Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume II)

"No," old George Bethune was saying – and with considerable animation, for he appeared to have been looking over some of the ballads during the day, and his mind was still fired by the recollection of them, "I think they are beyond the reach of illustration, even if there should be an édition de luxe. I have considered your suggestion more than once; but I fear the drawing would in almost every instance be an anticlimax to the power and simplicity and pathos of the printed page. No picture could be as vivid and clear and striking as the verses themselves: why, just think of such lines as these —

''Tis not the frost that freezes fell,Nor blowing snaw's inclemencie;'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,But my love's heart grown cauld to me.When we came in by Glasgow town,We were a comely sight to see;My love was clad i' the black velvet,And I myself in cramoisie.'

What picture could better that? What picture could do anything but weaken it? You remember in 'Edom o' Gordon' how the young maiden is lowered from the burning tower only to be slain by Edom o' Gordon's spear —

'They row'd her in a pair o' sheets,And tow'd her owre the wa';But on the point o' Gordon's spearShe gat a deadly fa'.O bonnie, bonnie was her mouth,And cherry were her cheeks,And clear, clear was her yellow hair,Whereon the red blood dreeps.Then wi' his spear he turned her owre;O but her face was wan!He said, "Ye are the first that e'erI wish'd alive again."He turned her owre and owre again,O but her skin was white!"I might hae spared that bonnie faceTo hae been some man's delight."Busk and boun, my merry men a',For ill dooms I do guess; —I cannot look on that bonnie faceAs it lies on the grass,"' —

What illustration could improve on that? – why, it burns clear as flame! Then, again, take the girl who was drowned by her sister in 'the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray' – "

At this point the silent and neglected Maisrie suddenly looked up – glancing from her grandfather to the young man in a curiously appealing way. She seemed to say 'Grandfather, you forget: it is not Balloray, it is Binnorie;' and again 'Vincent, he has forgotten: that is all.' But neither of them took any notice of her; nay, the younger man, in his insensate indignation and disappointment, would not look her way at all; while old George Bethune, with his mind fixed on those imaginary pictures, went on in a rapt fashion to repeat certain of the verses —

"Ye couldna see her yellow hair,Balloray, O Balloray,For gowd and pearls that were sae rare,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.Ye couldna see her middle sma',Balloray, O Balloray,Her gowden girdle was sae braw,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.Ye couldna see her lily feet,Balloray, O Balloray,Her gowden fringes were sae deep,By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.'Sair will they be, whae'er they be,Balloray, O Balloray,The hearts that live to weep for thee!'By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray!"

"It is like a picture by one of the pre-Raphaelites," Vincent said; and then the old man proceeded to talk of paper and type and binding, as if the new work were just ready for press.

But silence was not to reign for ever between those two. On their way home Mr. Bethune was talking of "The Demon Lover," of its alleged Italian origin, and of a suggestion he had seen somewhere that it was no forsaken sweetheart who had come to tempt the wedded wife, but a fiend adopting that disguise. When they reached the little parlour he began to search about for the volume in which "The Demon Lover" was thus treated; but could not find it; whereupon he went off upstairs, to see if it was not among his books and papers there. As soon as he had gone, Maisrie rose and came over to where the young man was standing by the fireplace.

"What have I done, Vincent?" she said.

"Oh, nothing," he made answer, avoiding her eyes.

"I have a right to know," she said, proudly.

"It is nothing," said he. "I – I made a mistake; that is all."

She looked at him in mute reproach: then she turned away, and went back to her seat. There was a paper-knife on the table beside her; she took that into her hands, and began to finger it; her eyes were downcast; he was free to go now, when he chose.

But he did not go. On the contrary, after a second or two of vacillation, he followed her.

"Maisrie," said he, in a very different tone, "perhaps it's all a mistake on my part. If so, I am sorry. I don't want to vex you —

"I don't want to vex you, Vincent," said she, in a somewhat low voice. "Tell me what it is."

"Well," said he, "I came here this afternoon thinking – hoping – there might be some more definite understanding between you and me: yes, I was hoping for much – and then – and then I found you quite careless and thoughtless, just as if nothing at all had happened last night – "

"Last night?" she repeated.

"Yes," said he, rather reproachfully. "Don't you remember what happened last night? Don't you know that you pressed my hand to your heart? But perhaps that was nothing – perhaps that meant nothing at all – "

"It meant a very great deal, Vincent," said she, warmly, looking up at him with honest eyes. "We were talking of the value of true friends – and I could not say much – yet I wished to tell you what I thought of all your goodness and kindness. Indeed, indeed it meant a great deal, Vincent – and I hoped you would understand – "

"I have understood too much," said he, and he was silent for a second. Then he went on. "I thought you had something more than that to say to me, Maisrie. For why need I tell you what you must have guessed already? You know I love you; you must have seen it all this time; there was no need for me to speak. And when the future has but the one hope for me, that some day or other you should be my wife, then perhaps I was too eager to believe it had all come true – that you were giving me a promise in that quiet way – and no need of a spoken word between us. But I was mistaken, I see. You only meant friendship. You only wanted to say 'Thank you!' to a friend – "

But by this time she had risen from her chair; and there was in her eyes the strangest look of pride, and joy, and perhaps, too, of sadness.

"Do you know what you are saying, Vincent?" she said, quite gently. "You – of all people in the world – "

She hesitated: she regarded, with admiring, and grateful, and affectionate eyes, this handsome lad on whom fortune had shed all good things – and perhaps she could not quite confess all she thought.

"You – of all people in the world – every one making much of you – every one hoping such great things of you – and you come seeking a wife here." She glanced round at the shabby little apartment. Then she turned her eyes towards him again; and there was a smile in them, of an unstable kind; and tears were gathering in the lashes. "Well," she said, "it will be something for me to think of. It will be something for me to be proud of. There can be no harm in that. I shall be able to say to myself 'Vincent thought so well of you that he once asked you to be his wife' – "

"But I don't know what you mean, Maisrie!" he exclaimed, and in spite of her he seized her hand and held it tight between his two. "What do you mean? You are going to be my wife! Oh, I don't want you to make rash promises; I don't want to frighten you; no, I want you to be of good heart, and you will see things will turn out all right in the end. And if you don't know your own mind yet – if you are afraid to say anything – won't you let me guess? Surely we have not been all this time together, and seeing so much of each other, without getting to know each other pretty intimately? And if I did make a mistake last night – well, that is a trifling matter – and I was too presumptuous – "

She managed to release her hand.

"Sit down, Vincent, and let me talk to you," she said. "Perhaps I may not have another chance; and I do not wish you ever to look back and say I was ungrateful, or unreasonable, or cold-hearted. Cold-hearted? – not that – not that – towards you!" And then she went on in rather a sad way, "I think the time has about come that we should part. It has been a pleasant companionship: I am not likely ever to forget it. But your future is so important, and ours so uncertain, that I am sure the sooner we go separate ways the better. And I am anxious to make a change now. I think if my grandfather and I went away somewhere where we could live more cheaply – where there would be fewer temptations towards the spending of money – I could do something to support him, and leave him the luxury of his books. I am a woman now – I want to work – "

"You work? Not while I can!" he said, hotly.

She went on without heeding him.

"That is why I have been glad to see him so eager about this book of ballads. If he could only get rid of all indebtedness, to friends and others, through this book, then we should start clear; and I should ask him not to fret any more about his literary schemes. He is an old man. He has done everything for me: why should I not do something for him now? And I have no pride. The story about those Scotch estates was always a kind of fairy tale to me; I never had any real belief in the possibility of their coming to us; I was never a fine lady even in imagination. So that it matters little to me what I turn my hand to; if what little education I have had is useless, I would take to something else; I would work about a farm-house as soon as anything – for I am a great deal stronger than you may imagine – "

"Oh, what are you talking about, Maisrie!" he said, with simulated anger. "If you think I am going to allow any such folly, you are mistaken. There are plenty of dairymaids in the world without you. And I have the right to say something – I claim the right: I am going to interfere, whether you like it or not. When you speak of your duty towards your grandfather, that I understand. He has been everything to you: who would ask you to forsake him? But, as you say, he is an old man. If anything were to happen to him, think of your own position. You have hardly a friend in the world – a few acquaintances in Canada, perhaps – but what is that? You will want some one to protect you: give me that right! If I let you go from me now, how am I to find you again? – how am I to know what may happen? Maisrie, have courage! – be frank! – tell me that the little message of last night meant something more!"

The eloquence was not in the words, but in the vibrating tones of his voice; and there were tears in her eyes as she answered —

"Vincent, I cannot – I dare not! You don't know how grandfather and I are situated: you are so generous, so open-minded, that – that you see everything in so favourable a light; but then other people might step in —

"Between you and me? Who?" he demanded, with set lips.

"Ah," she said, with a sigh, "who can tell? And besides – besides – do you not think I am as proud of you as any one? – do you not think I am looking forward to all that is expected of you? – and when I hear of you as this or that, I will say to myself 'I knew what Vincent was going to do; and now he is glad that he did not hamper himself out of – out of pity – for a friendless girl' – "

But here she broke down altogether, and covered her face with her hands, and sobbed without possibility of concealment. He was by her side in a moment; he laid his hand on the down-bent head – on the soft hair.

"Maisrie," he said, with the utmost gentleness, "don't make me angry. If you have anything to say why you cannot, or will not, be my wife, tell me; but do not be unreasonable and foolish. You speak of my future: it is nothing to me without you. You talk of the expectations of my friends: I tell you that my life is my own. And why should you be any drag or hamper – you! I wish you would think of yourself a little: not of me. Surely there is something better in the world than ambition, and figuring before the public in newspapers." Then he stopped for a second or two; and resumed in a lower and different tone. "Of course, if you refuse me your love, that is different. That I can understand. I have done nothing to deserve it: I have come to you as a beggar. If you refuse me that, there is nothing more to be said. I do not blame you. If I have made a mistake, so much the worse for me – "

She rose.

"Vincent," she said, between her half-stifled sobs, "you are not very kind. But it is better so – much better. Now I must go and help grandfather to find that book. And as this is to be the last word – well, then – dear friend – don't be so ungenerous to me when in after years you look back – "

But he was not likely to let her go like that. He interposed between her and the door; nay, he drew her towards him, and took her head between his hands, and pushed back the hair from her brow, as though he would read down to the very depths of those beautiful, tear-dimmed eyes.

"You have not refused me your love, Maisrie – because you dare not!" he said. "And what do I care whether you say it or not – when I know?" And therewith he kissed her on the mouth – and again – and again. "Now you are mine. You dare not deny your love – and I claim you as my wife – "

She struggled backward to be free from him, and said almost wildly —

"No, no – Vincent, you do not understand – I have not been frank with you – I cannot ever be your wife! – some day I will tell you – "

There was no chance for any further entreaty or explanation, for at this moment there was the sound of a footstep outside, the door was opened, and old George Bethune appeared, carrying in his hands some half-dozen books. When he saw those two standing opposite to each other, the young man pale and agitated, the girl also pale and with her eyes streaming over with tears, he glanced from the one to the other in silence. Then he walked deliberately forward to the table, and laid down the books. Maisrie escaped from the room. Vincent returned to the fireplace, too bewildered by her last words to care much what construction might be placed upon this scene by her grandfather. But he had to recall himself: for the old man, just as if he had observed nothing, just as if nothing had happened, but yet with a certain measured precision in his tones, resumed his discussion of "The Demon Lover," and proceeded to give his reasons for thinking that the story had migrated from the far north to the south.

But presently Mr. Bethune had turned from those books, and was staring into the fire, as he said with a certain slow and significant emphasis —

"It will be an interesting subject; and yet I must guard against being wholly absorbed by it. And that for my granddaughter's sake. I imagine we have been living a much too monotonous life for some time back; and that is not well for anyone, especially for a young girl. A limitation of interests; that is not wholesome. The mind becomes morbid; and exaggerates trifles. And in the case of Maisrie, she has been used to change and travel; I should think the unvarying routine of our life of late, both as regards our employments and amusements, extremely prejudicial to her health and spirits – "

"Why, she seems very well!" Vincent said, anxiously – for he knew not what all this might mean.

"A change will do her good – will do all of us good, perhaps," said the old man. "Everyone knows that it is not wise for people to see too much of each other; it puts too heavy a strain on friendship. Companionship should be a volunteered thing – should be a reward, indeed, for previous isolation and work – "

Vincent's forehead flushed; and the natural man within him was crying out 'Oh, very well, then; I don't press any further acquaintance on you!' But for Maisrie's sake he curbed his pride. He said, as quickly as might be —

"In our case I thought that was precisely how our companionship stood – a little relaxation after the labours of the day. However, if you think there has been too much of that – "

"I was speaking of general principles," Mr. Bethune said, with equanimity. "At the same time I confess that, as regards Maisrie, I think that some alteration in our mode of existence might be beneficial. Her life of late has been much too monotonous."

"Again and again she has told me that she delights in the quietude of it!" the young man protested – for it suddenly occurred to him that Maisrie was to be dragged away from England altogether. "Surely she has had enough of travel?"

"Travel? That is not what I have in mind," old George Bethune said. "We have neither the time nor the means. I should merely propose to pack up a few books and things, and take Maisrie down to some sea-side place – Brighton, perhaps, as being the most convenient."

The young man's face flashed instant relief; Brighton – that was something different from what he had been dreading. Brighton – Brighton was not Toronto nor Montreal; there was going to be no wide Atlantic between him and her; a trivial matter of an hour's railway journey or something of the kind!

"Oh, Brighton?" said he, quite gladly. "Yes, that will be very pleasant for her. Brighton is brisk and lively enough at this time of the year; and if there is any sunlight going, you are sure to get it there. I am afraid you will find the hotels full – "

"We shall not trouble the hotels," Mr. Bethune said, with grave dignity. "Some very humble lodgings will suffice. And perhaps we might get rooms in a house on the hill at the back of the town; that would give me seclusion and quiet for my work. Yes, I think the change will be wholesome; and the sooner we set about it the better."

Well, to Vincent it did not seem that this proposal involved any great alteration in their mode of life, except that he himself was obviously and unmistakeably excluded; nevertheless, he was so glad to find that the separation from Maisrie was of a mild and temporary nature that he affected to give a quite cordial approval. He even offered to engage the services of his aunt, Mrs. Ellison, in securing them apartments; but Mr. Bethune answered that Maisrie and he were old travellers, and would be able to shift for themselves. And when did they propose to go? Well, to-morrow, if his granddaughter were content.

While they were yet talking, Maisrie made her appearance. She had bathed her eyes in water, and there was not much trace of her recent agitation, though she was still somewhat pale. And Vincent – to show her that he refused to be alarmed by her parting words – to show her that he was quite confident as to the future – preserved his placid, not to say gay, demeanour.

"Do you know what your grandfather is going to do with you, Maisrie?" said he. "He is going to take you down to Brighton for a time. Yes, and at once – to-morrow, if you care to go."

She glanced quickly from one to the other, as if fearing some conspiracy between them.

"And you, Vincent?" she asked, turning to him.

He did not meet her look.

"I? Oh, I must keep to work; I can't afford to go away down and idle among those fashionable folk. My Mendover lecture isn't half sketched out yet. And then, again, you remember the article I told you about? – before beginning it I ought really to run down to Scotland, or at least to Yorkshire, and see one of those Municipal Lodging-houses in actual operation. They seem to me marvellous institutions," continued this consummate hypocrite (as if the chief thought in his mind at this moment was the housing of the industrious poor!), "and of the greatest importance to the country at large; worked at a profit, too, that is the amazing thing! Fancy at Huddersfield; threepence a day includes use of cooking and table utensils, a smoking-room, reading-room, and conversation-room, and then a bed at night – all for threepence! Belonging to the rate-payers, themselves – under the management of the Corporation – and paying a profit so that you can go on improving and extending. Why, every big town in the kingdom ought to have a Municipal Lodginghouse, or half a dozen of them; and it only needs to be shown how they are worked for the example to be copied everywhere – "

"And when do you go, Vincent?" she asked, with downcast eyes.

"Oh, I am not sure yet," he made answer cheerfully. "Of course, I ought in duty to go; but it will cost me half what I shall get for the article. However, that is neither here nor there. But if this is to be our last night together for a little while, Maisrie," he went on, to keep up his complacent acquiescence in this temporary separation, "you might give us a little music – won't you? – you haven't had the violin out of its case for a long time."

She was very obedient. She went and got the violin – though she was in no playing or singing mood.

"What, then, grandfather?" she said when she was ready.

"Whatever you please."

Then she began, and very slowly and tenderly she played the air of a Scotch song – "Annie's Tryst." It is a simple air, and yet pathetic in its way; and indeed so sensitive and skilful was her touch that the violin seemed to speak; any one familiar with the song might have imagined he could hear the words interpenetrating those vibrant notes —

"Your hand is cauld as snaw, Annie,Your cheek is wan and white;What gars ye tremble sae, Annie,What maks your e'e sae bright?The snaw is on the ground, Willie,The frost is cauld and keen,But there's a burnin' fire, Willie,That sears my heart within.*****Oh, will ye tryst wi' me, Annie,Oh, will ye tryst me then?I'll meet ye by the burn, Annie,That wimples down the glen.I daurna tryst wi' you, Willie,I daurna tryst ye here,But we'll hold our tryst in heaven, Willie,In the springtime o' the year."

"That is too sad, Maisrie," her grandfather said, fretfully. "Why don't you sing something?"

She turned to Vincent: there was a mute question in her eyes.

"Will you sing the Claire Fontaine, Maisrie?" said he.

She seemed a little surprised: it was a strange song to ask for on a night of farewell; but she did as she was bidden. She went and got the book and placed it open before her on the table: then she drew her bow across the strings.

But hardly had she began to sing the little ballad than it became evident that there was something added to the pure, clear tones of her voice – some quality of an indefinable nature – some alien influence that might at any moment prove too strong for her self-control.

Sur la plus haute tranche —

this was the point at which she began —

Le rossignol chantait;Chante, rossignol, chante,Toi qui as le coeur gai —

And so far all was well; but at the refrain

Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,Jamais je ne t'oublierai

her voice shook a little, and her lips were tremulous. Vincent cursed his folly a hundred times over: why had he asked her to sing the Claire Fontaine? But still she held bravely on:

Chante, rossignol, chante,Toi qui as le coeur gai;Tu as le coeur à rire,Moi je l' ai-t-à pleurer —

And here she could go no further for those choking tears in her voice; she stood for a moment all uncertain, trying to master herself; then she laid the violin on the table, and with a broken "Good-night, Vincent – and good-bye!" she turned and left the room, her hands hiding her face, her frame shaken by the violence of her sobbing.

There was an instant of silence.

"Yes, it is time she was taken away," old George Bethune said, with a deep frown on his shaggy eyebrows. "Her nerves are all wrong. Why should she make such a to-do about leaving London for a fortnight?"

But Vincent Harris knew better than that. It was not this unexpected departure that was in Maisrie's mind: it was the words that he had spoken to her, and she to him, earlier in the evening. It was of no fortnight's absence she was thinking, but of a far wider and longer farewell.

CHAPTER V.

THE GNAWING FOX

But he was not disheartened by those ominous words of hers, not even on the following morning, when he found the little thoroughfare so strangely silent and empty, and the two windows over the way become vacant and devoid of charm. He had the high courage and impetuous will of youth; seeing no difficulties or dangers ahead, he refused to believe in any; Maisrie had not denied him her love, therefore she must be his wife; and all the future shone fair. And so he set to work on his Mendover lecture; and made good progress, even if his thoughts went sometimes flying away down to Brighton. As for the lecture itself – well, perhaps certain of its contentions and illustrations would have surprised and even shocked that Communist-capitalist, his father; but the young man was accustomed to think for himself.