Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume I)

Almost immediately thereafter Mrs. Ellison had secured a boatman to pull her along to the White Rose; and as she drew near, she perceived that Maisrie Bethune was alone in the stern of the house-boat, standing upright on the steering-thwart, and with both hands holding a pair of field-glasses to her eyes – an unconscious attitude that showed the graceful figure of the girl to the best advantage.

The observant visitor could also remark that her costume was simplicity itself: a blouse of white soft stuff, with wide sleeves and tight cuffs; a belt of white silk round her waist; and a skirt of blue serge. She wore no head-covering; and her neatly-braided hair caught several soft-shining hues from the sun – not a wonder and glory of hair, perhaps, (as Vin Harris would have deemed it) but very attractive all the same to the feminine eye, and somehow suggestive of girlhood, and making for sympathy. And then, when a "Good-morning!" brought round a startled face and a proud, clear look that was nothing abashed or ashamed, Mrs. Ellison's conscience smote her that she had made use of the word adventuress, and bade her wait and see.

"Good-morning!" Maisrie Bethune answered; and there came a touch of colour to the fine and sensitive features as she knew that the young matron was regarding her with a continuation of the curiosity of the preceding afternoon.

"Have the gentlemen deserted you? Are you all alone?" Mrs. Ellison said.

"Oh, no; they are inside," was the response. "Would you like to see Mr. Harris? Shall I call him?"

"If you would be so kind!" – and therewith Maisrie disappeared into the saloon, and did not return.

It was Vincent that came out – with terrible things written on his brow.

"Don't look at me like that, Vincent Harris!" Mrs. Ellison exclaimed, half-laughing and half-annoyed. "What have I done? It is you who are so hasty and inconsiderate. But I've come to make it all up with you; and to ask you to ask me to dine with you to-night."

"No, thank you, aunt," he said, civilly enough. "You are very kind; but the fact is you would come with a prejudice; and so you'd better not come at all."

Well, she had to be circumspect; for not only was her own boatman behind her, but there was a possibility of some stray sentence penetrating into the saloon.

"Come," she said, in a sort of undertone, to him; and she had a pretty, coaxing, goodnatured way with her when she chose, "I am not going to allow you to quarrel with me, Vin; and I bring a flag of truce; and honourable proposals. I saw you were offended with me last evening; and perhaps I was a little selfish in refusing your invitation; but you see I confess the error of my ways, for here I am begging you to ask me again."

"Oh, if you put it that way, aunt – "

"Oh, no, I don't put it that way!" she said. "Not if you speak like that. Come, be amiable! I've just been talking to Lord Musselburgh – "

"And, of course, you crammed all your wild ideas into his head!" he exclaimed.

"Whoever heard of poor me having ideas!" she said, with a winning good-humour to which he could not but yield. "It isn't for me to have ideas; but I may have prejudices; and I'm going to leave them, all on board the Villeggiatura this evening, if you say yes."

"Of course I say yes – when you are like yourself, aunt," he responded at once, "and I shall be very glad indeed. And what is more," said he, in a still lower tone, "when you have really met – certain people – and when you have to confess that you have been unjust, I don't mean to triumph over you. Not a bit. If you have done any injustice, you know yourself how to make it up – to them. Now that's all right and settled: and I'm really glad you're coming. Seven o'clock; and the dress you've got on."

"Oh, but, mind you," said she, "you don't seem to appreciate my goodness in humbling myself so as to pacify your honourable worship. Do you know what I shall have to do besides? How am I to explain to the Lawrences my running away from their party? And here is Lord Musselburgh come down; and the Drexel girls are expected; so you see what I am doing for you, Vin – "

"You're always good to me, aunt – when you choose to be reasonable and exercise your common-sense – "

"Common-sense!" she retorted, with a malicious laugh in her eyes. Then she said, quite seriously: "Very well, Vin: seven o'clock: that is an excellent hour, leaving us all a nice long evening; for I must get back to the Villeggiatura early."

And so that was all well and amicably settled. But Master Vin, though young in years, had not tumbled about the world for nothing; and a little reflection convinced him that his pretty aunt's change of purpose – her abandonment of her resolve to remain discreetly aloof – had not been prompted solely, if at all, by her wish to have that little misunderstanding between him and her removed. That could have been done at any time; a few words of apology and appeal, and there an end. This humble seeking for an invitation which she had definitely refused the day before meant more than that; it meant that she had resolved to find out something further about these strangers. Very well, then, she was welcome: at the same time he was resolved to receive this second visit not as he had received the first. He was no longer anxious about the impression these two friends of his might produce on this the first of his relatives to meet them. She might form any opinion she chose: he was indifferent. Nay, he would stand by them on every point; and justify them; and defy criticism. If he had dared he would have gone to Maisrie and said: "My aunt is coming to dinner to-night; but I will not allow you to submit yourself to any ordeal of inspection. You shall dress as you like, as carelessly or as neatly as you like; you shall wear your hair hanging down your back or braided up, without any thought of her; you shall be as silent as you wish – and leave her, if she chooses, to call you stupid, or shy, or sulky, or anything else." And he would have gone to the old man and said: "Talk as much and as long as ever you have a mind; you cannot babble o' green fields too discursively for me; I, at all events, am sufficiently interested in your claims of proud lineage, in your enthusiasm about Scotland and Scottish song, in your reminiscences of many lands. Be as self-complacent and pompous as you please; fear nothing; fear criticism least of all." And perhaps, in like manner, he would have addressed Mrs. Ellison herself: "My dear aunt, it is not they who are on their trial, it is you. It is you who have to show whether you have the courage of honest judgment, or are the mere slave of social custom and forms." For perhaps he, too, had imbibed a little of the "Stand Fast, Craig Royston!" spirit? Bravado may be catching – especially where an innocent and interesting young creature of eighteen or so is in danger of being exposed to some deadly approach.

Of course this carelessly defiant attitude did not prevent his being secretly pleased when, as seven o'clock drew near, he perceived that Maisrie Bethune had arranged herself in an extremely pretty, if clearly inexpensive, costume; and also he was in no wise chagrined to find that Mrs. Ellison, on her arrival, appeared to be in a very amiable mood. There was no need to ask her "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war?": her manner was most bland; in particular she was adroitly flattering and fascinating towards old George Bethune, who accepted these little attentions from the charming widow with a grave and consequential dignity. The young host refused to sit at the head of the table; he had the places arranged two and two – Mrs. Ellison, of course, as the greater stranger and the elder woman, on his right, and Maisrie opposite to him. During the general dinner-talk, which was mostly about the crowd, and the races, and the dresses, Mrs. Ellison casually informed her nephew that she had that afternoon won two bets, and also discovered that she and Lord Musselburgh were to meet at the same house in Scotland the coming autumn: perhaps this was the explanation of her extreme and obvious good humour.

And if any deep and sinister design underlay this excessive amiability on her part, it was successfully concealed; meantime all was pleasantness and peace; and the old gentleman, encouraged by her artless confidences, spoke more freely and frankly about the circumstances of himself and his granddaughter than was his wont.

"I see some of the papers are indignant about what they call the vulgar display of wealth at Henley regatta," the young widow was saying, in a very unconcerned and easy fashion; "but I wish those gentlemen would remember that there is such a thing as imputation of motives, and that imputing motives is a common resource of envy. If I have a house-boat, and try to make it as pretty as ever I can, both inside and out, why should that be considered display of wealth – display of any sort? I like nice things and comfortable things around me; I don't mind confessing it; I am a selfish woman – "

"There are some who know better, aunt," her nephew interposed.

"Young gentleman," said she, promptly, "your evidence isn't worth anything, for you have expectations. And I am not to be flattered. I admit that I am a selfish and comfort-loving woman; and I like to see pretty things around me, and an abundance of them; and if I can only have these at the cost of being charged with ostentation and display, very well, I will pay the price. If it comes to that, I never saw anything beautiful or desirable in poverty. Poverty is not beautiful; never was, never is, never will be beautiful; it is base and squalid and sordid; it demeans men's minds, and stunts their bodies. I dare say poverty is an excellent discipline – for the rich, if they would only submit to a six mouths' dose of it now and again; but it is not a discipline at all for the poor; it is a curse; it is the most cruel and baleful thing in the world, destroying self-respect, destroying hope, ambition, everything. Oh, I know the heresy I'm talking. There's Master Vin's papa: he is never done preaching the divine attributes of poverty; and I have no doubt there are a good many others who would be content to fall down and worship la bonne déesse de la pauvreté– on £30,000 a year!"

Master Vin sniggered: he was aware that this was not the only direction in which the principles of the philosopher of Grosvenor Place were somewhat inconsistent with his practice. However, it was old George Bethune who now spoke – as one having experience.

"I quite agree," said he to Mrs. Ellison. "I can conceive of nothing more demoralising to the nature of man or woman than harsh and hopeless poverty, a slavery from which there is no prospect of escape. My granddaughter and I have known what it is to be poor; we know it now; but in our case every day brings possibilities – we breathe a wider air, knowing that at any moment news may come. Then fancy plays her part; and imagination can brighten the next day for us, if the present be dark enough. Hopeless poverty – that is the terrible thing; the weary toil leading to nothing; perhaps the unfortunate wretch sinking deeper and deeper into the Slough of Despond. Maisrie and I have met with trials; but we have borne them with a stout heart; and perhaps we have been cheered – at least I know I have been – by some distant prospect of the Bonnie Mill-dams o' Balloray, and a happier future for us both."

"Balloray?" she repeated, inquiringly.

"Balloray, in Fife. Perhaps you have never heard of the Balloray law-suit, and I will not inflict any history of it upon you at present," he continued, with lofty complaisance. "I was merely saying that poverty is not so hard to bear when there are brighter possibilities always before you. If, in our case, we are barred in law by the Statute of Limitations, there is no Statute of Limitations in the chapter of accidents. And some remarkable instances have occurred. I remember one in which a father, two sons, and a daughter were all drowned at once by the sinking of a ship, and the property went bodily over to the younger branch of the family, who had been penniless for years. It is the unexpected that happens, according to the saying; and so we move from day to day towards fresh possibilities; and who can tell what morning may not bring us a summons to make straight for the Kingdom of Fife? Not for myself do I care; I am too old now; it is for my granddaughter here; and I should pass happily away and contented if I could leave her in sole and undisputed possession of the ancient lands of the Bethunes of Balloray."

What pang was this that shot through Vincent's heart? He suddenly saw Maisrie removed from him – a great heiress – unapproachable – guarded by this old man with his unconquerable pride of lineage and birth. She might not forget old friends; but he? The Harris family had plenty of money; but they had nothing to add to the fesse between three mascles, or, and the otter's head; nor had any of their ancestors, so far as was known, accompanied Margaret of Scotland on her marriage with the Dauphin of France, or taken arms along with the great Maximilien de Bethune, duc de Sully. In imagination the young man saw himself a lonely pedestrian in Fifeshire, regarding from a distance a vast baronial building set amid black Scotch firs and lighter larches, and not daring even to draw near the great gate with the otter's head in stone over the archway. He saw the horses being brought round to the front entrance – a beautiful white Arab and a sturdy cob: the hall door opens – the heiress of Balloray descends the wide stone steps – she is assisted to mount, and pats that beautiful white creature on the neck. And will she presently come cantering by – her long hair flowing to the winds, as fair as it used to be in the olden days when the shifting lights and mists of Hyde Park gave it ever-varying hues? Can he steal aside somewhere? – he has no desire to claim recognition! She has forgotten the time when, in the humble lodgings she used to sing "Je ne puis rien donner, qu' mon coeur en mariage"; she has wide domains now; and wears an ancient historic name. And so she goes along the white highway, and under the swaying boughs of the beeches, until she is lost in a confusion of green and gold…

"And in the meantime," said Mrs. Ellison (Vincent started: had that bewildering and far-reaching vision been revealed to him all in one brief, breathless second?) "in the meantime, Mr. Bethune, you must derive a great deal of comfort and solace from your literary labours."

"My literary labours," said the old man, slowly and absently, "I am sorry to say, are mostly perfunctory and mechanical. They occupy attention and pass the time, however; and that is much. Perhaps I have written one or two small things which may survive me for a year or two; but if that should be so, it will be owing, not to any merit of their own, but to the patriotism of my countrymen. Nay, I have much to be thankful for,", he continued, in the same resigned fashion. "I have been spared much. If I had been a famous author in my younger days, I should now be reading the things I had written then with the knowledge that I was their only reader. I should be thinking of my contemporaries and saying 'At one time people spoke of me as now they are speaking of you.' It is a kind of sad thing for a man to outlive his fame; for the public is a fickle-minded creature, and must have new distractions; but now I cannot complain of being forgotten, for I never did anything deserving of being remembered."

"Grandfather," said Maisrie, "surely it is unfair of you to talk like that! Think of the many friends you have made through your writings."

"Scotch friends, Maisrie, Scotch friends," he said. "I admit that. The Scotch are not among the forgetful ones of the earth. If you want to be made much of," he said, turning to Mrs. Ellison, "if you want to be regarded with a constant affection and gratitude, and to have your writings remembered and repeated, by the lasses at the kirn, by the ploughman in the field, by gentle and simple alike, then you must contrive to be born in Scotland. The Scottish heart beats warm, and is constant. If there is a bit of heather or a blue-bell placed on my grave, it will be by the hand of a kindly Scot."

Dinner over, they went out and sate in the cool twilight and had coffee, while the steward was clearing away within. Mrs. Ellison, faithful to her promise to Lord Musselburgh, said she had not long to stay; but her nephew, having a certain scheme in his mind, would not let her go just yet; and by and bye, when the saloon had been lit up, he asked her, in a casual kind of fashion, whether before she went she would not like to hear Miss Bethune sing something.

"Oh, I should like it of all things!" she replied instantly, with a reckless disregard of truth.

Maisrie glanced at her grandfather.

"Yes, certainly – why not?" said he.

"Then," said their young host, "I propose we go in to the saloon again; it will be quieter." For there was still a plash of oars on the river, and an echoing call of voices in the meadows beyond.

When they had returned into the saloon, Maisrie took up her violin; and Mrs. Ellison bravely endeavoured to assume an air of interested expectancy. The fact was she disliked the whole proceeding; here would be some mere exhibition of a schoolgirl's showy accomplishments; she would have to say nice things; and she hated telling lies – when nothing was to be gained. Maisrie made some little apology; but said that perhaps Mrs. Ellison had not heard the Claire Fontaine, which is a favourite song of the Canadians. Then she drew her bow across the strings.

Vincent need not have been so anxious. Hardly had Maisrie begun with

"A la claire fontaine,

M'en allant promener —"

than Mrs. Ellison's air of forced attention instantly vanished; she seemed surprised; she listened in a wondering kind of way to the low, clear tones of the girl's voice that were so curiously sincere and penetrating and simple. Not a schoolgirl's showing off, this; but a kind of speech, that reached the heart.

"Sur la plus haute brancheLe rossignol chantait.Chante, rossignol, chante,Toi qui as le coeur gai.Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,Jamais je ne t'oublierai."

Did she notice the soft dwelling on the r's, Vincent asked himself; and had she ever heard anything so strangely fascinating? Then the simple pathos of the story – if there was any story —

"Chante, rossignol, chante,Toi qui as le coeur gai;Tu as le coeur à rire,Moi je l'ai-t-à pleurer.Tu as le coeur à rire,Moi j'e l'ai-t-à pleurer:J'ai perdu ma maîtresseSans l'avoir mérité.Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,Jamais je ne l'oublierai."

"That is enough," said Maisrie, with a smile, and she laid the violin in her lap. "It is too long. You never hear it sung altogether in Canada – only a verse here and there – or perhaps merely the refrain – "

"But is there more? – oh, please sing the rest of it – it is delightful – so quaint, and simple, and charming!" Mrs. Ellison exclaimed; and Master Vin was a proud and glad young man; he knew that Maisrie had all unaided struck home.

The girl took up her violin again, and resumed:

"J'ai perdu ma maîtresseSans l'avoir mérité.Pour un bouquet de rosesQue je lui refusai.Pour un bouquet de rosesQue je lui refusai.Je voudrais que la roseFût encore au rosier.Je voudrais que la roseFût encore au rosier,Et moi et ma maîtresseDans les mem's amitiés.Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime,Jamais je ne t'oublierai!"

Well, when the singing, if it could be called singing, was over, Mrs. Ellison made the usual little compliments, which nobody minded one way or the other. But presently she had to leave; and while she was being rowed up the river by her nephew she was silent. When they reached the Villeggiatura(the people were all outside, amid the confused light of the lanterns in the dusk) she said to him, in a low voice, as she bade him good-bye —

"Vin, let me whisper something to you – a confession. Claire Fontaine has done for me. That girl is a good girl. She is all right, any way."

CHAPTER VIII.

AN ALARM

On a certain still, clear, moonlight night a dog-cart containing two young men was being driven away from the little town of Mendover, out into the wide, white, silent country. The driver was Lord Musselburgh, and he seemed in high spirits, talking to his companion almost continuously, while he kept the stout little cob going at a rattling pace.

"I am more pleased than I can tell you," he was saying. "Quite a triumph! Why, you took to it as a duck takes to water. Of course there's something in having a responsive audience; and you can always get a noble band of patriots to cheer your proposal for a progressive income-tax when not one in ten of them has any income-tax to pay. I'm afraid they weren't quite so enthusiastic about your scheme of compulsory insurance; indeed they seemed a little disappointed and offended; the Champion of the Proletariat was playing it a little low down on them; but a heavily increasing income-tax – oh, yes, that was splendid! – they saw the Rothschilds caught at last, and had visions of a land in which there shall be no more poor-rates or police-rates, perhaps not even water-rates or gas-rates. But it was your confounded coolness that surprised me – no beating about the bush – walking straight into it – and without preparation, too – "

"I knew what I had to say," Vincent interposed, with a becoming modesty, "and it seemed simple enough to say it."

"Yes, and so it is – when you have acquired the knack of forgetting yourself," said the young nobleman, oracularly. "And that appears to have come naturally to you, my boy. However, this is why I am so particularly pleased with your successful first appearance," Lord Musselburgh proceeded, as the dog-cart went bowling along the silent, white highway, between the black hedges. "I am about to unfold to you a great idea, Vin – perhaps prematurely, but you will be discreet. The project is mine; but I want help to carry it through; you and I must work together; and years and years hence we shill be recognised as the Great Twin Brethren, who saved the falling fortunes of England."

Was he in jest or earnest? Vincent, knowing his friend's sub-cynical habit of speech, listened without interposing a word.

"We shall earn for ourselves a deathless renown, at very little cost – to us; it's the other people who will have to pay, and we shall have all the glory. Now what I propose is briefly this: I propose to give all those good folk who profess a warm regard for their native country a chance of showing what their patriotism is worth. I don't want them to fight; there isn't any fighting going on at present to speak of; and in any case the rich old merchants, and maiden ladies, and portly bishops, and ponderous judges – well, they'd make an awkward squad to drill; but I mean to give them an opportunity of testifying to their affection for the land of their birth; and you, my blazing young Tory-Democrat, if you can speak as freely as you spoke to-night, you must carry the fiery torch north, south, east, and west – till you've secured Westminster Abbey for both of us, or at least a tablet in St. Paul's. Then look what a subject for your eloquence you have – the guarding of England from any possible combination of her foes – the island-citadel made impregnable – 'compass'd by the inviolate sea' – defence not defiance – you understand the kind of thing. But really, Vin, you know, there is going to be an awful stramash, as my old nurse used to say, in Europe before the century is out; and England's safety will lie in her being strong enough to remain aloof. And how? Why, by trebling her present navy."

"Trebling her present navy!" Vincent repeated, in a vague sort of way.

"Yes," Musselburgh went on, coolly. "And it can easily be done, without involving a single farthing of taxation. I want the people of this country to show what they can do voluntarily; I want them to make a tremendous effort to render Great Britain secure from attack for a century at least; and the manner of doing it is to form a National Patriotic Fund, to which everybody, man and woman, merchant and apprentice, millionaire and club-waiter, can subscribe, according to their means and the genuineness of their patriotism. Here is a chance for everybody; here is a test of all those professions of love of country. Why, it would become a point of honour, with the very meanest, if the nation were thoroughly aroused, and if a splendid example were set in high places. The Queen, now – who is more directly interested in the safety of the country than she is? – why should she not head the list with £100,000? I would call the fund the Queen's Fund; and I should not wonder if we were to get two or three maniacs – very useful maniacs – patriots they would have been called in other days – to cut their possessions in half, and hand the one half bodily over to Her Majesty: that would be something like an example!"