Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume I)

Nevertheless, as they by-and-bye walked away down to Burlington Gardens, she was much more animated and talkative than he had before seen her; and he observed, too, that her grandfather paid heed to her opinions. Nay, she addressed the younger of her two companions also, occasionally; and now she was not afraid to let a smile dwell in her eyes, when she chanced to turn to him. He was bewildered by it all; it was more, far more, than he dared have hoped for; in fact he was the last person in the world to suspect that his own bearing – the buoyant unconscious audacity, the winning frankness, as well as a certain youthful modesty – was at the root of the mystery of this sudden friendship. For one thing, he had told them a good deal about himself and his circumstances, during that morning in Hyde Park and during the previous afternoon and evening; and there was something in the position of these three folk, now brought together after wide wanderings through the world, that seemed to invite confidence and intimacy. Then old George Bethune had an excellent fund of good-fellowship, so long as the present moment was an enjoyable one.

And, as it turned out, this evening proved to be one of those enjoyable moments. The small festivity to which Vincent had invited his new acquaintances was not in the least the haphazard affair he had half-intimated it to be; he had arranged it with care; they found themselves in a pretty room, with plenty of flowers on the table; while the little banquet itself was far more elaborate, both as regards food and wine, than there was any call for. The old gentleman did not protest; anything that happened – so long as it was pleasant – was welcome to him; and he declared the claret to be as excellent as any he had met with for years back. He could not understand why their youthful host would not join him (as if it were likely that Vincent was going to drink wine, now that he discovered that Maisrie Bethune drank only water!) but he had all the more for himself; and he waxed eloquent and enthusiastic on his favourite theme.

"Why sir," said he, with a kind of proud elation in his tone, "I myself heard Henry Ward Beecher pronounce these words in the City Hall of Glasgow – 'I have been reared in a country whose history is brief. So vast is it, that one might travel night and day for all the week, and yet scarcely touch historic ground. Its history is yet to be written; it is yet to be acted. But I come to this land, which, though small, is as full of memories as the heaven is full of stars, and almost as bright. There is not the most insignificant piece of water that does not make my heart thrill with some story of heroism, or some remembered poem; for not only has Scotland had the good fortune to have men who knew how to make heroic history, but she has reared those bards who have known how to sing their deeds. And every steep and every valley, and almost every single league on which my feet have trod, have made me feel as if I were walking in a dream. I never expected to find my eyes overflow with tears of gladness that I have been permitted, in the prime of life, to look upon this beloved land.' Well spoken – nobly spoken! When I take my granddaughter here to visit her native country – for to that country she belongs, in all the essentials of blood and tradition and descent – I hope she will be in a similarly receptive mood; and will see, not the bare hills, not the lonely islands, not the desolate moors, but a land filled with the magic of association, and consecrated by the love and devotion of a thousand song-writers, known and unknown. I will say with Johnson 'That man is little to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Bannockburn, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona' – "

"Not Bannockburn: Marathon, wasn't it, grandfather?" said Maisrie, in her gentle way.

"Well, well," he said, not heeding the interruption. "'Almost every single league,' said Ward Beecher; and that is true. I could make a pilgrimage throughout the length and breadth of Scotland, guided by the finger of Scottish song. Indeed, I have often thought I should like, if the years were spared to me, to collect materials for a volume – a splendid and magnificent volume – on the Scotland of the Scotch songs and ballads. The words and the music are already there; and I would have the pencil add its charm; so that Scotland, in her noblest and fairest aspects, might be placed before the stranger, and might be welcomed once again by her own sons. I would have the lonely Braes o' Balwhidder, and Rob Roy's grave in the little churchyard on the hillside; I would have Tannahill's Arranteenie – that is on Loch Long side, I think; and the Bonnie House o' Airlie:

'It fell on a day, a bonnie summer's day,When the corn grew green and fairly,That the great Argyle, wi' a' his men,Cam' to plunder the bonnie house o' Airlie.'

Then the Vale of Yarrow – well, perhaps that would have to be a figure subject – the grief-stricken maiden bending over the body of her slain lover —

'Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved,O could my warmth to life restore thee! —Ye'd lie all night between my breasts;No youth lay ever there before thee.'

And Colonsay – Leyden's Colonsay – the haunted island that mourns like a sea-shell —

'And ever as the year returns,The charm-bound sailors know the day;For sadly still the mermaid mournsThe lovely chief of Colonsay.'

Gala Water – " the old man continued, in a sort of exalted rhapsody; and his eyes were absent, as if he were beholding a succession of visions. "Hunting Tower – Craigie-burn Wood – the solitude sought out by Bessie Bell and her girl companion when they fled from the plague – Ettrick Banks – the bush aboon Traquair – in short, an endless series! And where the pencil may fail, imagination must come in —

'I see – but not by sight alone,Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;A ray of fancy still survives —Her sunshine plays upon thee!'

It would be something to do for the sake of 'puir auld Scotland;' and think what an enchanted wandering that would be for both Maisrie and myself. Tweed and Teviot – the silver Forth – the stately Clyde: well, perhaps she would be better pleased to gather a flower or two – a lucken-gowan or a speedwell – on 'the bonnie banks o' Ayr.'"

"But, grandfather," Maisrie Bethune interposed, "before you can begin such a book, or even think of it, you know there is something else to be done."

"I suppose it would be an expensive volume to bring out?" Vincent suggested inquiringly.

"Oh, yes, yes," the old man said – and now he had relinquished that rhapsodical strain, and had assumed his usual dignified, not to say grandiose, demeanour. "The drawings must be done by the first artists; they must not fall below the poetic pitch of the old ballads and the still older airs. It would be an expensive book to bring out, no doubt; but then it would be a noble undertaking; it would be a sumptuous and valuable work. I should think, now," he went on, reflectively, "that there ought to be a large paper edition – and perhaps five guineas would not be too much to charge – quarto, I mean – quarto – and five guineas for such a handsome volume mightn't be too much – "

"Five guineas?" repeated Vincent. "Well, sir, if you choose to bring out the book by subscription, I will undertake to get you fifty subscribers for that edition." And then he added recklessly, "A hundred – I will assure you a hundred subscribers!"

"No, Mr. Harris," said Maisrie, and she addressed herself in a more direct manner than she had ever yet done to the young man. "It is not to be thought of. My grandfather has work to do that he must finish before entertaining any other schemes. It would be simply wasting time to begin and arrange about another book."

He felt himself silenced and humbled, he hardly knew why. Had she construed his proffered assistance into an offer of charity, and resented it accordingly? But he could find no trace of offended pride in the refined and gentle features when next he ventured to look at her. She had said her say; and that was enough. And her grandfather seemed to know she was in the right; nothing further was mentioned about the new proposal – at least at this particular time. Dessert had come; and the business of choosing from among those abundant fruits made a kind of break.

When at length they were about to depart, there was no confusion about the bill, for Vincent intimated to the old man that he had already arranged about that; and Mr. Bethune seemed satisfied, while Maisrie had passed on in front and did not hear. She was very light-hearted and talkative as they walked away home. Her protest against the proposed publication, if it showed a little firmness at the time, had left no pained feeling behind it; she was now as blithe as a bird; to Vincent she seemed to shed a radiance around her, as if she were some supernatural being, as she passed through those twilight streets. Once she said something in French – in Canadian French – to her grandfather; and the young man thought that never in all his life had he heard anything so sweet and fascinating as the soft and blurred sound of the r's. He was to hear a little more of that Canadian French on this evening. When they reached their lodgings, the old gentleman again asked his young friend to come in for a little while; the temptation was too great; he yielded; and followed them up into the dusky small parlour.

"Now we will have a serious smoke," said George Bethune, with decision, as he took down his long clay pipe. "A cigarette after dinner is a mere frivolity. Maisrie, lass, bring over that box of cigars for Mr. Harris."

But Mr. Harris firmly declined to smoke, even as he had declined to take any wine: what was he going to sacrifice next as a subtle tribute to the exalted character of this young creature? Maisrie Bethune seemed hardly to understand, and was a little surprised; but now she had to go away upstairs, to lay aside her things: so the two men were left alone, to chat about the affairs of the day until her return.

When she came down again, her grandfather said —

"Sing something, Maisrie."

"You know I can't sing, grandfather, but I never refuse you, for it is not of any use," said she, contentedly, as she took the violin out of its case. "But Mr. Harris has had enough of Scotch songs this evening. I must try something else. And perhaps you may have heard the air in Canada," she added, addressing the young man from out of the partial darkness.

And now what was this new enchantment she was about to disclose and practise? In plain truth, she had very little voice; but he did not notice that; it was the curiously naive, and simple, and sincere expression of tone that thrilled through his heart, as she proceeded to recite rather than to sing the well-known "C' était une frégate," the violin aiding her with its low and plaintive notes:

C' était une frégate(Mon joli coeur de rose)Dans la mer a touché(Joli coeur d' un rosier).

And here again were those softly slurred r's – not sharply trilled, as in the English fashion – but gentle and half-concealed, as it were. The simple story proceeded —

Y avait une demoiselle(Mon joli coeur de rose)Su' l' bord d' la mer pleurait,(Joli coeur d' un rosier).– Dites-moi donc, la belle,(Mon joli coeur de rose)Qu' a' vous à tant pleurer?(Joli coeur d' un rosier).– Je pleur; mon anneau d' or,(Mon joli coeur de rose)Dans la mer est tombé,(Joli coeur d' un rosier).

Then he asks the weeping damsel what she would give to any one who would find for her her ring of gold that has fallen into the sea.

– Je suis trop pauvre fille,(Mon joli coeur de rose),Je ne puis rien donner,(Joli coeur d' un rosier).Qu' mon coeur en mariage(Mon joli coeur de rose)Pour mon anneau doré(Joli coeur d' un rosier).

But the young man sitting there in the twilight hardly heard further than that. The phrase 'qu' mon coeur en mariage' had something more beautiful in it than even the soft sound of the r's as she pronounced them; it dwelt in his heart with a mysterious charm; even as she went on to tell how the bold gallant who dived for the ring of gold was drowned, what he still seemed to hear was "Je ne puis rien donner, qu' mon coeur en mariage;" and when she had finished, and there was silence, he did not speak; there was a kind of bewilderment in the tones of her voice; and he could not offer her commonplace thanks.

"Now I am going to light the gas," she said, cheerfully, as she laid aside her violin, "and, grandfather, you can challenge Mr. Harris to a game of chess, or draughts, or dominoes, whichever he likes best, so that I may get to my work, for it cannot always be playtime."

And so it was that, when the gas had been lit, she returned to her own corner and to her needlework, while her grandfather and Vincent took to dominoes, the old man having his hot water and whisky brought to him to accompany his second pipe. Dominoes is a mechanical game; you can play well enough even if there is the refrain of a song ringing through your memory; the young man did not care who won; and, indeed, he had quite forgotten who was the victor as he shortly thereafter made his way south through the lamp-lit streets, with his lips half-trying to re-pronounce that strangely fascinating phrase, "qu' mon coeur en mariage – qu' mon coeur en mariage."

Well, this was but the beginning of a series of evenings, until it came to be understood that these three dined together each night, subsequently returning to old George Bethune's rooms, for a little music or dominoes before parting. Vincent assumed the management of these modest little merry-makings; varied the scene of them as much as possible; and so arranged matters that no financial question came up to ask for Maisrie Bethune's interference. It is true, she sometimes seemed inclined to remain at home, so as to leave the two men greater freedom, perhaps; but he would not hear of that; and his ever increasing intimacy now lent him a franker authority. He was high-handed in his ways: she smiled, and yielded.

At last there came a proposition that was somewhat startling in its boldness. Cunningly he deferred bringing it forward until the very end of the evening, for then he knew that the old gentleman would be more inclined to welcome any gay and audacious scheme, without particularly weighing pros and cons. Accordingly having chosen his opportunity, he informed them that he had been offered the use of a house-boat during the Henley week (which was literally true: he had been offered it – for the sum of £30) and said that he had a great mind to accept if only he could persuade Mr. Bethune and his granddaughter to go down as his guests.

"I understood you to say," he continued, without giving either of them time to reply, "that you had never seen Henley at the regatta-time. But it is a thing you ought to see – it is the prettiest sight in England – it is perfectly unique – there is nothing else like it in the world. And then they make those house-boats so comfortable; it is simply a small floating home; or, on the other hand, you can sit outside, and be in the very midst of all the fun. There is no scramble – no crowd – no hustling – so far as we are concerned; and we shall have our own cook and steward. If you do not care to stay the whole week, we could go down on Tuesday afternoon – the races begin on Wednesday – and remain for the illuminations and fireworks on Friday night. It would be awfully good-natured of you both; of course I could not think of going down and occupying a house-boat by myself. Now what do you say, Miss Bethune? – I appeal first to you."

"Yes, what do you say, Maisrie?" the old man said, seeing that his granddaughter hesitated; and then he added with a condescending smile: "A question of dress, is it? I have heard that the costumes at Henley are rather extravagant."

"Oh, I assure you, no," the young man protested (he would have sworn that the sky was pea-green if that would have helped.) "They are quite simple summer dresses – light in colour, of course – oh, yes – but quite plain and simple: who would take gorgeous gowns to go boating?"

"Very well, very well," Mr. Bethune said, with an easy good-nature. "I will answer for both Maisrie and myself: we shall be delighted. Let us know the conditions; let us know what may be expected of us; we are old travellers and ready for anything. And don't you be over particular about your preparations, my young friend; we can rough it; and indeed I'm afraid of late we've been falling into somewhat too luxurious ways. Not that I am an anchorite; no – God forbid; if the present moment commends itself, I welcome it; I see no wisdom in schooling one's self to bear hardships that may not arise. Yes, I have heard of Henley – the Thames in July – the brilliant company – "

"It is awfully kind of you," said Vincent, rising, and preparing to go. "I am sure you won't regret it; it is the very prettiest thing in England. And to-morrow night I will let you know all the arrangements."

Full of joy was the heart of this young man as he strode away down to Grosvenor Place; and reckless and extravagant were the projects crowding in upon his brain as to how he should play the part of host. For one thing, he had the wherewithal; apart from the allowance given him by his father, an uncle had died leaving him a considerable sum; while his own personal habits were of the most inexpensive kind; so that he had plenty of money – too much money – to spend when any whim entered his head. And now, for the first time, old George Bethune and the fair Maisrie were to be openly and ostensibly his guests; and what was he not going to do in the way of entertaining them? If only he could make sure that Maisrie's cream-coloured costume would go well with calceolarias? – then with masses of calceolarias that house-boat would be smothered from stem to stern!

Nor did the knowledge that Mrs. Ellison would very likely be at Henley trouble him one bit. He was not ashamed of this recently-formed friendship; no; rather he was ready to proclaim it to all the world. Supposing Mrs. Ellison, shrewd-eyed as she was, were to come and inspect them, where could she find two more interesting human beings – the old man with his splendid nerve and proud spirit; amidst all his misfortunes, and in his old age, too, still holding his head erect; firm and unyielding as his own Craig-Royston: – the young girl with her pensive and mysterious beauty, her clear-shining, timid eyes, her maidenly dignity, her patience with the old man, and persuasive and affectionate guidance? Ashamed of this friendship? – he was more inclined to parade it, to boast of it; he would have scorned himself otherwise. Of course (as he could not hide from himself) Mrs. Ellison might be inclined to speculate upon ulterior motives, and might begin to ask what was to come of all this warmth of friendship and constant association. But any future possibilities Vincent put away even from himself; they were all too wild and strange as yet; he was content with the fascination he found in these pleasant little merry-makings, in the more intimate companionship of the small parlour, in listening, there or elsewhere and always, to Maisrie Bethune's voice. And perhaps it was only the sweetness of that voice, and the softly murmured r's, that had vibrated through his heart when she sang "Je ne puis rien donner, qu' mon coeur en mariage?" What other charm could lie in so simple a phrase? At all events, he thought he would ask Maisrie to take her violin down to Henley with her, just in case Mrs. Ellison should some evening pay a visit to the White Rose.

CHAPTER VI.

FAIRY LAND

It was a soft summer night, cool and fragrant after the heat of the long July day; and here, under an awning in the stern of the house-boat White Rose, were George Bethune, his granddaughter Maisrie, and Vincent Harris, looking out upon the magic scene that stretched away from them on each hand up and down the river. All the dusk was on fire with illuminations; the doors and windows of the house-boats sent forth a dull golden glow; there were coloured lamps, crimson, blue, and orange; there were strings of Chinese lanterns that scarcely moved in the faint stirring of wind; and now and again an electric launch would go by – stealthily and silently – with brilliant festoons of fierce white lights causing it to look like some gigantic and amazing insect irradiating the dark. The smooth surface of the stream quivered with reflections; here and there a rowing boat glided along, with a cool plash of oars; a gondola came into view and slowly vanished – the white-clad gondolier visionary as a ghost. Everywhere there was a scent of flowers; and on board this particular house-boat there was but the one prevailing perfume; for the sole decoration of the saloon consisted of deep crimson roses – a heavy splendour against the white and gold walls. From some neighbouring craft came the tinkle of a banjo; there was a distant hum of conversation; the unseen reeds and waterlilies could be imagined to be whispering in the silence. Among the further woods and meadows there was an occasional moving light; no doubt the campers-out were preparing to pitch their tents.

"Mr. Talkative of Prating-row is hardly wanted here to-night," old George Bethune was saying, unmindful of his own garrulous habits. "Music is better. What is that they are singing over there, Maisrie?"

"'The Canadian Boat Song,' grandfather."

"Oh, yes, of course: I thought it was familiar. And very pretty it sounds, coming across the water – though I do not know whether the air is modern or old. What I am certain of," he continued, raising his voice slightly as he usually did when he was about to discourse, "is that the finest national airs are ancient beyond the imagination of man to conceive. No matter when words may have been tacked on to them; the original melodies, warlike, or pathetic, or joyous, were the voice of millions of generations that passed away leaving us only these expressions of what they had felt. And if one could only re-translate them! – if one could put back into speech all the human suffering that found expression in such an air as 'The Last Rose of Summer,' wouldn't that electrify the world? I wonder how many millions of generations must have suffered and wept and remembered ere that piteous cry could have been uttered; and when I come to Tom Moore's wretched trivialities – "

"Grandfather," interposed Maisrie Bethune, quickly (for there were certain subjects that angered him beyond endurance) "you must not forget to show Mr. Harris that old play you found – with the Scotch airs, I mean – "

"Yes, that is curious," said the old man, yielding innocently. "Curious, is it not, that long before either Burns or Scott was born, a Scotchman named Mitchell should have collected over fifty of the best-known Scotch airs, and printed them, with words of his own; and that he should have chosen for the scene of his play the Borders of the Highlands, so as to contrast the manners and customs of the Highland chieftains and their fierce clansmen with those of the Lowland lairds and the soldiery sent to keep the peace between them. The Highland Fair was produced at Drury Lane about 1730, if I remember aright; but I cannot gather whether Ewen and Colin, and Alaster and Kenneth, impressed the Londoners much. To me the book is valuable because of the airs – though I could wish for the original songs instead of Mitchell's – "

Here Maisrie, seeing that her grandfather was started on a safer subject, quietly rose; and at the first pause she said —

"I see some of them are putting out their lights, and that is a hint for me to be off. I suppose we shall be wakened early enough to-morrow morning by the boats going by. Good-night, Mr. Harris! Good-night, grandfather!"

She shook hands with both, and kissed her grandfather; then she passed into the glow of that wonderful rose-palace, and made her way along to the ladies' cabin, into which she disappeared. Vincent now lit a cigar – the first during this day.

But when old George Bethune resumed his monologue, it was neither Highland clans nor Lowland songs that concerned him; it was something that proved to be a good deal more interesting to his patient listener. It was of Maisrie's youth that he spoke, and that in a far more simple and natural way than was his wont. There were no genealogical vauntings, no exalted visions of what she should be when she came in for her rights; there were reminiscences of her earlier years, and of his and her wanderings together; and there was throughout a certain wistfulness in his tone. For once he talked without striving for effect, without trying oratorically to convince himself; and it is to be imagined how entirely Vincent was engrossed by this simple recital. Not that there was any consecutive narrative. The young man could only vaguely gather that Maisrie's father had been a railway-engineer; that he had married a young Scotch lady in Baltimore before going out west; that Maisrie had been born in Omaha; that shortly thereafter her mother died; then came the collapse of certain speculations her father had been led into, so that the widower, broken in heart and fortune, soon followed his young wife, leaving their child to the care of her only surviving relative. Whether there were some remains of the shattered fortune, or whether friends subscribed to make up a small fund for them, it appeared that the old man and his granddaughter were not quite penniless; for he took credit to himself that he had spent nearly all their little income, arising from this unspecified source, on Maisrie's education.