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----"
"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."