A BABBLE O' GREEN FIELDS: THE END.
There was a wonderful vitality, especially of the brain, in this old
man; after long periods of languor and exhaustion, with low moanings and
mutterings quite unintelligible to the patient watchers, he would flame
up into something like his former self, and his speech would become
eager and voluble, and almost consecutive. It was in those intervals
that he showed himself proud of his recovered memory: again and again
they could hear him repeat the lines that for a time had baffled him--
'How sweet to roam by Allander, to breathe the balmy air,
When cloudless are the summer skies, and woods and fields are
fair;
To see the skylark soaring high, and chanting on the wing,
While in yon woods near Calder Kirk the wild birds sweetly
sing.'
He was busy with the new book--choosing and arranging; and Maisrie, as
his amanuensis, jotted down memoranda as to the poets to be included,
and the pieces most characteristic of them. For he was not to be
pacified into silence and acquiescence--in these clearer moods. There
was hurry, he said. Some one else might step in. And he cross-examined
Vincent about the quotations that Hugh Anstruther had made at the Burns'
Celebration in New York.
"I hardly remember," Vincent answered him. "There were a good many. But
there was one piece I thought rather pathetic--I don't recall the name
of it--but it was about a little pair of shoes--the mother thinking of
her dead child."
"What?--what?" said the old man, quickly. "Not James Smith's? Not 'The
Wee Pair o' Shoon'?"
"Well, yes, I think that was the title," said Vincent.
An anxious and troubled expression came into the sick man's eyes: he was
labouring with his memory--and Maisrie saw it.
"Never mind, grandfather: never mind just now: if you want it, I'll
write to Mr. Anstruther for it. See, I will put it down in the list; and
I'll send for it; and it will be back here in plenty of time."
"But I know it quite well!" he said, fretfully, "The last verse anyway.
'The eastlin wind blaws cauld, Jamie--the snaw's on hill and plain----'"
He repeated those two lines over and over again, with half-shut eyes;
and then all at once he went on with the remainder--
"'The flowers that decked my lammie's grave
Are faded noo, an' gane!
O, dinna speak! I ken she dwells
In yon fair land aboon;
But sair's the sicht that blin's my e'e--
That wee, wee pair o' shoon.'"
There was a kind of proud look in his face as he finished.
"Yes, yes; it's a fine thing to have a good memory--and I owe that to my
father--he said there never was a minute in the day that need be
wasted--you could always repeat to yourself a verse of the Psalms of
David. I think the first word of approval--I ever got from him--ye see,
Maisrie, we were brought up under strict government in those days--was
when I repeated the CXIX. Psalm--the whole twenty-two parts--with hardly
a mistake. And what a talisman to carry about with ye--on the deck of a
steamer--on Lake Ontario--in the night--with the stars overhead--then
the XLVI. Psalm comes into your mind--you are back in Scotland--you see
the small church, and the boxed-in pews--the men and women standing up
to sing--the men all in black--I wonder if they have _Ballerma_ in the
Scotch churches now--and _Drumclog_--and _New St. Ann's_--"
He shut his eyes--those unnaturally brilliant eyes--for a second or so;
but the next second they were open and alert again.
"The book, Maisrie--the book--are you getting on?--no delay--no
delay--in case someone should interfere. Ye've got Shairp in, haven't
ye?--the burn of Quair--up yonder--above the Minch Moor--
'I heard the cushies croon,
Through the gowden afternoon,
And Quair burn singin' doon to the vale o' Tweed.'
Well do I know the very spot where he must have written those verses.
Yes, yes; well I remember it," he continued, more absently. "But I have
had my last look. I will see it no more--no more. You, Maisrie, you
will go there--your young husband will take you there--"
"Grandfather, we will all go there together!" said Maisrie, piteously.
"And both of you," the old man went on, paying no attention to her, for
he was apparently gazing at some distant thing, "both of you are young,
and light of step--and light of heart, which is still better--well,
well, my lass, perhaps not so light of heart as might be at your
years--but all that will change for you--and I think when you are up at
the burn of Quair--you will find it--in your mind--to cross the Minch
Moor to Yarrow Water. Newark Castle you will see--then you will turn to
go down the Yarrow Vale--but not with any sad heart, Maisrie--I forbid
ye that--it's a beautiful place, Yarrow, though it had its tragedies and
sorrows in the olden time--and you--you are young--you have life before
you--and I tell ye it is with a light and glad heart you must go down
the Yarrow Vale. Why, lass, you'll come to Mount Benger--you'll come to
Dryhope Tower--you'll come to Altrive--and St. Mary's Loch--and the Loch
o' the Lows--and Chapel-hope--but mind ye now--if it's bad
weather--ye're not to come running away, and altogether mistaking the
place--ye'll just stop somewhere in the neighbourhood until it clears."
And then he added, in a wistful kind of way: "I once had thoughts--of
taking ye there myself, Maisrie."
"And so you will, grandfather!" she pleaded.
"No more--no more," he said, as if not heeding her. "And why should a
young life be clouded?--the two of them--they'll be fine company for
each other--when they're wandering--along by the side of Yarrow Water."
But here he recalled himself; and would have Maisrie sit down again to
that list; in order that the book might be pushed rapidly forward.
It was on this same evening that Dr. Lenzie, on arriving to pay his
accustomed visit, went into the little parlour and sent for Vincent.
Vincent came downstairs.
"Do ye see that?" said he, holding out a book that was in his hand.
Vincent took the volume from him and glanced at the title--Recent and
Living Scottish Poets, by A. G. Murdoch. He was not in the least
astonished--but he was angry and indignant.
"Very well," said he, "what of it? Do you mean to say you are going to
vex an old man, who may be on his death-bed, by bringing charges of
plagiarism against him? I dare say Mr. Bethune never saw the book, or,
if he has seen it, he has forgotten it."
"I perceive ye do not understand," said the little doctor, without
taking offence. "When I came to know what undertaking it was that Mr.
Bethune had on his mind, I made sure I had either seen or heard of some
such collection; and I sent to Edinburgh; and here it is, just arrived.
Now the one thing he seems anxious about, the one that troubles him, is
getting on with this work; and it occurred to me that if I could show
him there was a similar book already published, he might cease
fretting----"
"Cease fretting!" Vincent exclaimed, with a stare of astonishment. And
then he hesitated. "Well, you are an older man than I, and you have more
experience in these cases; but I should have said that a cruel
disappointment such as this is sure to cause would distress his mind
beyond measure. He must occupy himself with something; his brain is
incessantly working; and so long as he is talking of getting out his
book, he is at least looking forward with hope. But if you show him
this volume, it will be a crushing blow; the very thing he seems to live
for will be taken from him; he will feel injured by being anticipated,
and brood over it. Of course I have no right to speak; I am not a
relative; but ask his granddaughter--she knows him better than any
one----"
"Perhaps you are right--perhaps you are right," said the little doctor.
"It was merely an idea of mine--thinking it would quiet him. But on
reflection I will not risk it; it may be better not to risk it."
"In that case," Vincent struck in, promptly, "will you let me tie up the
book in paper, and will you take it away with you when you go? I mean,
that I don't wish Miss Bethune to see it. She has plenty to think of at
present: don't worry her with a trifling matter like this. It is of no
consequence to her, or to any human being, how many collections of
Scotch poems may be published--the more the merrier--so long as readers
can be found for them; but she is anxious and nervous and tired at
present--and it might surprise her, perhaps vex her, to find that this
volume had been published."
"Oh, certainly, certainly," the doctor said, taking the failure of his
ingenuous little scheme with much equanimity. "I will put the book into
that sideboard drawer until I come down; and then I can take it away
with me without her or any one having seen it."
The next day brought Vincent an unexpected and welcome surprise. He had
been out-of-doors for a brief breathing-space, and was returning to the
inn, when he saw in the distance, coming down the Cupar road, a
waggonette and pair. He seemed somehow to recognise the two figures
seated in the carriage; looked again; at last made certain--they were
Lord and Lady Musselburgh. Of course, in such circumstances, when they
drove up to the door of the inn, there was no great joyfulness of
greeting; only a few customary questions, and professions of hope for
the best; but at the same time, Vincent, who was touched by this
friendly act, could not help saying--
"Well, this is like you, aunt."
"Oh, your letter was too much for me, Vin," she said, with frank good
nature. "I did not wait for the telegram--I trust there will be no need
to telegraph for anybody. But I don't want you to give me any credit.
I want to appear as I am; and I've always told you I'm a selfish
woman--the generous creature is Hubert here, who insisted on coming all
this distance with me. And now I want you to understand the full extent
of my selfishness. You are doing no good here--of course. You are
probably in the way. But all your affairs in London will be compromised
if you remain here: ----'s private secretary cannot be absent at such a
time----"
"There's St. John!" Vincent exclaimed, referring to his colleague in the
office that had been put in commission.
"He's not in the House," rejoined this practical and very charming
person; "and the short and the long of it is that you must get back to
London at once. That is part of my scheme; the other is, that I shall
take your place. I shall be of more use. You say there is no immediate
danger. So much the better. Go away back to your post. If anything
should happen--I could be of more service than you. What could you do?
Miss Bethune could not return to London with you--and go into lodgings
of your choosing. I will look after her--if she will allow me--if she
will let bygones be bygones. I will ask her pardon, or do anything; but
I don't suppose she is thinking of that at present. You go back with
Hubert and leave me here. I can shift for myself."
"I think it is a sensible arrangement," her husband said, idly looking
around at the rather shabby furniture.
"It is very kind of you, aunt," Vincent said--"and very far from being
selfish. But it is impossible. I must remain here. I have duties here
as well as elsewhere--perhaps more important in my own sight.
But--but--now that you are here--"
"Oh, yes, I'll stay," said she good-naturedly. "Well, Hubert, it is you
who are packed off: I suppose you can return to Edinburgh to-night. I
brought a few things with me, Vincent, in case I should be wanted: will
you fetch them in from the waggonette? Still, I wish I could persuade
you to go back to London!"
And in this manner it was that Lady Musselburgh became installed in the
inn, making some little excuses to Maisrie. She and her husband had
been in the neighbourhood. They had heard of Mr. Bethune's serious
illness, and of Vincent's having come down from town. Could she be of
any help? And so forth. Maisrie thanked her, of course; but did not
take much notice of her; the girl just then having many things in her
mind. For her grandfather's delirium was at times more pronounced now;
and in these paroxysms she alone could soothe him.
Lady Musselburgh, indeed, rather hung back from entering the sick-room,
without stating her reasons to anyone. On every occasion that she saw
Maisrie she was most kind and considerate, and solicitous about the girl
herself; but she betrayed no great concern about the old man, further
than by making the usual enquiries. When Vincent suggested to her that,
if she did not go into the room and see Mr. Bethune, his granddaughter
might think it strange, she said in reply--
"But he won't remember me, Vin. We never met but at Henley."
"He remembers everything that ever happened to him," was the answer.
"His memory is wonderful. And perhaps--afterwards--you may wish you had
said a civil word or two."
"Oh, very well," she said. "Whatever you think right. Will you come
with me now?"
She seemed a little apprehensive--she did not say why. They went
upstairs together. The door of the sick-room was open. Maisrie, when
she perceived this visitor, rose from her seat by the bedside; but Lady
Musselburgh motioned her to keep her place, while she remained standing
in the middle of the room, waiting to see if Mr. Bethune would take any
notice of her. But his eyes were turned away; and he was muttering to
himself almost inaudibly--they could only catch a word here and
there--Galashiels--Torwoodlee--Selkirk--Jedburgh--no doubt he was going
over in his own mind those scenes of his youth. Then Maisrie said, very
gently--
"Grandfather!"
He turned his eyes, and they rested on the stranger for a second or so,
with a curiously puzzled expression. She went forward to the bedside.
"I'm afraid you don't remember me," said she, diffidently. "It was at
Henley we met----"
"I remember you very well, madam, very well indeed," said he, receiving
her with a sort of old-fashioned and ceremonious politeness--as far as
the wasted frame and poor wandering wits would allow. "I am sorry--to
have to welcome you--to so poor a house--these are altered conditions
truly--" He was still looking curiously at her. "Yes, yes, I remember
you well, madam--and--and I will not fail to send you my monograph on
the--the Beatons of the Western Isles--I will not fail to send it--but
if ye will forgive me--my memory is so treacherous--will you forgive me,
madam, if your name has escaped me for the moment--"
"This is Lady Musselburgh, grandfather," Maisrie interposed, quietly.
"Musselburgh--Musselburgh," he said; and then he went on, amid the
pauses of his laborious breathing: "Ah, yes--your husband, madam, is a
fine young man--and a good Scot--audacious, intrepid, and
gallant--perhaps a little cynical in public affairs--great measures want
earnest convictions--it may be that his lot has fallen in over-pleasant
places--and he has chosen the easier path. Well, why not?--why not?
There are some whose fate it is to--to fight a hard fight; while
others--others find nothing but smoothness and peace--let them thank
Heaven for it--and enjoy it. I hope he will hold on his way with a
noble cheerfulness--despising the envy of enemies--a noble
cheerfulness--I hope it may be his always--indeed, I know none deserving
of better fortune."
It was now abundantly clear to Lady Musselburgh that he did not in any
way associate her with the arrangement that had been effected by George
Morris; and she was much relieved.
"I mustn't disturb you any longer," said she. "Indeed, I only came along
to see if I could be of any assistance to Miss Bethune. I hear she has
been doing far too much. Now that is very unwise; for when you are
getting better, and need constant care, then she will find herself quite
worn out."
"Yes, yes, that is right," said he, "I wish ye would persuade her--take
her in hand--make her look after herself--but she has a will of her own,
the creature--a slim bit of a lass, ye might think--but it's the spirit
that endures--shining clear--clearer and clearer in dark times of
trouble. And she--she has had her own troubles--and suffering--but
never a word of complaining--obedient--willing--ready at all times and
seasons--loyal--dutiful--and brave. What more could I say of her?--what
more? Sometimes I have thought to myself--there was the--the courage of
a man in that slim bit creature--and the gentleness of all womankind as
well--"
"Grandfather," said Maisrie, "you mustn't talk any more now--you are
keeping Lady Musselburgh waiting."
"But, madam," he continued, not heeding the girl at all, "you must
remember her descent--she comes of an inflexible race--she is of pure
blood--it is the thoroughbred that holds on till its heart breaks in
two. How could she help being proud-spirited, and silent in endurance,
and brave? Perhaps you may know that it was of one of her ancestors--as
he lay in his grave--that some one said--'There lies one who never
feared the face of man,'--a noble inscription for a tombstone--'who
never feared the face of man'--"
Maisrie leant over and said to him, quite gently--
"Grandfather, you are forgetting; it was of John Knox that was said."
He looked at her doubtfully; and then seemed to be puzzling with his own
memory.
"Perhaps--perhaps," he said; and then he added, quite humbly, "I beg
your pardon for misleading you, madam--I did not intend it--but I forget
things--and Maisrie is generally right. John Knox?--perhaps--perhaps--I
thought it was a Beaton or a Bethune--but I cannot remember which of
them--perhaps she is right--"
He closed his eyes, and turned away a little, as if to debate this
question with himself--or perhaps to seek some rest: seeing which Lady
Musselburgh and Vincent quietly withdrew, and went downstairs. "Poor old
man!" said she, when they were in the small parlour. "There is a great
change in him, entirely apart from his illness. Even in manner he is
not nearly so--so grandiose as he used to be: sometimes he was quite
humble. And as for her--my heart bleeds for her. I will do anything
you like, Vin--if she will accept. What is more, I will confess to you
now that, as far as she is concerned, I am convinced I was quite wrong.
You were right: your eyes were wide open, after all. How can one judge
of any one by an afternoon and an evening at Henley? That was my only
chance. Then perhaps there was a little excuse for prejudice--there was
the association--. But we'll say no more about that. I confess I was
wrong; you were right. That girl is as true as steel. If she gives her
husband half the devotion she bestows on that old man, he'll do very
well." She looked at her nephew. Then she said suddenly: "Vin, you
don't say a word. I believe you have never forgiven me one bit!"
"Oh, yes, I have, aunt," he made answer, uneasily. "But there are some
things that need never have happened."
She regarded him again.
"Vin, you are too unforgiving! But can I not make up? See, now! If
Miss Bethune is left alone--I should like to call her Maisrie, if she
will let me: indeed I should: but it is so difficult to get any nearer
her--she is all wrapped up in her anxiety about her grandfather: well,
if she is left alone, I will take her with me. I will take her to
London. She will stay with me; there will be a home for her there, at
any rate; and we may become better friends. Oh, I know we shall; it is
only that at present she cares for nothing, and thinks of nothing, but
her duty towards her grandfather. I intend to be very kind to her--I
intend to win her affection if I can--"
"And I shall be very grateful to you, aunt," said he. "But it is hardly
time yet to speak of such a thing: Mr. Bethune has always had a
wonderful constitution."
"Did you notice how reticent the doctor was this morning?" she
asked,--and he did not answer.
But at least one thing that Lady Musselburgh had observed and mentioned
was true: much, if not all, of the old grandiose manner had gone away
from George Bethune. If on rare occasions some flash of defiance flamed
up--as if he were still face to face with adversity and disappointment,
and determined not to abate one jot of his pride and independence--he
was ordinarily quite gentle and even humble, especially towards Maisrie.
On this same evening he said--
"Margaret" (as he sometimes called her now, forgetting) "will ye read to
me the XLVI. Psalm?"
She went and got the book and began--
"God is our refuge and our strength,
In straits a present aid;
Therefore, although the earth remove,
We will not be afraid:
Though hills amidst the sea be cast;
Though waters roaring make,
And troubled be; yea, though the hills
By swelling seas do shake.
"A river is, whose streams do glad
The city of our God;
The holy place, wherein the Lord
Most high hath his abode.
God in the midst of her doth dwell;
Nothing shall her remove:
The Lord to her our helper will,
And that right early, prove."
But when she had got so far, he said--
"Margaret--I hope ye will not take it ill--if I interrupt ye--it is no
unkindness I mean, my lass--but, ye see, ye've got the English speech,
as is natural--and I was trying to think how my father used to read out
the Psalm at family worship--and ye've not got the Scotch way--nor the
strong emphasis--how could ye?--how could ye? Ye'll not take it ill,"
he went on, with the most piteous concern visible in his face--"ye'll
not think it's any unkindness----"
"No, no, no, grandfather!" she said. "Of course not. Shall I ask Mrs.
MacGill to come up, to read to you in the Scotch way?"
"No, no one but you, Maisrie--no one but you--perhaps if you take the
CXXVI. Psalm--'When Sion's bondage God turned back, as men that dreamed
were we'--I mind, they used to sing that to the tune of
_Kilmarnock_--and the young women's voices sounded beautiful. But
you're not vexed, Maisrie!--for I did not mean any unkindness to ye, my
dear----"
"No, no, grandfather," she said; and she turned to this other Psalm, and
read it to him; and even after that it was some time before she could
assure him that she had not been in the least hurt.
Two more of those long and anxious days went by; the fever waxing and
waning by turns; but all the time the strength of that once powerful
frame was slowly ebbing away. For one thing, his mind was well content.
He had no more anxiety about Maisrie; he appeared to regard her future
as well assured. He lay quietly murmuring to himself; and they could
make out, from chance sentences here and there, that he was going over
his boyhood's days again--bird's-nesting in the spring woods, making
swaying seats out of the shelving branches of the beeches, guddling for
trout in the small hill burns. An old refrain seemed to haunt him--
'Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,
And O to be lying beyond thee:
O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep,
That's laid in the bed beyond thee.'
'_Die Voegelein schweigen im Walde_': that phrase also returned again
and again. And then he would go back to his school-days, and tell
Maisrie about a little patch of garden that had been given all to
himself; how he had watched the yellow spears of the crocuses pierce the
dry earth, and the green buds begin to show on the currant-bushes; how
he had planted scarlet-runners, and stuck the wands in, and trained the
young shoots; how he had waited for the big red globes of the peonies to
unroll; how he had white monkshood, and four distinct colours of
columbine. Then his pets; his diversions; his terrible adventures--half
drowned in a mill-dam--lost in a snowstorm on Laidlaw moor--the horrors
of a certain churchyard which he had sometimes to pass, alone, on the
dark winter evenings. Maisrie did not seek to interrupt him. There was
no agitation in these wandering reminiscences. Nay, they seemed to
soothe him; and sometimes he sank into an altogether dozing state.
"Vincent," said Lady Musselburgh, when these two happened to find
themselves together, in the room below, "have you no authority over that
girl? She is killing herself!"
"It is no use remonstrating," said he. "She knows what the doctor has
not dared to tell her. She sees that her grandfather is so weak he may
slip away at any moment, without a word or a sign."
But on the evening of this second day, the old man, with such remnant of
his former resolution and defiance as still clung to him, seemed to try
to shake off this fatal lethargy--if only to say farewell. And in this
last hour or so of his life, the spectacle that George Bethune presented
was no unworthy one. Death, or the approach of death, which ennobles
even the poorest and the meanest, was now dealing with this man; and all
the husks and histrionic integuments that had obscured or hidden his
true nature seemed to fall away from him. He stood out himself--no
pressure of poverty distorting his mind--no hopeless regrets embittering
his soul. It was Scotland he thought of. In those last minutes and
moments, the deepest passion of his heart--an intense and proud love of
his native land--burned pure and strong and clear; and if he showed any
anxiety at all, it was merely that Maisrie, who was a kind of stranger,
should form a liking for this country to which she, too, in a measure,
belonged--that she should see it under advantageous conditions--that she
should think of all that had been said of those hills and vales, and
endow them with that added charm.
"But I do not fear," he said (his eyes, with some brilliancy still left
in them, fixed on her, his voice low and panting). "You have an
inheritance, Maisrie--it is in your blood--a sympathy--an
insight--Scotland claims you--as one of her own. I knew that
when--when--you used to play the Scotch airs for me--the trembling
string, that made the soul tremble too--'The sun shines bright in
France'--'The Lowlands o' Holland, that twined my love and me'--it was
Scotch blood that made them thrill. Ye'll not be disappointed,
Margaret--ye'll understand--when ye get to Yarrow--and Ettrick
Water--and the murmur of the Tweed. I meant--to have taken ye
myself--but it was not to be--ye'll have younger and happier
guidance--as is but natural--I--I wish ye both well. And--and I would
like ye--to go in the spring-time, Maisrie--and--and if ye could find
out William Motherwell's grave--I have forgotten where it is--my memory
is not what it used to be--but if ye could find out Motherwell's
grave--ye might put a handful of primroses on it--for the sake of--of
_Jeanie Morrison_."
He relapsed into silence; his breathing grew more laboured--and also
feebler; it was evident to those standing by that the end was not far
off now. Maisrie sate holding his hand in hers; the fountain of her
tears all dried up; her tragic grief seemed to have turned her to stone.
Even those spring days of which he had spoken--when she would have her
young husband by her side--they would want something. Her grandfather
had been kind to her; and they had been through many years together.
He lay thus for nearly half-an-hour, the tide of life slowly receding.
He made but one final effort to speak--nay, for a second, it seemed as
if he would raise his head to give effect to his last proud
protestation.
"Maisrie--Maisrie--they never saw me cowed--never once! I met--ill
fortune--or good--face to face ... I held--by the watchword--of our
house--Stand--Fast--Craig-Royston! ..."
It was his last breath. And so, with a lie on his lips, but with none
in his heart, old George Bethune passed away: passed away from a world
that had perhaps understood him but none too well.
THE END.
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