Produced by Al Haines.
STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON!
A Novel
BY
WILLIAM BLACK,
AUTHOR OF
"A DAUGHTER OF HETH," "MACLEOD OF DARE," ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOL. I.
LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON, LIMITED
St. Dunstan's House
FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1890.
[_All rights reserved._]
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
CHAPTER
I. The Wanderers
II. Neighbours
III. An Approach
IV. Stalled Ox and a Dinner of Herbs
V. Qu' mon Coeur en Mariage
VI. Fairy Land
VII. Claire Fontaine
VIII. An Alarm
STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON!
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--
"From the lone shieling on the misty island,
Mountains divide them and a world of seas;
But still their hearts are true, their hearts are Highland,
And they in dreams behold the Hebrides."
"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--
"'Wae's me that fate us twa has twined'
--'twined' is severed: perhaps your lordship is not so familiar with the
dialect--
"'Wae's me that fate us twa has twined;
And I serve strangers ower the sea;
Their hearts are leal, their words are kind,
But, lass, it isna hame to me!'
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--
'What memories dear of that cot ye recall,
Though now there remains neither rooftree nor wall!
Alack-a-day! lintel and threshold are gone,
While cold 'neath the weeds lies the hallowed hearthstone!
'Twas a straw-roofed cottage, but love abode there,
And peace and contentment aye breathed in its air;
With songs from the mother, and legends from sire,
How blithe were we all round the cheery peat-fire!
--Caledonia's blue-bells, O bonnie blue-bells!'"
"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
'Where I've watched the gloamin' close
The long bright summer days;
And doubted not that fairies dwelt
On Cathkin's bonnie braes;
Auld Ruglin Brig and Cathkin braes
And Clyde's meandering streams,
Ye shall be subject of my lays
As ye are of my dreams.'
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 L50,
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--_Dapifer_ or _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--
"I'm wearin' awa', Jean,
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean,
I'm wearin' awa',
To the land o' the leal;
There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The day's aye fair
In the land o' the leal."
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:
"I've heard the liltin' at our yowe-milkin',
Lasses a-liltin, before the dawn o' day;
But now there's a moanin' on ilka green loanin';
The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away.
* * * * *
"We hear nae mair liltin' at our yowe-milkin',
Women and bairns are dowie and wae;
Sighin' and moanin', on ilka green loanin'--
The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away."
"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--
"London's bonnie woods and braes,
I maun leave them a', lassie;
Wha can thole when Britain's faes
Would gie Briton law, lassie?
Wha would shun the field o' danger?
Wha to fame would live a stranger?
Now when freedom bids avenge her,
Wha would shun her ca', lassie?"
Maisrie Bethune had laid aside her violin; but she did not light the
gas. She stood there, in the semi-darkness, in the middle of the room,
timidly regarding her grandfather, and yet apparently afraid to speak.
At last she managed to say--
"Grandfather--you will not be angry--?"
"What's this, now?" he said, wheeling round and staring at her, for the
peculiarity of her tone had caught his ear.
"Grandfather," she continued, in almost piteous embarrassment. "I--I
wish to say something to you--I have been thinking about it for a long
while back--and yet afraid you mightn't understand--you might be
angry--"
"Well, well, what is it?" he said, impatiently. "What are you
dissatisfied with? I don't see that you've much to complain of, or I
either. We don't live a life of grandeur; nor is there much excitement
about it; but it is fairly comfortable. I consider we are very well
off."
"We are too well off, grandfather," she said, sadly.
He started at this, and stared at her again.
"What do you mean?"
"Grandfather," she said, in the same pathetic voice, "don't you see that
I am no longer a child? I am a woman. And I am doing nothing. Why did
you give me so careful an education if I am not to use it? I wish to
earn something--I--I wish to keep you and me, grandfather--"
The stammering sentences ceased: he replied slowly, and perhaps a trifle
coldly.
"Why did I have you carefully educated? Well, I should have thought you
might have guessed--might have understood. But I will tell you. I have
given you what education was possible in our circumstances in order to
fit you for the station which some day you may be called upon to fill.
And if not, if it is fated that injustice and iniquity are to be in our
case perpetual, at all events you must be worthy of the name you bear.
But it was not as an implement of trade," he continued, more warmly,
"that I gave you such education as was possible in our wandering lives.
What do you want to do? Teach music? And you would use your trained
hand and ear--and your trained soul, which is of more importance
still--to drum mechanical rudiments into the brats of some bourgeois
household? A fit employment for a Bethune of Balloray!"
She seemed bewildered--and agonised.
"Grandfather, I must speak! I must speak! You may be angry or
not--but--but I am no longer a child--I can see how we are
situated--and--and if it is pride that causes me to speak, remember who
it is that has taught me to think of our name. Grandfather, let us begin
a new life! I can work--I am old enough to work--I would slave my
fingers to the bone for you! Grandfather, why should you accept
assistance from any one?--from Lord Musselburgh or any one? No, I do
not blame you--I have always thought that everything you did was
right--and kind and good; but I cannot be a child any longer--I must say
what I think and feel. Grandfather----"
But here the incoherent appeal broke down; she fell on her knees before
him, and clasped her hands over her face; and in the dark the old
man--stern and immovable--could hear the sound of her violent sobbing.
"I will work--oh, I will work night and day, grandfather," she
continued, wildly, "if only you will take my money and not from any one
else! I will go on the stage--I will turn dressmaker--I will go
anywhere or do anything--and work hard and hard--if only you will
consent! There would not be so much sacrifice, grandfather--a little,
not much--and don't you think we should be all the happier? I have
spoken at last, grandfather--you will forgive me! I could not keep
silent any longer. It has been weighing on my heart--and now--now you
are going to say yes, grandfather--and to-morrow--to-morrow we begin
differently. We are so much alone--let us live for each other--let us be
independent of every one! Now you are going to say yes,
grandfather--and indeed, indeed I will work for both of us, oh, so
gladly!----"
"Have you finished?" he asked.
She rose, and would have seized his hand to enforce her appeal, but he
withdrew a step, and motioned her to be seated.
"I am glad of this opportunity," he said, in a formal and measured
fashion. "You say you have become a woman; and it is natural you should
begin and think for yourself; hitherto I have treated you as a child,
and you have obeyed and believed implicitly. As for your immediate
wish, I may say at once that is impossible. There is no kind of work
for which you are fitted--even if I were prepared to live on your
earnings, which I am not. The stage? What could you do on the stage!
Do you think an actress is made at a moment's notice? Or a dress-maker
either? How could you turn dressmaker to-morrow?--because you can hem
handkerchiefs? And as for making use of your education, do you know of
the thousands of girls whose French and Italian and music are as good as
yours, and who can barely gain their food by teaching?----"
He altered his tone; and spoke more proudly.
"But what I say is this, that you do not understand, you have not yet
understood, my position. When George Bethune condescends to accept
assistance, as you call it, he receives no favour, he confers an honour.
I know my rights, and stand on them; yes, and I know my wrongs--and how
trifling the compensations ever likely to be set against them. You spoke
of Lord Musselburgh; but Lord Musselburgh--a mushroom peer--the
representative of a family dragged from nothingness by James VI.--Lord
Musselburgh knew better than you--well he knew--that he was honouring
himself in receiving into his house a Bethune of Balloray. And as for
his granting me assistance, that was his privilege, his opportunity, his
duty. Should not I have done the like, and gladly, if our positions had
been reversed? _Noblesse oblige_. I belong to his order--and to a
family older by centuries than his. If there was a favour conferred
to-day at Musselburgh House, it was not on my shoulders that it fell."
He spoke haughtily, and yet without anger; and there was a ring of
sincerity in his tones that could not be mistaken. The girl sate silent
and abashed.
"No," said he, in the same proud fashion; "during all my troubles, and
they have been more numerous than you know or need ever know, I have
never cowered, or whimpered, or abased myself before any living being.
I have held my head up. My conscience is clear towards all men. 'Stand
fast, Craig-Royston!' it has been with me--and shall be!"
He went to the window and shut it.
"Come, light the gas, Maisrie; and let us talk about something else.
What I say is this, that if anyone, recognising the injustice that I and
mine have suffered, should feel it due to himself, due to humanity, to
make some little reparation, why, that is as between man and man--that
ought to be considered his privilege; and I take no shame. I ask for no
compassion. The years that I can hope for now must be few; but they
shall be as those that have gone before. I abase myself before no one.
I hold my head erect. I look the world in the face; and ask which of us
has the greater cause to complain of the other. 'Stand fast,
Craig-Royston!'--that has been my motto; and so, thank God, it shall be
to the end!"
Maisrie lit the gas, and attended to her grandfather's other wants--in a
mechanical sort of way. But she did not take up the violin again. There
was a strangely absent look on the pale and beautiful and pensive face.