Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume I)

"But is it all a wild speculation, Musselburgh?" asked Vincent, who was puzzled. "Or do you mean it seriously?"

"Ha and hum," said the young peer, significantly. "That depends. I should want to sound some of the dukes about it. And first of all I must have some sort of scheme ready, to get rid of obvious objections. They might say 'Oh, you want to treble the Navy? Then in twenty years you'll find yourself with a crowd of obsolete ships, and all your money gone.' That is not what I mean at all. I mean the formation of an immense voluntary national fund, which will keep the Navy at double or treble its present strength, not by a sudden multiplication of ships, but by gradually adding vessels of the newest construction, as improvements are invented. An immense fund, doubtless; for of course there would be maintenance; but what couldn't a rich country like England do if she chose? And that's what I'm coming to, with regard to you, my young Demosthenes. It would be infinitely better – it would be safer – it would be building on securer foundations – if the demand for such a movement came from the country itself. If the Queen, and the dukes, and the millionaires were to subscribe as if in answer to an appeal from the people, the enthusiasm would be tremendous; it would be such a thing as never happened before in the history of England: talk about noble ladies flinging their jewels into the public treasury? – why, every school-girl would bring out her hoarded pocket-money, with her lips white with patriotic fervour. England can subscribe on all possible occasions for the benefit of other countries: for once let her subscribe on her own behalf!" Lord Musselburgh went on, though it might have been hard to say what half-mocking bravado intermingled with his apparent enthusiasm. "And that's where you would come in. You would be the emissary, the apostle, the bearer of the fiery torch. You've done very well with the grocers' assistants of Mendover; but fancy having to wake up England, Canada, Australia, and the Cape to the necessity for making the Mother Country once for all invulnerable, in the interests of peace and universal freedom. Why, I could become eloquent about it myself. They cheered your graduated income-tax; but what would they say to this? Fancy what could be done if every man in this country were to pledge himself to give a year's income! We don't ask him to go out and have his legs or his arms amputated, or his head shot off; we only ask for a year's income – to secure peace and prosperity for himself and his children and his children's children. If there is any patriotism in the country at all, who would say no? And then when there is an iron belt round England, and when there is a floating mass of iron that could be sent at any moment to form a wall round any of her dependencies, then, I suppose, there might be a splendid assemblage in Westminster Hall; and you and I – as the instigators of this great national movement – but my imagination stops short: I don't know what they will make of us."

He himself had to stop short, for he was passing through a wide gateway into the grounds surrounding the Bungalow, and the carriage-drive was almost invisible under the overshadowing trees. Presently they had drawn up in front of the long, low, rambling house; and here were lit windows, and an open door, and servants. The two young men descended, and entered, and went into the billiard-room, where cigars and soda-water and similar things had been set out in readiness for them; and here Lord Musselburgh, lying back in a cane-bottomed chair, proceeded to talk in a less random fashion about this project of his, until he had almost persuaded his companion that there was something reasonable and practicable in it, if only it could be properly initiated.

"Anyhow," said he to his guest, as they were both retiring for the night, "it is some big movement like that, Vin, my lad, that you want to get identified with, if your aim is to make a position in English public life. You have advantages. You can speak well. You will have plenty of money. You are beginning with the proletariat – that is laying a foundation of popularity. You have youth and heaps of strength on your side. Then – is known to be your friend. What more?"

What more, indeed? The future seemed to smile on this young man; and if his dreams, waking or sleeping, had been of great achievements and public triumphs, who could have wondered? But curiously enough, just at this time, the forecasts that came to him in moments of quiet were apt to be sombre. He dreaded he hardly knew what. And these vague forebodings of the day took a more definite shape in the far-reaching visions of the night; for again and again there recurred to him that phantasmal picture that had suddenly startled him when old George Bethune was talking of the possibilities that might be lying in store for his granddaughter. Vin Harris had never seen Balloray – did not know where it was, in fact; but night after night he beheld with a strange distinctness the big baronial building, and the black firs, and the gate with the otter's head in stone. Had that been all! But as regularly there came forth the tall young girl with the long-flowing hair; and he was a poor wanderer, cowering away from recognition; and again she would ride by, along the white road, until she was lost in the dappled sun and shadow under the beeches. Then there was a song somewhere – perhaps it was the trembling leaves that whispered the refrain – but it was all about separation, and loneliness, and the sadness of remembrance and of loss. Chante, rossignol, chante, toi qui as le coeur gai– this was what he heard, or seemed to hear, away in that distant land, where he had been left alone … J'ai perdu ma maîtresse, sans l'avoir mérité … It was strange that no birds sang in these woods, that no lark hung quivering in those skies: all was silence – save for that continuous murmur of farewell… Lui ya longtemps que je t'aime, jamais je ne t'oublierai. And sometimes the murmur rose into a larger monotone; the big grey building, and the black firs, and the highway, and the beeches, disappeared; and behold in their stead was a great breadth of sea, desolate, and rain-swept, and void of all sign of life. And was this the barrier now between him and her? Not merely that she was the heiress of Balloray, under the guardianship of her implacably proud old grandfather, but that she was away in some far land, beyond those never-ending myriad voices of the deep? … Pour un bouquet de roses, que je lui refusai … What wrong had he done her? What had he denied her, in the time when they were as boy and girl together – when there was no thought of her being the heiress of Balloray – when she used to walk down through Hyde Park, in her simple dress, and sit on the bench, while her grandfather read his newspaper? Then the grey dawn would come; and he would awake to the knowledge that he had been tortured by mere phantasies; and yet these left something in his mind, even during the actual and practical daylight hours. He begun to wish that there was some bond – of what nature he had not determined – for it was all a vague longing and wistful desire – a bond that could so bind Maisrie and him together that that great width of sea should not intervene. For it was a sorrowful kind of thing – even when the white hours of the daylight told him he had only seen it in a dream.

But apart from all these dim anxieties and this haunting unrest, came the strictly matter-of-fact consideration that within an appreciable time old George Bethune and his granddaughter would be returning to the United States. That was no spectral ocean that would then lie between Maisrie and him, but three thousand miles of the Atlantic; and who could tell when the two wanderers might ever see England again? Nay, had not he himself been implored to help in bringing about this separation? Maisrie had begged of him to urge upon her grandfather the necessity of getting the American book done first, before setting out on the poetic pilgrimage through Scotland which was to yield fruit of another kind; and, of course, if the old man consented, the first step to be taken was a voyage to New York. Vincent had drawn many a fancy picture of a little group of three, wandering away through the rich-hued autumn days, by "lone St. Mary's silent lake," or by the banks of the silver Tweed; but now all that was to be sacrificed; and he himself was to do what he could towards sending the old man back to America, and Maisrie with him. Then there would be no more of the long, quiet days of study, made happy by anticipations of the evening; no more of the pleasant little dinners in this or that restaurant; no more of those wonderful twilights in the little parlour, with their enchantments of music and happy converse. London, with Maisrie Bethune three thousand miles away: that would be a strange thing – that he could even now hardly imagine to himself.

Nay, it was a thing that he looked forward to with such an unreasoning dread and dismay that he began to construct all sorts of mad schemes for defeating any such possibility; and at last he hit upon one that seemed more or less practicable, while it would in the meantime virtually absolve him from his promise to Maisrie. On the morning after the meeting of the Mendover Liberal Association, the two young men were returning to town by train; and Vincent said to his companion —

"You were telling me the other night of the Scotch newspaper-man whom you got to know in New York: what did you say his name was?"

"Oh, you mean Hugh Anstruther? I hope I spoke no ill of him; for an enthusiastic patriotism such as his is really something to admire in these days. A capital fellow, Hugh; until I fell across him in New York I did not know that I had one virtue transcending all the other virtues, and that was simply my being a brother Scot."

"What did you say was the name of the paper that he edits?"

"The Western Scotsman."

"And it was he who gave Mr. Bethune a letter of introduction to you?"

But here Lord Musselburgh's manner instantly changed: he had been answering these questions in a careless way, looking out of the carriage window most of the time: now he turned to his companion, and regarded him with some scrutiny.

"Why do you ask, Vin?" he said. "Do you want to find out something further about the old man?"

Vincent's forehead flushed; and his eyes gloomed dark.

"I do not," he made answer, in distinct tones. "I thank goodness my nature is not so suspicious. It seems to me extraordinary that two human beings who have done nothing in the world to deserve it should be regarded with a constant mistrust and doubt. Why? Do you suspect everybody else in the same way?"

"Oh, don't say that I suspect them," Lord Musselburgh exclaimed at once – for he was an exceedingly good-natured young man and had no wish to offend. "I don't know them well enough – don't know anything at all about them, in fact."

"You told me yourself that my aunt and you had been talking them over; and I gathered enough from what you said," was the younger man's retort.

"Mrs. Ellison is naturally anxious about anything that concerns your future, Vin – or seems likely to concern it," Musselburgh said. "And you should be the last to object."

"But I do object," he said, stiffly. "I object altogether to her canvassing the character of any friends of mine; and to her putting her doubts and suspicions and hints about them into any third person's imaginations. Oh, yes, I could make out quite clearly what she had been saying. That night at Henley she came on a visit of inspection; it was perfectly obvious. And what is more, she came with the hope of having her suspicions confirmed; and I suppose she was horribly disappointed that Maisrie Bethune did not drop her h's, and that Mr. Bethune did not beg the loan of a sovereign from her!"

"Why so passionate, Vin – why so indignant?" his companion put in, glancing at him curiously.

"Because I say it is a shame – a monstrous shame," the young man said, with flaming eyes, "that anyone should be insulted so! Is it their fault that they have no friends, that they are unknown, that they are poor? To be wealthy is to be virtuous, of course; if you have a long balance at your bankers', you are above suspicion then; if you have house-boats, and four-in-hands, and gold plate, you're all right. I suppose," said he, altering his tone, "that it was on that very evening – the evening of her inspection – that my aunt was kind enough to talk over those two friends of mine with you, and tell you of all the portentous things she suspected of them. But I presume she did not repeat to you the very last words she used to me as she said good-night?"

"About what?"

"About Miss Bethune," said Vincent – though it cost him an indescribable effort to pronounce her name.

"Well, I believe she did," Lord Musselburgh admitted. "For she had just come away from hearing Miss Bethune sing some Canadian song or another; and she was very much struck; and she said she had confessed as much to you. Oh, more than that – I don't precisely remember the words. But really, Vin, when you come to think of it, you must acknowledge that there is not much guidance as to character, or antecedents, or any thing else, in the mere singing of a song. Mrs. Ellison, who is always posing as a callous woman of the world, is really very sympathetic and generous, and warm-hearted; and she was quite taken captive by the charm and simplicity of this Claire Fontaine– is that the name of it? – but at the same time I should not place too great a value – "

"I quite agree with you," the younger man said, interrupting without apology. "I place no more value on my aunt's acquittal and commendation than on her previous suspicions. And – and – if you don't mind, Musselburgh, I would rather not have the question discussed further, nor Miss Bethune's name mentioned in any way whatsoever."

"Oh, but remember I said nothing against her," Lord Musselburgh finally added, in perfect good humour. "How could I? I hope your new friends are all you think them; and as for the young lady, it is difficult to believe any harm of so refined and sweet a face. But I hope you won't concern yourself too much with them, Vin; you have other, and perhaps more serious, interests in life; and it seems to me that everything promises well for you. Why, at this moment, man, don't you know what ought to be occupying all your attention?"

"What?" his companion asked – perhaps glad enough to get away from that delicate topic.

"At least I know what I should be thinking of if I were in your shoes. I should be wondering how much space the editor of the Mendover Weekly Guardian was going to give me on Saturday morning next."

It was another editor whom Vincent had in his mind at that moment. As soon as he got back to London he wrote and despatched the following letter, which was addressed to "Hugh Anstruther, Esq., Western Scotsman Office, New York, U.S.A."

"DEAR SIR,

"I hope you will be so kind as to consider the contents of this note as strictly private and confidential. In a recent conversation with Lord Musselburgh he informed me that it was you who had given a letter of introduction to him to Mr. George Bethune; and from Mr. Bethune himself I learn that he, Mr. Bethune, is about to bring out a volume on the Scottish poets in America, as soon as he can conveniently get the materials together. But to this end it would appear that he must revisit the United States and Canada, to obtain particulars of the lives of the various poets and verse-writers, and perhaps, also, examples of their work. Now I wish to ask you, as a friend of Mr. Bethune's, whether all this fatigue and travel might not be spared him, supposing there were some person or persons in this country willing to defray the cost of having those materials collected for him. To speak plainly, do you, sir, know of any writer, connected with the press or otherwise, who would undertake, for a sufficient consideration, to bring together biographical memoranda of the authors in question, along with specimens of their work, which could be sent over here to Mr. Bethune, for him to put into shape and issue in book-form? Mr. Bethune, as you know, is an old man, who must surely have had enough of travelling; moreover he has in mind a leisurely ramble through Scotland which, while also leading to literary results, would involve much less fatigue than a voyage to the United States and Canada. I should be greatly obliged if you would tell me whether you consider it practicable to collect those materials by deputy; also, if you know of anyone capable of undertaking the task; and what remuneration he would probably require. I beg you to forgive me, a stranger, for thus appealing to you; but I know you will not grudge a little trouble for the sake of a friend and a fellow Scotchman.

"Yours faithfully and obediently,

"VINCENT HARRIS."

After sending off that letter the young man's spirits lightened considerably; he saw there was still a chance that Maisrie Bethune, her grandfather, and himself might together set out on that coveted perambulation of the legend-haunted districts of the North. And now he and they had returned to their ordinary mode of life – which perhaps pleased him better than the ostentatious festivities of Henley. Here was no staring crowd, here were no suspicious friends, to break in upon their close and constant companionship. He rejoiced in this isolation; he wished for no fourth person at the quiet little dinners in the restaurants; he had no desire that anyone should share the privacy of the hushed small parlour where old George Bethune loftily discoursed of poetry and philosophy, of ancient customs and modern manners, and where Maisrie played pathetic Scotch airs on the violin, or sang in her low clear voice of le pont d'Avignonor perhaps of Marianson, dame jolie. Moreover, he could not fail to perceive, and that with an ever-increasing delight, that her old expression of sad and wistful resignation was gradually being banished from her eyes; and not only that, but a quite fresh colour was come into her cheeks, so that the pale sun-tinge was less perceptible. Perhaps it was the companionship of one nearer to her own age that had made a difference in her life; at all events much of her former shyness was gone; she met his look frankly, sometimes with a touch of gratitude, sometimes with simple gladness, as if his mere presence was something that pleased her. When she was watering the flowers in the little balcony, and caught sight of him over the way, she nodded and smiled: he wondered whether it was that faint-sun-tinge of the complexion that made her teeth seem so clearly white. He began to forget those dreams of a wide intervening sea: this present existence was so peaceable, and contented, and happy. And in spite of Maisrie's injunction, those dreams of Scotland would recur: he saw three newly-arrived strangers walking along Princes Street, Edinburgh, in the silver glare of the morning; and the middle one of the three – looking away up to the dusky shadows of the Castle rock – was no other than Maisrie Bethune herself, with light and gladness shining in her eyes.

And what had old George Bethune to say to this constant association and this fast friendship between the two young people? Well, old George Bethune had an admirable capacity for enjoying the present moment; and so long as the dinner was fairly cooked and the claret to his taste, so long as he had a small and faithful audience to listen to his rhapsodies about Scottish song and Scottish heroism, and so long as Maisrie's violin was in tune and her hand as sensitive as ever on the trembling strings, he did not seem to pay much heed to the future. Perhaps it was but natural that one who had wandered so far and wide should welcome a little peace at last; and perhaps he intentionally blinded his eyes; at all events the young people were allowed the utmost freedom of companionship – it was as if these three formed but one family.

One night, as Vincent was about to leave, the old gentleman said to him —

"About to-morrow evening: I presume we dine at Mentavisti's?"

"Oh, yes, certainly: we've tried a good many places, and we can't do better than Mentavisti's," the young man answered – as if it mattered one brass farthing to him what sort of dinner there was, or where he got it, so long as Maisrie was at the same table!

"Ah, very well. For this is how I am situated," said Mr. Bethune, gravely and grandly as befitted the seriousness of the theme. "I have an appointment in Jermyn-street at six o'clock. I may be detained. Now I can undertake to be at Mentavisti's Restaurant at seven – and when the dinner-hour is once fixed, to play shilly-shally with it seems to me abominable – but I am not so sure that I shall have time to return home first. It will be better, therefore, and everyway safer, for Maisrie to come down by herself in a cab – "

"But mayn't I call for her?" the young man suggested at once. "You know she would much rather walk down than drive."

"Oh, very well, very well, if you don't mind," said Mr. Bethune, with a lofty condescension – or indifference; while Maisrie, instead of being in the least confused by this proposal, looked up with perfectly frank and pleased eyes, apparently giving him a little message of thanks.

Nor was she in the least embarrassed on the following evening, when he was ushered upstairs by the landlady's daughter. Maisrie was alone in the little parlour, ready-dressed except as regarded her gloves, and she was putting a final touch to the few flowers with which she had adorned the table.

"Good evening," said she, quite placidly. "I will be with you in a moment, as soon as I have dried my fingers."

She disappeared for a second, and returned. He hesitated before accompanying her to the door.

"Won't you give me one of those flowers?" said he, rather breathlessly.

She seemed a little surprised.

"Now that I think of it," she said, "I have never seen you wear a flower in your coat, as other gentlemen do. And I'm afraid there isn't one here nearly fine enough – "

"If you were to give me a flower, I should not destroy it by wearing it in my coat!" said he.

"Oh, merely a flower?" she asked. She went to the table. "Will this one do?"

It was a white geranium that she handed him, simply enough: he took out his pocket-book, and carefully placed it between the leaves. For the briefest instant she regarded him as if in wonder that he should seek to preserve so worthless a trifle; but she made no remark; and then unconcernedly and cheerfully she led the way downstairs, and together they passed out into the open street.

It was a marvellous and bewildering thing to think that he should be in sole and complete charge of her, here in the midst of the great and busy world of London. Did these hurrying people guess at his proud elation, his new-found sense of guardianship and responsibility, his anxiety that all things should be pleasant to her; or had they hardly time even to notice this beautiful young creature, her step light as a fawn, fresh colour in her fair cheeks, happiness radiant in her eyes? Perhaps they heeded her and the tall and handsome youth by her side as little as she heeded them; for indeed she seemed to be entirely engrossed in her companion, talking, smiling, replying to him without a shadow of self-consciousness or restraint. To him this new relationship was an amazing kind of thing: she did not seem even to perceive it. To him it was an epoch in his life, to be for ever remembered: to her – well, nearly every evening she walked out in similar fashion with her grandfather, and she did not appear to notice any difference: at least she showed no sign.

But all at once Maisrie altered her manner; and that was when he in the lightness of his heart informed her that there was still a chance of their setting out on that long contemplated pilgrimage to the various poetic shrines of Scotland.

"Mr. Harris," she said, proudly, "you made me a promise – "

"Yes, I know I did," he said; "but things have changed, and I'm going to explain to you; and I think you'll find everything satisfactory. But first of all, before I begin, I wish you wouldn't call me 'Mr. Harris.' It sounds detestable. You who are so natural and straightforward in all your ways – why don't you call me Vincent?"

"Don't you think that Mr. Vincent might be a fair compromise?" she asked gently, and with her eyes lowered.