resources of the Balloray Arms being limited in that respect. As she said this she hesitatingly blushed a little; and Vincent thought she looked really beautiful. He recalled to himself his aunt, Lady Musselburgh; and wondered whether she, with all her fine presence and eloquent eyes, could look as nobly beautiful as this poor woman, who was rather plain.

The doctor's report was on the whole encouraging; the temperature of the patient was the least thing lower, and he was more equable in mind.

"He appears to have been greatly pleased by your visit, sir," the little doctor said, in a strong east-country accent, to the young man. "Very pleased indeed. And it is just wonderful how he can reason and explain; though I'm not so sure he'll be able to remember all he's been saying. But now, he tells me, all his dispositions are made; he is content; there is nothing more on his mind – except, as I gather, about some book."

"I know all about that," said Maisrie. "I can pacify him about that; and I'm going upstairs directly."

Of course she had to wait and see Miss Bethune and the doctor leave; then she turned to Vincent.

"Will you go out for a walk, Vincent? I have asked Mrs. MacGill to let you have some dinner at seven."

"Oh, don't you bother about me, Maisrie!" he said. "Can't I be of any use to you upstairs?"

"Not unless grandfather asks for you again – then I will send for you," she answered.

She was going away when he interrupted her for a moment.

"I will come up whenever you want me," he said; and then he added: "But – but – you know him so much better than I do, Maisrie. Do you think we should tell him of Miss Bethune having been here?"

"Oh, no, no, Vincent!" she said, in earnest remonstrance. "Nothing would excite him more terribly. You know he has already been talking of some message coming from Balloray to me – of the possibility of it – and this would set his brain working in a hundred different directions. He might think they were coming to take me away from him – perhaps to do me some harm – or he might imagine that I had humbled myself before them, to make friends with them, and that would trouble him more than anything else: you cannot tell what wild fancies might not get into his head. So there must not be a word said about Miss Bethune, Vincent."

"Of course you know best, Maisrie," said he. And still he did not let her go. What was he to say next, to detain her? It was so long since he had heard her voice! "When you go upstairs, Maisrie, I wish you would look at the book of ballads that is lying on the table. There are some lines marked – you will see a bit of paper to tell you the page. Do you know what that means? Your grandfather thought that he might not have strength enough left to speak to me when I came; and so this was to be a last message for me. Isn't it strange that in the face of so serious an illness he should be thinking about a ballad; but you know better than anyone that ballads are as real to your grandfather as the actual things around him. And I want you to look at that message. I have told your grandfather that he may depend on me."

She went upstairs; he passed out into the golden glow of the afternoon. It was not a beautiful village, this: plain, unlovely, melancholy in the last degree; moreover, his own mind was filled with dim and dark forebodings; so that a sort of gloom of death and separation seemed to hang over those houses. Nor was there anything to look at, for the distraction of thought. An English village would have had a picturesque old church and a pretty churchyard; here there was nothing but a small mission-house of the most dull and forbidding exterior, while, just beyond the last of the hovels, there was a cemetery – a mound enclosed by a stone wall. He went to the gate, and stood there a long time, with some curious fancies and imaginings coming into his head. He seemed to see an open grave there, and a small knot of people, himself the chief mourner. And then, after the simple and solemn ceremony, he saw himself leave the sad enclosure and go away back through the unlovely street, rather fearing what lay before him. For how was he to attempt to console the solitary girl awaiting him there in her despair and her tears? But behold now, if there were any charity and commiseration left in the world – if one, hitherto obdurate, would but consent to bury her enmity in that open grave they had left – as well she might, for there was no one to offend her now – and if she were to reach out a woman's hand to this lonely girl, and take her with her, and shelter her, until the time of her sorrow was over? This was a bleak, plain, commonplace sort of a burial ground into which he was gazing: but none the less had human hearts come away from it heavy and remorseful – remorseful when it was too late. And if some little atonement were to be offered in the way he had imagined – if it were the only thing now left? This girl, sitting alone there in her desperate grief – without kindred – without friends – without any home or habitation to turn her face to: surely her situation was of all things possible most forlorn – surely no woman's heart could resist that mute appeal for sympathy and association?

As he walked slowly and aimlessly back to the inn, he began to think he had been a little too hard on those relatives of his. Death, or even the menace of death, was a solvent of many things: it made all antagonisms, animosities, indignations appear so trivial and unworthy. He could not but remember that it was not through any selfishness those relatives of his had acted (unless some small trace of family ambition were a minor motive): what they had done they had done, as they imagined, to serve him; there might have been errors of judgment, but no ill-will on their part. And now, in this terrible crisis, if he were to write to Lady Musselburgh – write in all conciliation and kindness – and tell her how Maisrie Bethune was situated, would she not allow her heart to answer? She was a woman; she professed to be a Christian. And if the worst befel, or even if the worst were threatened, surely she would come at once to Scotland, and make what little amends were now within her power? How many homes had she – in London, Brighton, Mendover – how many friends, relations, well-wishers – as compared with this tragically lonely girl, who had nothing but the wide world around her, and no one offering her a sympathetic hand? He would write to his aunt a long and urgent letter – appealing to her own better nature – and asking to be allowed to summon her, by telegram, if there were need. He would even humble and abase himself – for Maisrie's sake.

But when he got back to the inn, he found that all these sombre prognostications were, happily, not immediately called for. On the contrary, Maisrie came running down to say that her grandfather had been asleep, or apparently asleep, and that, when he woke up, he seemed much refreshed, with his memory grown infinitely clearer. He was especially proud that he could remember the verses about Allander Water. He wanted Vincent to go up to him at once.

"And you must please him, Vincent," she said, breathlessly, "by promising to do everything to help him with the book. Promise whatever he wishes. But be sure you don't mention that Miss Bethune was here – don't say a word about that – or anything about Balloray."

CHAPTER IX
A BABBLE O' GREEN FIELDS: THE END

There was a wonderful vitality, especially of the brain, in this old man; after long periods of languor and exhaustion, with low moanings and mutterings quite unintelligible to the patient watchers, he would flame up into something like his former self, and his speech would become eager and voluble, and almost consecutive. It was in those intervals that he showed himself proud of his recovered memory: again and again they could hear him repeat the lines that for a time had baffled him —

 
'How sweet to roam by Allander, to breathe the balmy air,
When cloudless are the summer skies, and woods and fields are fair;
To see the skylark soaring high, and chanting on the wing,
While in yon woods near Calder Kirk the wild birds sweetly sing.'
 

He was busy with the new book – choosing and arranging; and Maisrie, as his amanuensis, jotted down memoranda as to the poets to be included, and the pieces most characteristic of them. For he was not to be pacified into silence and acquiescence – in these clearer moods. There was hurry, he said. Some one else might step in. And he cross-examined Vincent about the quotations that Hugh Anstruther had made at the Burns' Celebration in New York.

"I hardly remember," Vincent answered him. "There were a good many. But there was one piece I thought rather pathetic – I don't recall the name of it – but it was about a little pair of shoes – the mother thinking of her dead child."

"What? – what?" said the old man, quickly. "Not James Smith's? Not 'The Wee Pair o' Shoon'?"

"Well, yes, I think that was the title," said Vincent.

An anxious and troubled expression came into the sick man's eyes: he was labouring with his memory – and Maisrie saw it.

"Never mind, grandfather: never mind just now: if you want it, I'll write to Mr. Anstruther for it. See, I will put it down in the list; and I'll send for it; and it will be back here in plenty of time."

"But I know it quite well!" he said, fretfully, "The last verse anyway. 'The eastlin wind blaws cauld, Jamie – the snaw's on hill and plain – '" He repeated those two lines over and over again, with half-shut eyes; and then all at once he went on with the remainder —

 
"'The flowers that decked my lammie's grave
Are faded noo, an' gane!
O, dinna speak! I ken she dwells
In yon fair land aboon;
But sair's the sicht that blin's my e'e —
That wee, wee pair o' shoon.'"
 

There was a kind of proud look in his face as he finished.

"Yes, yes; it's a fine thing to have a good memory – and I owe that to my father – he said there never was a minute in the day that need be wasted – you could always repeat to yourself a verse of the Psalms of David. I think the first word of approval – I ever got from him – ye see, Maisrie, we were brought up under strict government in those days – was when I repeated the CXIX. Psalm – the whole twenty-two parts – with hardly a mistake. And what a talisman to carry about with ye – on the deck of a steamer – on Lake Ontario – in the night – with the stars overhead – then the XLVI. Psalm comes into your mind – you are back in Scotland – you see the small church, and the boxed-in pews – the men and women standing up to sing – the men all in black – I wonder if they have Ballerma in the Scotch churches now – and Drumclog– and New St. Ann's– "

He shut his eyes – those unnaturally brilliant eyes – for a second or so; but the next second they were open and alert again.

"The book, Maisrie – the book – are you getting on? – no delay – no delay – in case someone should interfere. Ye've got Shairp in, haven't ye? – the burn of Quair – up yonder – above the Minch Moor —

 
'I heard the cushies croon,
Through the gowden afternoon,
And Quair burn singin' doon to the vale o' Tweed.'
 

Well do I know the very spot where he must have written those verses. Yes, yes; well I remember it," he continued, more absently. "But I have had my last look. I will see it no more – no more. You, Maisrie, you will go there – your young husband will take you there – "

"Grandfather, we will all go there together!" said Maisrie, piteously.

"And both of you," the old man went on, paying no attention to her, for he was apparently gazing at some distant thing, "both of you are young, and light of step – and light of heart, which is still better – well, well, my lass, perhaps not so light of heart as might be at your years – but all that will change for you – and I think when you are up at the burn of Quair – you will find it – in your mind – to cross the Minch Moor to Yarrow Water. Newark Castle you will see – then you will turn to go down the Yarrow Vale – but not with any sad heart, Maisrie – I forbid ye that – it's a beautiful place, Yarrow, though it had its tragedies and sorrows in the olden time – and you – you are young – you have life before you – and I tell ye it is with a light and glad heart you must go down the Yarrow Vale. Why, lass, you'll come to Mount Benger – you'll come to Dryhope Tower – you'll come to Altrive – and St. Mary's Loch – and the Loch o' the Lows – and Chapel-hope – but mind ye now – if it's bad weather – ye're not to come running away, and altogether mistaking the place – ye'll just stop somewhere in the neighbourhood until it clears." And then he added, in a wistful kind of way: "I once had thoughts – of taking ye there myself, Maisrie."

"And so you will, grandfather!" she pleaded.

"No more – no more," he said, as if not heeding her. "And why should a young life be clouded? – the two of them – they'll be fine company for each other – when they're wandering – along by the side of Yarrow Water." But here he recalled himself; and would have Maisrie sit down again to that list; in order that the book might be pushed rapidly forward.

It was on this same evening that Dr. Lenzie, on arriving to pay his accustomed visit, went into the little parlour and sent for Vincent. Vincent came downstairs.

"Do ye see that?" said he, holding out a book that was in his hand.

Vincent took the volume from him and glanced at the title – Recent and Living Scottish Poets, by A. G. Murdoch. He was not in the least astonished – but he was angry and indignant.

"Very well," said he, "what of it? Do you mean to say you are going to vex an old man, who may be on his death-bed, by bringing charges of plagiarism against him? I dare say Mr. Bethune never saw the book, or, if he has seen it, he has forgotten it."

"I perceive ye do not understand," said the little doctor, without taking offence. "When I came to know what undertaking it was that Mr. Bethune had on his mind, I made sure I had either seen or heard of some such collection; and I sent to Edinburgh; and here it is, just arrived. Now the one thing he seems anxious about, the one that troubles him, is getting on with this work; and it occurred to me that if I could show him there was a similar book already published, he might cease fretting – "

"Cease fretting!" Vincent exclaimed, with a stare of astonishment. And then he hesitated. "Well, you are an older man than I, and you have more experience in these cases; but I should have said that a cruel disappointment such as this is sure to cause would distress his mind beyond measure. He must occupy himself with something; his brain is incessantly working; and so long as he is talking of getting out his book, he is at least looking forward with hope. But if you show him this volume, it will be a crushing blow; the very thing he seems to live for will be taken from him; he will feel injured by being anticipated, and brood over it. Of course I have no right to speak; I am not a relative; but ask his granddaughter – she knows him better than any one – "

"Perhaps you are right – perhaps you are right," said the little doctor. "It was merely an idea of mine – thinking it would quiet him. But on reflection I will not risk it; it may be better not to risk it."

"In that case," Vincent struck in, promptly, "will you let me tie up the book in paper, and will you take it away with you when you go? I mean, that I don't wish Miss Bethune to see it. She has plenty to think of at present: don't worry her with a trifling matter like this. It is of no consequence to her, or to any human being, how many collections of Scotch poems may be published – the more the merrier – so long as readers can be found for them; but she is anxious and nervous and tired at present – and it might surprise her, perhaps vex her, to find that this volume had been published."

"Oh, certainly, certainly," the doctor said, taking the failure of his ingenuous little scheme with much equanimity. "I will put the book into that sideboard drawer until I come down; and then I can take it away with me without her or any one having seen it."

The next day brought Vincent an unexpected and welcome surprise. He had been out-of-doors for a brief breathing-space, and was returning to the inn, when he saw in the distance, coming down the Cupar road, a waggonette and pair. He seemed somehow to recognise the two figures seated in the carriage; looked again; at last made certain – they were Lord and Lady Musselburgh. Of course, in such circumstances, when they drove up to the door of the inn, there was no great joyfulness of greeting; only a few customary questions, and professions of hope for the best; but at the same time, Vincent, who was touched by this friendly act, could not help saying —

"Well, this is like you, aunt."

"Oh, your letter was too much for me, Vin," she said, with frank good nature. "I did not wait for the telegram – I trust there will be no need to telegraph for anybody. But I don't want you to give me any credit. I want to appear as I am; and I've always told you I'm a selfish woman – the generous creature is Hubert here, who insisted on coming all this distance with me. And now I want you to understand the full extent of my selfishness. You are doing no good here – of course. You are probably in the way. But all your affairs in London will be compromised if you remain here: – 's private secretary cannot be absent at such a time – "

"There's St. John!" Vincent exclaimed, referring to his colleague in the office that had been put in commission.

"He's not in the House," rejoined this practical and very charming person; "and the short and the long of it is that you must get back to London at once. That is part of my scheme; the other is, that I shall take your place. I shall be of more use. You say there is no immediate danger. So much the better. Go away back to your post. If anything should happen – I could be of more service than you. What could you do? Miss Bethune could not return to London with you – and go into lodgings of your choosing. I will look after her – if she will allow me – if she will let bygones be bygones. I will ask her pardon, or do anything; but I don't suppose she is thinking of that at present. You go back with Hubert and leave me here. I can shift for myself."

"I think it is a sensible arrangement," her husband said, idly looking around at the rather shabby furniture.

"It is very kind of you, aunt," Vincent said – "and very far from being selfish. But it is impossible. I must remain here. I have duties here as well as elsewhere – perhaps more important in my own sight. But – but – now that you are here – "

"Oh, yes, I'll stay," said she good-naturedly. "Well, Hubert, it is you who are packed off: I suppose you can return to Edinburgh to-night. I brought a few things with me, Vincent, in case I should be wanted: will you fetch them in from the waggonette? Still, I wish I could persuade you to go back to London!"

And in this manner it was that Lady Musselburgh became installed in the inn, making some little excuses to Maisrie. She and her husband had been in the neighbourhood. They had heard of Mr. Bethune's serious illness, and of Vincent's having come down from town. Could she be of any help? And so forth. Maisrie thanked her, of course; but did not take much notice of her; the girl just then having many things in her mind. For her grandfather's delirium was at times more pronounced now; and in these paroxysms she alone could soothe him.

Lady Musselburgh, indeed, rather hung back from entering the sick-room, without stating her reasons to anyone. On every occasion that she saw Maisrie she was most kind and considerate, and solicitous about the girl herself; but she betrayed no great concern about the old man, further than by making the usual enquiries. When Vincent suggested to her that, if she did not go into the room and see Mr. Bethune, his granddaughter might think it strange, she said in reply —

"But he won't remember me, Vin. We never met but at Henley."

"He remembers everything that ever happened to him," was the answer. "His memory is wonderful. And perhaps – afterwards – you may wish you had said a civil word or two."

"Oh, very well," she said. "Whatever you think right. Will you come with me now?"

She seemed a little apprehensive – she did not say why. They went upstairs together. The door of the sick-room was open. Maisrie, when she perceived this visitor, rose from her seat by the bedside; but Lady Musselburgh motioned her to keep her place, while she remained standing in the middle of the room, waiting to see if Mr. Bethune would take any notice of her. But his eyes were turned away; and he was muttering to himself almost inaudibly – they could only catch a word here and there – Galashiels – Torwoodlee – Selkirk – Jedburgh – no doubt he was going over in his own mind those scenes of his youth. Then Maisrie said, very gently —

"Grandfather!"

He turned his eyes, and they rested on the stranger for a second or so, with a curiously puzzled expression. She went forward to the bedside.

"I'm afraid you don't remember me," said she, diffidently. "It was at Henley we met – "

"I remember you very well, madam, very well indeed," said he, receiving her with a sort of old-fashioned and ceremonious politeness – as far as the wasted frame and poor wandering wits would allow. "I am sorry – to have to welcome you – to so poor a house – these are altered conditions truly – " He was still looking curiously at her. "Yes, yes, I remember you well, madam – and – and I will not fail to send you my monograph on the – the Beatons of the Western Isles – I will not fail to send it – but if ye will forgive me – my memory is so treacherous – will you forgive me, madam, if your name has escaped me for the moment – "

"This is Lady Musselburgh, grandfather," Maisrie interposed, quietly.

"Musselburgh – Musselburgh," he said; and then he went on, amid the pauses of his laborious breathing: "Ah, yes – your husband, madam, is a fine young man – and a good Scot – audacious, intrepid, and gallant – perhaps a little cynical in public affairs – great measures want earnest convictions – it may be that his lot has fallen in over-pleasant places – and he has chosen the easier path. Well, why not? – why not? There are some whose fate it is to – to fight a hard fight; while others – others find nothing but smoothness and peace – let them thank Heaven for it – and enjoy it. I hope he will hold on his way with a noble cheerfulness – despising the envy of enemies – a noble cheerfulness – I hope it may be his always – indeed, I know none deserving of better fortune."

It was now abundantly clear to Lady Musselburgh that he did not in any way associate her with the arrangement that had been effected by George Morris; and she was much relieved.

"I mustn't disturb you any longer," said she. "Indeed, I only came along to see if I could be of any assistance to Miss Bethune. I hear she has been doing far too much. Now that is very unwise; for when you are getting better, and need constant care, then she will find herself quite worn out."

"Yes, yes, that is right," said he, "I wish ye would persuade her – take her in hand – make her look after herself – but she has a will of her own, the creature – a slim bit of a lass, ye might think – but it's the spirit that endures – shining clear – clearer and clearer in dark times of trouble. And she – she has had her own troubles – and suffering – but never a word of complaining – obedient – willing – ready at all times and seasons – loyal – dutiful – and brave. What more could I say of her? – what more? Sometimes I have thought to myself – there was the – the courage of a man in that slim bit creature – and the gentleness of all womankind as well – "

"Grandfather," said Maisrie, "you mustn't talk any more now – you are keeping Lady Musselburgh waiting."

"But, madam," he continued, not heeding the girl at all, "you must remember her descent – she comes of an inflexible race – she is of pure blood – it is the thoroughbred that holds on till its heart breaks in two. How could she help being proud-spirited, and silent in endurance, and brave? Perhaps you may know that it was of one of her ancestors – as he lay in his grave – that some one said – 'There lies one who never feared the face of man,' – a noble inscription for a tombstone – 'who never feared the face of man' – "