Read the book: «Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume III)», page 9

"I wonder who it was who made a stranger of me!" he interposed – but quite impassively.

"I can only say, again and again, that it was done for the best, Vin!" she answered him. "The mistake I made was in letting you know. But I took it for granted that as soon as you were told that those people had accepted money from us to go away – "

"Those people? What people?" he demanded, with a sterner air.

"Oh, I meant only Mr. Bethune himself," said she, hastily. "Oh, yes, certainly, only him; there were no negotiations with any one else."

"Negotiations!" he said, with a touch of scorn. "Well, perhaps you can tell me what those negotiations were? How long did Mr. Bethune undertake to remain out of this country?"

"Three years, Vin," said she, timidly regarding him.

"Three years?" he repeated, in an absent way.

"But there is no reason," she added quickly, "why he should not return at any moment if he wishes: so I understand: of course, I did not make the arrangement – but I believe that is so."

"Return at any moment?" he said, slowly. "Do you mean to tell me that you put £5,000 into that old man's hands, on condition he should leave the country for three years, and that all the same you left him free to return at any moment?"

"Of course he would forfeit the money," said she, rather nervously.

"But how could he forfeit the money if he already has it? He has got the money: you showed me the receipt. Come, aunt," said he, in quite a different tone, "Let us be a little more honest and above-board. Shall I tell you how I read the whole situation? You can contradict me if I am wrong. But that receipt you showed me: wasn't it produced for merely theatrical purposes? Wasn't it meant to crush and overwhelm me as a piece of evidence? The money wasn't handed over like that, was it? Supposing I were to conjecture that somebody representing you or representing my father has still got control over that money; and that it is to be paid in instalments as it is earned – by absence? Well isn't that so?"

He fixed his eyes on her; she hesitated – and was a little confused.

"I tell you, Vin," she said, "I had personally nothing to do with making the arrangement; all that was left in George Morris's hands; and of course he would take whatever precautions he thought necessary. And why should you talk about theatrical purposes? I really did think that when I could show you Mr. Bethune was ready to take money from strangers to go away from England you would change your opinion of him. But apparently, in your eyes, he can do no wrong. He is not to be judged by ordinary rules and standards. Everything is to be twisted about on his behalf, and forgiven, or even admired. Nobody else is allowed such latitude of construction; and everything is granted to him – because he is George Bethune. But I don't think it is quite fair: or that you should take sides against your own family."

This was an adroit stroke, following upon a very clever attempt to extricate herself from an embarrassing position; but his thoughts were otherwise occupied.

"I should like you to tell me," said he, "if you can, what moral wrong was involved in Mr. Bethune consenting to accept that money. Where was the harm – or the ignominy? Do you think I cannot guess at the representations and inducements put before him, to get him to stay abroad for three years? Why, I could almost tell you, word for word, what was said to him! Here was an arrangement that would be of incalculable benefit to everybody concerned. He would be healing up family dissensions. He would be guarding his granddaughter from a marriage that could only bring her disappointment and humiliation. Three years of absence and forgetfulness would put an end to all those projects. And then, of course, you could not ask him to throw up his literary engagements and incur the expense of travel, without some compensation. Here is a sum of £5,000, which will afford him some kind of security, in view of this disturbance of his engagements. A receipt? oh, yes, a receipt, if necessary! But then, again, on second thoughts, wouldn't it only be prudent to lodge this £5,000 with some third person, some man of position whom all could trust, and who would send it in instalments, to avoid the risk of carrying so large a sum about with one? There might be a little harmless condition or two attached, moreover. You undertake, for example, that the young people shall not have communication with each other; you say your granddaughter will do as you wish in all things. Very well, take her away: disappear, both of you; you are doing us an immense kindness, and you are acting in the best interests of all concerned. Never mind a little misery here or there, or the risk of a broken heart; we can afford to pay for such things; we can afford to have the moulds of a dessert service destroyed – and a little matter of £5,000 is not much, when we have plans… And so those two go out into the world again." He paused for a second. "Well, aunt, you've had your way; and there's no more to be said, except this, perhaps, that you don't seem to realise the greatest of all the mistakes you have made. Your three years, even if they should be three years of absence, will not be years of forgetfulness on either Maisrie Bethune's part or mine. Oh, no; nothing of the kind; don't cherish any illusions on that score. It happened curiously that just before they left Brighton she and I had a little talk over one or two things; and she asked me for a promise, which I gave her, and which I mean to keep."

Well, the handsome lad now standing before her had a great hold on her affection; and she even admired, in a covert way, this very bigotry of constancy and unswerving faith of his, so that for an instant her head swam, and she was on the point of crying out 'Vincent – Vincent – go and bring her to me – and I will take her to my heart – for your sake!' But the next moment she had recovered from that mad impulse: she saw that what had been done was not to be undone in that happy-go-lucky fashion, even if it could be undone at all; and she was silent and embarrassed. It was he who spoke.

"Well, you must excuse me, aunt; I've to be down at the House by question time."

"You're not going like that, Vin!" she exclaimed.

"What do you want of me?" he asked in a coldly civil way.

"I – I – want you to be as you once were, to all of us," she cried, rather incoherently. "I want you to go back to Grosvenor Place; and to accept the allowance your father has made you ever since you came of age; and to resume the old bygone relations with us. Surely it might be possible, with a little consideration on both sides. What we have done was done entirely out of thoughtfulness for you; and if we have made a mistake – we are only human beings! And remember, it is quite possible that you may be mistaken too, Vin; you may be mistaken just as much as we – and – and – "

"What you propose, aunt," said he (for time was precious with him) "even if it were practicable, would only be temporary. I am looking forward to marrying Maisrie Bethune – in spite of your three years of forgetfulness! – and when that happens, your patched-up state of affairs would all come to bits again. So what is the use of professing a sort of sham reconciliation? I have no wish to return to Grosvenor Place. I have taken some rooms at the foot of Buckingham-street; and I have a key that lets me through by the Embankment Gardens into Villiers-street; it will be convenient for getting to the House. And I can tide along pretty well without any allowance from my father; in fact, I'm saving a little money in a quiet way – "

"But at what a cost, Vincent – at what a cost!" she protested. "I wish you could see how worn and ill you are looking —

"Well, I've had some things to think of lately – thanks to my kind relatives!" said he. "But really I must be off – "

"Vincent," she said, making one last despairing effort to bring things back to their former footing, "when are you going to ask Louie Drexel and me to dine with you at the House?"

"I'm so busy, aunt, just now," said he, as he opened the door for her. Then he saw her into her carriage; and she drove away – a most perplexed and unhappy woman.

These rooms that Vincent had taken at the foot of Buckingham-street were right up at the top of the building; and commanded a spacious prospect of the river, the Embankment gardens, the bridges, the great dusky world of London lying all around, and the dome of St. Paul's rising dim and phantasmal in the east. They were bachelor chambers, that had doubtless seen many tenants (the name of one, George Brand, was still over the door, and Vincent did not think it worth while to change it), but the young man had no sooner entered into possession than he began a series of alterations and improvements that bachelor chambers did not seem to demand. Not in any hurry, however; nor perhaps with any fixed intent; it was a kind of amusement for this or that odd half-hour he could snatch from his multifarious duties. To begin with, he had the woodwork painted a deep Indian red, and the walls a pearly-blue grey: while the former colour was repeated in the Japanese window-curtains, and the latter by the great world outside, on the lambent moonlight nights, or sometimes in the awakening of the dawn, as he lay in a low easy-chair, and watched the vast, silent city coming out of its sleep. This top-floor was a very still place, except for the early chattering of the tree-sparrows, into whose nests, swaying on the branches just beneath him, he could have tossed a biscuit. And then his peregrinations through London, rapid though they were as a rule, occasionally brought him face-to-face with a bric-a-brac shop; and from time to time he picked up one thing or another, just as it happened to strike his fancy. Perhaps these modest purchases were just a trifle too elegant for a bachelor's apartments; the sitting-room away up in that lofty situation came to look rather like a boudoir; for example, there was a music-stand in rosewood and ormulu – a tall stand it was, as if for a violin player – which he himself never used. Pictures he could not afford; but books he could; and the volumes which were one by one added to those shelves were of a more graceful and literary stamp than you would have expected to find in the library of a young and busy member of Parliament. It was not a lordly palace of art, this humble suite of apartments in the neighbourhood of the Strand; but there was a prevailing air of selection and good taste; perhaps, one ought to say, of expectancy, also, in the presence of things not yet in use. Then the two large and low windows of the sitting-room were all surrounded with ivy, of long training; but besides that, there were flower-boxes; and at a moment's notice, and at small expense, these could be filled with potted geraniums, if one wished to be gay. And always outside was the varied panorama of the mighty city; the wide river and the bridges, the spires and the towers, the far masses of buildings becoming more and more spectral as they receded into the grey and wavering mist. Sometimes the rose and saffron of the dawn were there, ascending with a soft suffusion behind the purple dome of St. Paul's; sometimes there were blown and breezy days, with flying showers and watery gleams of sunlight; and sometimes the night lay blue and still and clear, the Surrey side in black and mysterious shadow, the white moon high in the south. These silent altitudes were a fine place for dreaming, after all the toil and moil of the working-hours were over; and a fine place for listening, too; sometimes, towards the morning, just as the leaves began to stir, you could fancy the wind was bringing a message with it – it seemed, coming from far away, to say something about Claire Fontaine.

CHAPTER VIII
IN A NORTHERN VILLAGE

But there were to be no three years of absence, still less of forgetfulness. One afternoon, on Vincent's going down to the House, he found a telegram along with his letters. He opened it mechanically, little thinking; but the next moment his eyes were staring with amazement. For these were the words he saw before him: – "Grandfather very ill; would like to see you. Maisrie Bethune, Crossmains, by Cupar." Then through his bewilderment there flashed the sudden thought: why, the lands of Balloray were up in that Fifeshire region! – had, then, the old man, tired of his world-wanderings, and feeling this illness coming upon him, had he at length crept home to die, perhaps as a final protest? And Maisrie was alone there, among strangers, with this weight of trouble fallen upon her. Why could not these intervening hours, and the long night, and the great distance, be at once annihilated? – he saw Maisrie waiting for him, with piteous eyes and outstretched hands.

He never could afterwards recall with any accuracy how he passed those hours: it all seemed a dream. And a dream it seemed next day, when he found himself in a dogcart, driving through a placid and smiling country, with the sweet summer air blowing all around him. He talked to the driver, to free his mind from anxious and futile forecasts. Crossmains, he was informed, was a small place. There was but the one inn in it – the Balloray Arms. Most likely, if two strangers were to arrive on a visit, they would put up at the inn; but very few people did go through – perhaps an occasional commercial traveller.

"And where is Balloray House – or Balloray Castle?" was the next question.

"Just in there, sir," said the man, with a jerk of his whip towards the woods past which they were driving.

And of course it was with a great interest and curiosity that Vincent looked out for this place of which he had heard so much. At present nothing could be seen but the high stone wall that surrounds so many Scotch estates; and, branching over that, a magnificent row of beeches; but by and bye they came to a clearing in the "policies"; and all at once the Castle appeared in sight – a tall, rectangular building, with a battlemented parapet and corner turrets, perched on a spacious and lofty plateau. It looked more modern than he had imagined to himself; but perhaps it had been recently renovated. From the flag-staff overtopping the highest of the turrets a flag idly dropped and swung in the blue of the summer sky: no doubt the proprietor was at home – in proud possession; while the old man who considered himself the rightful owner of the place was lying, perhaps stricken unto death, in some adjacent cottage or village inn. Then the woods closed round again; and the mansion of Balloray was lost from view.

Vincent was not in search of the picturesque, or he might have been disappointed with this village of Crossmains – which consisted of but one long and wide thoroughfare, bordered on each hand with a row of bare and mean-looking cottages and insignificant houses. When they drove up to the inn, he did not notice that it was a small, two-storied, drab-hued building of the most common-place appearance; that was not what he was thinking of at all; his heart was beating high with emotion – what wonder might not meet his eager gaze at any instant? And indeed he had hardly entered the little stone passage when Maisrie appeared before him; she had heard the vehicle arrive, and had quickly come down-stairs; and now she stood quite speechless – her trembling, warm hands clasped in his, her face upturned to him, her beautiful sad eyes all dimmed with tears, and yet having a kind of joy in them, too, and pride. She could not say a single word: he would have to understand that she was grateful to him for his instant response to her appeal. And perhaps there was more than gratitude; she seemed to hunger to look at him – for she had not seen him for so long a while: perhaps she had never thought to see him again.

"Have you any better news, Maisrie?" said he.

She turned and led the way into a little parlour.

"Yes," said she (and the sound of her voice startled him: the Maisrie of his many dreams, sleeping and waking, had been all so silent!). "Grandfather is rather better. I think he is asleep now – or almost asleep. It is a fever – a nervous fever – and he has been so exhausted – and often delirious; but he is quieter now – rest is everything – "

"Maisrie," he said again (in his bewilderment) "it is a wonderful thing to hear you speak! I can hardly believe it. Where have you been all this while? Why did you go away from me?"

"I went because grandfather wished it," said she. "I will tell you some other time. He is anxious to see you. He has been fretting about so many things; and he will not confide in me – not entirely – I can see that there is concealment. And Vincent," she went on, with her appealing eyes fixed on him, "don't speak to him about Craig-Royston! – and don't let him speak about it. When he got ill in Cairo, it was more home-sickness than anything else, as I think; and he said he wanted to go and die in his own country and among his own people; and so we began to come to Scotland by slow stages. And now that we are here, there is no one whom he knows; he is quite as much alone here as he was in Egypt; far more alone than we used to be in Canada. I fancy he expects that a message may come for me from Balloray – that I am to go there and be received; and of course that is quite impossible; I do not know them, they do not know me; I don't suppose they are even aware that we are living in this place. But if he is disappointed in that, it is Craig-Royston he will think of next – he will want to go there to seek out relatives on my account. Well, Vincent, about Craig-Royston – "

She hesitated; and the pale and beautiful face became suffused with a sort of piteous embarrassment.

"But I understand, Maisrie, quite well!" said he, boldly. "Why should you be troubled about that? You have found out there is no such place? – but I could have told you so long ago! There was a district so-named at one time; and that is quite enough for your grandfather; a picturesque name takes his fancy, and he brings it into his own life. Where is the harm of that? There may have been Grants living there at one time – and they may have intermarried with the Bethunes: anyhow your grandfather has talked himself into believing there was such a relationship; and even if it is a delusion, what injury does it do to any human creature? Why," he went on, quite cheerfully, to reassure her and give her comfort, "I am perfectly aware that no Scotch family ever had 'Stand Fast, Craig-Royston!' as its motto. But if the phrase caught your grandfather's ear, why should not he choose it for his motto? Every motto has been chosen by some one at some one time. And then, if he thereafter came to persuade himself that this motto had been worn by his family, or by some branch of his family, what harm is there in that? It is only a fancy – it is an innocent delusion – it injures no one – "

"Yes, but, Vincent," she said – for these heroic excuses did not touch the immediate point – "grandfather is quite convinced about the Grants of Craig-Royston; and he will be going away in search of them, so that I may find relatives and shelter. And the disappointment will be terrible. For he has got into a habit of fretting that never was usual with him. He has fits of distrusting himself, too, and begins to worry about having done this or done that; and you know how unlike that is to his old courage, when he never doubted for a moment but that everything he had done was done for the best. And to think that he should vex himself by imagining he had not acted well by me – when he has given his whole life to me, as long as I can remember – "

"Maisrie," said he, "when your grandfather gets well, and able to leave this place, where are you going?"

"How can I say?" she made answer, wistfully enough.

"For I do not mean to let you disappear again. No, no. I shall not let you out of my sight again. Do you know that I have a house waiting for you, Maisrie?"

"For me?" she said, looking up surprised.

"For whom else, do you imagine? And rather pretty the rooms are, I think. I have got a stand for your music, Maisrie: that will be handier for you than putting it on the table before you."

She shook her head, sadly.

"My place is with my grandfather, Vincent," she said. "And now I will go and see how he is. He wished to know as soon as possible of your arrival."

She left the room and was absent only for a couple of minutes.

"Yes; will you come upstairs, Vincent?" she said on her return. "I'm afraid you will find him much changed. And sometimes he wanders a little in his talking; you must try to keep him as quiet as may be."

As they entered the room, an elderly Scotchwoman – most probably the landlady – who had been sitting there, rose and came out. Vincent went forward. Despite Maisrie's warning he was startled to notice the ravages the fever had wrought; but if the proud and fine features were pinched and worn, the eyes were singularly bright – bright and furtive at the same time. And at sight of his visitor, old George Bethune made a desperate effort to assume his usual gallant air.

"Ha?" said he – though his laboured breathing made this affectation of gaiety a somewhat pitiable thing – "the young legislator – fresh from the senate – the listening senate, the applause of multitudes – "

He turned his restless eyes on Maisrie; and said in quite an altered tone —

"Go away, girl, go away!"

Well, Maisrie's nerves were all unstrung by anxiety and watching; and here was her lover just arrived, to listen to her being so cruelly and sharply rebuked; and so, after a moment of indecision, she lost her self-control, she flung herself on her knees by the side of the bed, and burst out crying.

"Don't speak to me like that, grandfather," she sobbed, "don't speak to me like that!"

"Well, well, well," said he, in an altered tone, "I did not mean to hurt you. No, no, Maisrie; you're a good lass – a good lass – none better in the whole kingdom of Scotland. I was not thinking – I beg your pardon, my dear – I beg your pardon."

She rose, and kissed his hand, and left the room. Then old George Bethune turned to his visitor, and began to talk to him in a curiously rapid way – rapid and disconnected and confused – while the brilliant eyes were all the time fixed anxiously on the young man.

"Yes, I am glad you have come – I have been sorely perplexed," he said, in his husky and hurried fashion; " – perhaps, when one is ill, confidence in one's own judgment gives way a little – and it is not – every one whom you can consult. But that is not the main thing – not the main thing at all – a question of money is a minor thing – but yesterday – I think it was yesterday – my voice seemed to be going from me – and I thought – I would leave you a message. The book there – bring it – "

He looked towards a red volume that was lying on the window-sill. Vincent went and fetched it; though even as he did so, he thought it strange that a man who was perhaps lying on his deathbed should bother about a book of ballads. But when, he might have asked himself, had George Bethune ever seemed to realise the relative importance of the things around him? To him a harebell brought from the Braes of Gleniffer was of more value than a king's crown.

"Open at the mark," said the sick man, eagerly. "See if you understand – without much said – to her, I mean. Poor lass – poor lass – I caught her crying once or twice – while we were away – and I have been asking myself whether – whether it was all done for the best." Then he seemed to pull himself together a little. "Yes, yes, it was done for the best – what appeared best for every one; but now – well, now it may be judged differently – I am not what I was – I hope I – have done no wrong."

Vincent turned to the marked page; and there he found a verse of one of the ballads pencilled round, with the last line underscored. This is what he read:

 
He turned his face unto the wa',
And death was with him dealing;
"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a' —
Be kind to Barbara Allen!"
 

The old man was watching him anxiously and intently.

"Yes, I understand," Vincent said. "And I think you may depend on me."

"Then there is another thing," the old man continued – his mind leaping from one point to another with marvellous quickness, though he himself seemed so languid and frail. "I – I wish to have all things left in order. If the summons – comes – I must be able to meet it – with head up – fear never possessed me during life. But who has not made mistakes – who has not made mistakes? – not understood at the time. And yet perhaps it was not a mistake – I am not the man I was – I have doubts – I thought I was doing well by all – but now – I am uneasy – questions come to me in the night-time – and I have not my old strength – I cannot cast them behind me as in better days."

He glanced towards the door.

"Keep Maisrie out," said he. "Poor lass – poor lass – I thought I was doing well for her – but when I found her crying – Take care she does not come back for a minute or two – "

"She won't come until you send for her," Vincent interposed.

"Then I must make haste – and you must listen. The money – that I was persuaded to take from your family – that must be paid back – to the last farthing; and it will not be difficult – oh, no, not difficult – not much of it has been used – Bevan and Morris will tell you – Bevan and Morris, Pall Mall, London. And indeed I meant to do what I promised – when I went away – but when I got ill – I could not bear the idea of being buried out of Scotland – I was like the Swiss soldier – in the trenches – who heard the Alphorn – something arose in my breast – and Maisrie, she was always a biddable lass – she was just as willing to come away. But the money – well, is there one who knows me who does not know how I have scorned that – that delight of the ignoble and base-born? – and yet this is different – this must be paid back – for Maisrie's sake – every farthing – to your family. She must be no beggar – in their eyes. And you must not tell her anything – I trust you – if I can trust you to take care of her I can trust you in smaller things – so take a pencil now – quick – when I remember it – and write down his address – Daniel Thompson – "

"Of Toronto?" said Vincent. "I know him."

At this moment George Bethune turned his head a little on one side, and wearily closed his eyes. Vincent, assuming that he now wished for rest – that perhaps he might even have sunk into sleep, which was the all-important thing for him – thought it an opportune moment to retire; and on tiptoe made for the door. But even that noiseless movement was sufficient to arouse those abnormally sensitive faculties; those restless eyes held him again.

"No – no – do not go," the old man said, in the same half-incoherent, eager fashion. "I must have all put in order – Daniel Thompson – banker – Toronto – he will make all that straight with your family. For Maisrie's sake – and more than that he would do for her – and be proud and glad to do it too. He will be her friend – and you – well, I leave her to you – you must provide a house for her."

"It is ready," said Vincent.

"She will make a good wife – she will stand firm by the man she marries – she has courage – and a loyal heart. Perhaps – perhaps I should have seen to it before – perhaps you should have had your way at Brighton – and she – well, she was so willing to go – that deceived me. And there must be laughing now for her – it is natural for a young lass to be glad and merry – not any more weeping – she is in her own land. Why," said he, and his eyes burned still more brightly, and his speech became more inconsecutive, though always hurried and panting. "I remember a story – a story that a servant lass used to tell me when I was a child – I used to go into the kitchen – when she was making the bread – it was a story about a fine young man called Eagle – he had been carried away to an eagle's nest when he was an infant – and his sweetheart was called Angel. Well, I do not remember all the adventures – I have been thinking sometimes that they must have been of Eastern origin – Eastern origin – yes – the baker who tried to burn him in an oven – the Arabian Nights – but no matter – at the end he found his sweetheart – and there was a splendid wedding. And just as they were married, a white dove flew right down the middle of the church, and called aloud 'Kurroo, kurroo; Eagle has got his Angel now!' I used to imagine I could see them at the altar – and the white dove flying down the church —

"Don't you think you should try to get a little rest now?" Vincent said, persuasively. "You have arranged everything – all is put in order. But what we want is for you to get rest and quiet, until this illness leaves you, and you grow strong and well again."

"Yes, yes," said the old man, quickly, "that is quite right – that is so – for I must pay off Thompson, you know, I must pay off Thompson. Thompson is a good fellow – and an honest Scot – but he used to talk a little. Let him do this – for Maisrie's sake – afterwards – afterwards – when I am well and strong again – I will square up accounts with him. Oh, yes, very easily," he continued; and now he began to whisper in a mysterious manner. "Listen, now – I have a little scheme in mind – not a word to anybody – there might be some one quick to snatch it up. It is a volume I have in mind – a volume on the living poets of Scotland – think of that, now – a splendid subject, surely! – the voice of the people – everyday sorrows and joys – the minstrelsy of a whole race. There was the American book – but something went wrong – I did not blame any one – and I was glad it was published – Carmichael let me review it – yes, yes, there may be a chance for me yet – I may do something yet – for auld Scotland's sake! I have been looking into the domus exilis Plutonia– the doors have been wide open – but still there may be a chance – there is some fire still burning within. But my memory is not what it was," he went on, in a confused, perplexed way. "I once had a good memory – an excellent memory – but now things escape me. Yesterday – I think it was yesterday – I could not tell whether Bob Tennant was still with us – and his verses to Allander Water have all gone from me – all but a phrase – 'How sweet to roam by Allander' – 'How sweet to roam by Allander' – no, my head is not so clear as it ought to be – "