Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume I)

CHAPTER I.

THE WANDERERS

On a certain sunny afternoon in May, when all the world and his wife were walking or driving in Piccadilly, two figures appeared there who clearly did not belong to the fashionable crowd. Indeed, so unusual was their aspect that many a swift glance, shot from carefully impassive faces, made furtive scrutiny of them as they passed. One of the strangers was an old man who might have been a venerable Scandinavian scald come to life again – a man thick-set and broad-shouldered, with features at once aquiline and massive, and with flowing hair and beard almost silver-white. From under his deeply lined forehead and shaggy eyebrows gleamed a pair of eyes that were alert and confident as with the audacity of youth; and the heavy white moustache and beard did not quite conceal the cheerful firmness of the mouth. For the rest, he wore above his ordinary attire a plaid of shepherd's tartan, the ends loosely thrown over his shoulders.

By his side there walked a young girl of about seventeen, whose singular, if somewhat pensive and delicate beauty, could not but have struck any passer-by who happened to catch sight of her. But she rarely raised her eyes from the pavement. What was obvious to every one was, first of all, the elegance of her walk – which was merely the natural expression of a perfectly moulded form; and then the glory of her hair, which hung free and unrestrained down her back, and no doubt added to the youthfulness of her look. As to the colour of those splendid masses – well, it was neither flaxen, nor golden, nor brown, nor golden-brown, but apparently a mixture of all these shades, altering in tone here and there according to sunshine or shadow, but always showing a soft and graduated sheen rather than any definite lustre. Her face, as has been said, was mostly downcast; and one could only see that the refined and sensitive features were pale; also that there was a touch of sun-tan over her complexion, that spoke of travel. But when, by inadvertence, or by some forced overcoming of her native diffidence, she did raise her eyes, there flashed a revelation upon the world; for these blue-grey deeps seemed to hold light; a mild-shining light, timid, mysterious, appealing almost; the unconsciousness of childhood no longer there, the self-possession of womanhood not yet come: then those beautiful, limpid, pathetic eyes, thus tremblingly glancing out for a second, would be withdrawn, and again the dark lashes would veil the mystic, deep-shining wells. This was Maisrie Bethune; the old man beside her was her grandfather.

The young girl seemed rather to linger behind as her companion went up the steps towards a certain door and rang the bell; and her eyes were still downcast as she followed him across the hall and into an ante-room. When the footman came back with the message that his lordship was disengaged and would see Mr. Bethune, and when he was about to show the way upstairs, the girl hung back, and said, with almost a piteous look —

"I will stay here, grandfather."

"Not at all," the old man answered, impatiently. "Not at all. Come along!"

There were two persons in this large and lofty room on the first floor; but just as the visitors arrived at the landing, one of these withdrew and went and stood at a front window, where he could look down into the street. The other – a youngish-looking man, with clear eyes and a pleasant smile – remained to receive his guests; and if he could not help a little glance of surprise – perhaps at the unusual costume of his chief visitor, or perhaps because he had not expected the young lady – there was at all events nothing but good-nature in his face.

"My granddaughter, Maisrie, Lord Musselburgh," the old man said, by way of introduction, or explanation.

The young nobleman begged her to be seated; she merely thanked him, and moved away a little distance, to a table on which were some illustrated books; so that the two men were left free to talk as they chose.

"Well now, that seems a very admirable project of yours, Mr. Bethune," Lord Musselburgh said, in his frank and off-hand way. "There's plenty of Scotch blood in my own veins, as you know; and I am glad of any good turn that can be done to poor old Scotland. I see you are not ashamed of the national garb."

"You remember what was said on a famous occasion," the old man made answer, speaking methodically and emphatically, and with a strong northern accent, "and I will own that I hoped your lordship's heart would 'warm to the tartan.' For it is a considerable undertaking, after all. The men are scattered; and their verses are scattered; but, scattered or no scattered, there is everywhere and always in them the same sentiment – the sentiment of loyalty and gratitude and admiration for the land of the hills and the glens. And surely, as your lordship says, it is doing a good turn to poor old Scotland to show the world that wherever her sons may be – in Canada, in Florida, out on the plains, or along the Californian coast – they do not forget the mother that bore them – no, but that they are proud of her, and think always of her, and regard her with an undying affection and devotion."

He was warming to his work. There was a vibration in his voice, as he proceeded to repeat the lines —

"Is that by one of your Scotch-American friends?" Lord Musselburgh asked, with a smile; for he was looking curiously, and not without a certain sympathetic interest, at this old man.

"I do not know, your lordship; at the moment I could not tell you," was the answer. "But this I do know, that a man may be none the less a good Canadian or American citizen because of his love for the heather hills that nourished his infancy, and inspired his earliest imagination. He does not complain of the country that has given him shelter, nor of the people who have welcomed him and made him one of themselves. He only says with Crichton's emigrant shepherd —

– 'twined' is severed: perhaps your lordship is not so familiar with the dialect —

Good men they are and true," he went on, in the same exalted strain; "valued and respected citizens – none more so; but cut their hearts open, and you will find Scotland written in every fibre. It is through no ingratitude to their adopted country that a spray of white heather, a few bluebells, a gowan or two, anything sent across the seas to them to remind them of the land of their birth, will bring hot tears to their eyes. As one of them has written —

"You have an excellent memory," Lord Musselburgh said, good-naturedly. "Those patriotic effusions seem to have impressed you."

"That was written by the Bard of Amulree, your lordship," continued the garrulous old man; "and a truer Scotchman does not breathe, though America has been his home nearly all his life. And there is many another, both in Canada and the United States. They may be in happier circumstances than they would have been in the old country; they may have plenty of friends around them: but still their hearts turn back to

Nor are they ashamed of their Scottish way of speech – ye may observe, my lord, that I've kept a twang of it myself, even among all my wanderings; and loth would I be to lose it. But I'm wearying your lordship," the old man said, in a suddenly altered tone. "I would just say that a collection of what the Scotch poets in America have written ought to be interesting to Scotchmen everywhere, and perhaps to others as well; for patriotism is a virtue that commands respect. I beg your pardon for encroaching on your lordship's time – "

"Oh, that's nothing," Lord Musselburgh said, easily; "but we must not keep the young lady waiting." He glanced in the direction of the girl who was standing by the table. She was turning over the leaves of a book. Then he resumed the conversation – but in a much lower key.

"I quite understand, Mr. Bethune," he said, so that she should not overhear, "what you wrote to me – that the bringing out of such a volume will require time, and expense. And – and you must allow me to join in, in the only way I can. Now what sum – ?"

He hesitated. Mr. Bethune said —

"Whatever your lordship pleases."

The young man went into the front portion of the long apartment (where his friend was still discreetly standing behind the window curtains) and opened a despatch-box and sat down. He drew out a cheque for £50, enclosed it in an envelope, and, coming back, slipped it into the old man's hands.

"I hope that will help; and I shall be glad to hear of the progress of the work."

"I thank your lordship," Mr. Bethune said, without any obsequiousness, or profusion of gratitude.

And then he turned to his granddaughter.

"Maisrie!"

The girl came away at once. She bowed to Lord Musselburgh in passing, without lifting her eyes. He, however, put out his hand, and said "Good-bye!" Nay, more than that, although he had previously rang the bell, he accompanied them both downstairs, and stood at the door while a four-wheeled cab was being called for them. Then, when they had left, he returned to the room above, and called lightly to his friend who was still standing at the window:

"Ready, Vin? Come along, then! Did you hear the old man and his poetry? – a harmless old maniac, I think. Well, let's be off to Victoria; we'll get down to the Bungalow in time for a good hour's lawn-tennis before dinner."

Meanwhile old George Bethune and his granddaughter were being driven away eastward in the cab; and he was chatting gaily to her, with the air of one who had been successful in some enterprise. He had doffed his Scotch plaid; and, what is more, he had also abandoned the Scotch accent in which he had addressed 'his loardship.' It was to be a great book, this collection of Scotch-American poetry. It would enable him to pay a well-deserved compliment to many an old friend of his in Toronto, in Montreal, in New York. He was warm in his praises of this young Lord Musselburgh; and predicted a great future for him. Then he put his head out of the window and bade the driver stop – opposite the door of a wine-merchant's office.

"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 —Dapiferor 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.

"It killed my father, and made me a wanderer on the face of the earth," the old man said; and then he raised his head bravely. "Well, no matter; they cannot rob me of my name; and I am Bethune of Balloray – whoever has the wide lands."

Now perhaps there still dwelt in the breast of the suave-looking wine-merchant some remorse of conscience over the remark that had caused this pale and sensitive-looking young creature to flush with conscious shame; at all events he had quite abandoned the somewhat grudging coldness with which he had first received his customer; and when various samples of claret had been brought from the cellar and placed on the table, it was the more expensive that he frankly and fully recommended. Nay, he was almost pressing. And again he called to his assistant, and bade him fetch a particular bottle of champagne; and when that was opened, he himself poured out a glass and offered it to the young lady, with a biscuit or two, and seemed concerned and distressed when she thanked him and declined. The end of this interview was that old George Bethune ordered a considerable quantity of claret; and carried away with him, for immediate use, a case of twelve bottles, which was put into the four-wheeled cab.

Park Street, Mayfair, occupies a prominent position in the fashionable quarter of London; but from it, at intervals, run one or two smaller thoroughfares – sometimes ending in stables – the dwellings in which are of a quite modest and unpretentious appearance. It was to one of these smaller thoroughfares that George Bethune and his granddaughter now drove; and when they had entered the quiet little house, and ascended to the first floor, they found that dinner was laid on the table, for the evening was now well advanced. When they were ready, the frugal banquet was also ready; and the old man, seated at the head of the table, with Maisrie on his right, soon grew eloquent about the virtues of the bottle of claret which he had just opened. The girl – who did not take any wine – seemed hardly to hear. She was more thoughtful even than usual – perhaps, indeed, there was a trace of sadness in the delicate, pensive features. When the fresh-coloured servant-lass brought in the things, and happened to remain in the room for a second or two, Maisrie made some pretence of answering her grandfather; then, when they were left alone again, she relapsed into silence, and let him ramble on as he pleased. And he was in a satisfied and garrulous mood. The evening was fine and warm – the window behind them they had left open. He approved of the lodging-house cookery; he emphatically praised the claret, with the conviction of one who knew. Dinner, in fact, was half way over before the girl, looking up with her beautiful, clear, limpid eyes – beautiful although they were so strangely wistful – ventured to say anything.

"Grandfather," she asked, with obvious hesitation, "did – did Lord Musselburgh – give you – something towards the publication of that book?"

"Why, yes, yes, yes, certainly," the old man said, with much cheerfulness. "Certainly. Something substantial too. Why not?"

The hot blood was in her face again – and her eyes downcast.

"Grandfather," she said, in the same low voice, "when will you set about writing the book?"

"Ah, well," he made answer, evasively, but with perfect good humour, "it is a matter to be thought over. Indeed, I heard in New York of a similar volume being got together; but I may be first in the field after all. There is no immediate hurry. A thing of that kind must be thought over and considered. And indeed, my dear, I cannot go back to America at present; for my first and foremost intention is that you should begin to learn something of your native country. You must become familiar with the hills and the moorlands, with the roaring mountain-torrents, and the lonely islands amid the grey seas. For of what account is the accident of your birth? Omaha cannot claim you. There is Scotch blood in your veins, Maisrie – the oldest in the land; and you must see Dunfermline town, where the King sate 'drinking the blood-red wine'; and you must see Stirling Castle, and Edinburgh, and Holyrood, and Melrose Abbey. Nebraska has no claim over you – you, a Bethune of Balloray. And you have some Highland blood in your veins too, my dear; for if the Grants who intermarried with the Bethunes were not of the northern Grants whose proud motto is 'Stand fast, Craigellachie!' none the less is Craig-Royston wild and Highland enough, as I hope to show you some day. And Lowland or Highland, Maisrie, you must wear the snood when you go north; a young Scotch lass should wear the snood; yes, yes, the bit of blue ribbon will look well in your hair. Melrose," he rambled on, as he filled his glass again, "and Maxwellton Braes; Yarrow's Banks; and fair Kirkconnel Lea: a storied country: romance, pathos, tragic and deathless music conjured up at every footstep. Instead of the St. Lawrence, you shall have the murmur of the Tweed: instead of Brooklyn – the song-haunted shores of Colonsay! But there is one place that with my will you shall never visit – no, not while there are strangers and aliens there. You may wander all over Scotland – north, south, east, and west – but never, never while I am alive, must you ask to see 'the bonny mill-dams o' Balloray.'"

She knew what he meant; she did not speak. But presently – perhaps to draw away his thoughts from that terrible law-suit which had had such disastrous consequences for him and his – she said —

"I hope, grandfather, you won't think of remaining in this country on my account. Perhaps it is better to read about those beautiful places, and to dream about them, than to see them – you remember 'Yarrow Unvisited.' And indeed, grandfather, if you are collecting materials for that book, why should we not go back at once? It would be dreadful if – if – the other volume were to come out first – and you indebted to Lord Musselburgh, or any one else; but if yours were written and published – if you could show them you had done what you undertook to do, then it would be all perfectly right. For you know, grandfather," she continued, in a gently persuasive and winning voice, "no one could do it as well as you! Who else has such a knowledge of Scotland and Scottish literature, or such a sympathy with Scottish music and poetry? And then your personal acquaintance with many of those writers – who used to welcome you as one of themselves – who else could have that? You could do it better than any one, grandfather; and you have always said you would like to do something for the sake of Scotland; and here is the very thing ready to your hand. Some other time, grandfather," she pleaded, with those beautiful clear eyes turned beseechingly upon him, "some other time you will take me to all those beautiful places. It is not as if I had come back home; I have hardly ever had a home anywhere; I am as well content in Montreal or Toronto as anywhere else. And then you could get all the assistance you might need over there – you could go to your various friends in the newspaper offices, and they would give you information."

"Yes, yes; well, well," he said, peevishly; "I am not a literary hack, to be driven, Maisrie. I must have my own time. I made no promise. There, now, get me my pipe; and bring your violin; and play some of those Scotch airs. Yes, yes; you can get at the feeling of them; and that comes to you through your blood, Maisrie – no matter where you happen to be born."

Twilight had fallen. At the open window, with a long clay pipe, as yet unlit, in his fingers, old George Bethune sate and stared out into the semi-darkness, where all was quiet now, for the carriages from the neighbouring mews had long ago been driven away to dinner-parties and operas and theatres. And in the silence, in the dusky part of the room, there arose a low sound, a tender-breathing sound of most exquisite pathos, that seemed to say, as well as any instrument might say —

Most tenderly she played, and slowly; and with an absolute simplicity of tone.

"There's Scotch blood in your veins, Maisrie – Scotch blood," he said, approvingly, as the low-vibrating notes ceased.

And then again in the darkness another plaintive wail arose – it was the Flowers o' the Forest this time – and here the old man joined in, singing in a sort of undertone, and with a sufficiently sympathetic voice:

"Yes, yes," he said, as he rose and came away from the window, "it is the Scotch blood that tingles, it is the Scotch heart that throbs. 'Yestreen, when to the trembling strings, the dance gaed through the lichted ha' – ' Who but a Scotchman could have written that? Well, now, Maisrie, we'll have the gas; and you can get out the spirits; and we'll try some of the livelier airs. There's plenty of them, too, as befits a daring and energetic people – a nation of fighters. They were not always bewailing their losses in the field." And therewith the old man, pacing up and down before the empty fire-place, began to sing, with upright head and gallant voice —