Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume I)

'Says Wolseley, says he,

To Arabi,

You can fight other chaps, but you can't fight me.'

– every word I 'eard. But would you believe it, sir, when I was in the Oxbridge music-'all I could 'ardly listen, I was so frightened, and my ears a-buzzin, and me 'ardly able to breathe. Lor, sir, that was a experience! Nobody looked at me, and that was a mercy – I couldn't ha' stood it. Even the chairman, as was not more than six yards from me, 'e didn't know who I was, and not being acquainted with him, I couldn't offer him somethink, which I should have considered it a proud honour so to do on sich an occasion. And if I might make so bold, sir – "

He was fumbling in his breast-pocket.

"What – more verses?" said Mr. Bethune, good-naturedly. "Well, let's see them. But take a seat, man, take a seat."

Rather timidly he drew a chair in to the table; and then he said with appealing eyes:

"But wouldn't you allow me, sir, to fetch you a little drop of the whiskey – I assure you it's the best!"

"Oh, very well – very well; but bring two tumblers; single drinking is slow work."

In a few seconds those two curiously-assorted companions – the one massive and strong-built, impressive in manner, measured and emphatic of speech, the other feeble and fawning, at once eager and vacuous, his face ever ready to break into a maudlin smile – were seated in confabulation together, with some sheets of scribbled paper between.

"And if you will excuse my being so bold, sir," continued Hobson, with great humility, "but I 'ave been reading the little volume of Scotch songs you lent me, and – and – "

"Trying your hand at that, too?"

"Only a verse, sir."

Mr. Bethune took up the scrap of paper; and read aloud:

"O leese me on the toddy,the toddy,the toddy,O leese me on the toddy,We'll hae a willie-waught!"

"Well, yes," he said, with rather a doubtful air, "you've got the phrases all right – except the willie-waught, and that is a common error. To tell you the truth, my friend, there is no such thing as a willie-waught. Waught is a hearty drink; a richt gude-willie waught is a drink with right good will. Willie-waught is nothing – a misconception – a printer's blunder. However, phrases do not count for much. Scotch phrases do not make Scotch song. It is not the provincial dialect – it is the breathing spirit that is the life" – and therewith he repeated, in a proud manner, as if to crush this poor anxious poet by the comparison,

"I see her in the dewy flower,Sae lovely, sweet, and fair;I hear her voice in ilka birdWi' music charm the air;There's not a bonnie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green,Nor yet a bonnie bird that singsBut minds me o' my Jean."

"Beg pardon, sir – Miss Bethune?" said Hobson, enquiringly; for he evidently thought these lines were of the old gentleman's own composition. And then, as he received no answer, for Mr. Bethune had turned to his pipe, he resumed, "Ah, I see, sir, I 'ave not been successful. Too ambitious – too ambitious. It was you yourself, sir, as advised me to write about what I knew; and – and in fact, sir, what I see is that there is nothing like patriotism. Lor, sir, you should see them young fellers at the Oxbridge – they're as brave as lions – especially when they've 'ad a glass. Talk about the French! The French ain't in it, when we've got our spirit up. We can stand a lot, sir, yes, we can; but don't let them push us too far. Not too far. It will be a bad day for them when they do. An Englishman ain't given to boasting; but he's a terror when his back's up – and a Scotchman too, sir, I beg your pardon – I did not mean anything – I intended to include the Scotchman too, I assure you, sir. There's a little thing here, sir," he continued modestly, "that I should like to read to you, if I may make so bold. I thought of sending it to Mr. Coldstream – I'm sure it would take – for there's some fight in the Englishman yet – and in the Scotchman too, sir," he instantly added.

"A patriotic poem? – Well?"

Thus encouraged the pleased poet moistened his lips with the whiskey and water he had brought for himself and began —

"Where's the man would turn and fly?Where's the man afraid to die?It isn't you, it isn't I.No, my lads, no, no!"

Then his voice had a more valiant ring in it still:

"Who will lead us to the fray?Who will sweep the foe away?Who will win the glorious day?Of England's chivalry?"

It is true he said, "Oo will sweep the foe awye?" but these little peculiarities were lost in the fervour of his enthusiasm.

"Roberts – Graham – Buller – Wood —"

He paused after each name as if listening for the thunderous cheering of the imaginary audience.

"And many another 'most as good:They're the men to shed their bloodFor their country!"

Then there was a touch of pathos:

"Fare thee well, love, and adieu!"

But that was immediately dismissed:

"Fiercer thoughts I have than you;We will drive the dastard crewInto slavery!"

And then he stretched forth his right arm, and declaimed in loud and portentous tones —

"See the bloody tented-field;Look the foe – they yield! – they yield!Hurrah! hurrah! our glory's sealed!Three cheers for victory!"

Suddenly his face blanched. For at this moment the door opened: a tall woman appeared – with astonishment and indignation only too legible in her angular features.

"Hobson!" she exclaimed; and at this awful sound the bold warrior seemed to collapse into a limp rag. "I am surprised – I am indeed surprised! Really, sir, how can you encourage him in such impudence? Seated at your own table and drinking too, I declare," she went on, as she lifted up the deserted tumbler – for her bellicose husband had hastily picked up his MSS. and vanished from the room. "Really, sir, such familiarity!"

"In the republic of letters, my good Mrs. Hobson," said Mr. Bethune with a smile, "all men are equal. I have been much interested in some of your husband's writings."

"Oh, sir, don't put sich things in his 'ead!" she said, as she proceeded to lay the cloth for dinner. "He's a fool, and that's bad enough; but if so be as you put things in his 'ead, and he giving of hisself airs, it'll be hawful! What good he is to anybody, I don't know. He won't clean a winder or black a boot even."

"How can you expect it?" George Bethune said, in perfect good humour. "Manual labour would be a degradation. Men of genius ought to be supported by the State."

"In the workus, I suppose," she said, sharply – but here Maisrie Bethune came upstairs and into the room, carrying some parcels in her hand, and instantly the landlady's face changed its expression, and became as amiable and smiling as the gaunt features would allow.

At dinner the old man told his granddaughter that he had procured (he did not say how) places at the – Theatre for the following evening, and seemed to be pleased about this little break in their quiet lives.

"But why did you go to such expense, grandfather?" Maisrie said. "You know I am quite happy enough in spending the evening at home with you. And every day now I ask myself when I am to begin copying the poems – for the volume, you know. You have sent for them to America, haven't you? But really you have such a wonderful memory, grandfather, I believe you could repeat them all – and I could write them down – and let the printers have them. I was so glad when you let me help you with the book you published in Montreal; and you know my writing is clear enough; you remember what the foreman printer said? Don't you think we could begin to-night, grandfather? It pleases you to repeat those beautiful verses – you are so fond of them – and proud of them because they are written by Scotchmen – and I am sure it would be a delight to me to write them out for you."

"Oh, yes, yes," he said, fretfully, "but not to-night. You're always in such a hurry, Maisrie." And then he added, in a gentler way, "Well, it is a wonderful blessing, a good memory. I never want for a companion, when I've a Scotch air or a Scotch song humming through my brain. On the darkest and wettest day, here in this big city, what have you to do but think of and at once you have before you golden banks, and meadows, and June skies, and all else is forgotten. Indeed, lass, Scotland has become for me such a storehouse of beautiful things – in imagination – that I am almost afraid to return to it, in case the reality might disappoint me. No, no, it could not disappoint me: I treasure every inch of the sacred soil: but sometimes I wonder if you will recognise the magic and witchery of hill and glen. As for me, there is naught else I fear now; there are no human ties I shall have to take up again; I shall not have to mourn the 'Bourocks o' Bargeny.'"

'The broom, the yellow, yellow broom,The broom o' the Cowdenknowes,'

"What is that, grandfather?"

"If you had been brought up in Scotland, Maisrie, you would know what the bigging o' bourocks is among children – play-houses in the sand. But sometimes the word is applied to huts or cottages, as it is in the title of Hugh Ainslie's poem. That poem is one that I shall be proud to give a place to in my collection," he continued, with an air of importance. "Hugh Ainslie is no more with us; but his countrymen, whether in America or at home, are not likely to forget the 'Bourocks o' Bargeny.'"

"Can you remember it, grandfather?"

"Can I not?" said he; and therewith he repeated the lines, never faltering once for a phrase —

"I left ye, Jeanie, blooming fair'Mang the bourocks o' Bargeny;I've found ye on the banks o' Ayr,But sair ye're altered, Jeanie.I left ye like the wanton lambThat plays 'mang Hadyed's heather;I've found ye noo a sober dame —A wife and eke a mither.I left ye 'mang the leaves sae greenIn rustic weed befittin';I've found ye buskit like a queen,In painted chaumer sittin'.Ye're fairer, statelier, I can see,Ye're wiser, nae doubt, Jeanie;But oh! I'd rather met wi' thee'Mang the bourocks of Bargeny!"

"It's very sad, grandfather," she said, wistfully.

"The way of the world – the way of the world," said he; and observing that she had finished and was waiting for him, he forthwith rose and went to the mantelpiece for his pipe. "There's many a true story of that kind. Well, Maisrie, you'll just get your violin, and we'll have the 'Broom o' the Cowdenknowes?'" And while she went to fetch the violin, and as he cut his tobacco, he sang in a quavering voice —

"O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom,The broom o' the Cowdenknowes,I wish I were at hame againWhere the broom sae sweetly grows!"

And then he went to the window, to smoke his pipe in peace and quiet, while Maisrie, seated further back in the shadow of the room, played for him the well-known air. Did she guess – and fear – that she might have an audience of more than one? At all events her doubts were soon resolved: when she had ceased, and after a second or so of silence, there came another sound into the prevailing hush – it was one of the Songs without Words, and it was being played with considerable delicacy and charm.

"Hallo," said Mr. Bethune, when he heard the first low-rippling notes, "have we a musical neighbour now?"

"Yes, grandfather," Maisrie replied, rather timidly. "Last night, when you were out, some one played."

"Ah, a music-mistress, I dare say. Poor thing – perhaps all alone – and wishing to be friendly in this sort of fashion."

They listened without further speech until the last notes had gradually died away.

"Now, Maisrie, it is your turn!"

"Oh, no, grandfather!" she said, hastily.

"Why not?"

"It would be like answering – to a stranger."

"And are we not all strangers?" he said, gently. "I think it is a very pretty idea, if that is what is meant. We'll soon see. Come, Maisrie; something more than the plashing of a southern fountain – something with northern fire in it. Why not 'Helen of Kirkconnell'?"

The girl was very obedient; she took up her violin; and presently she was playing that strangely simple air that nevertheless is about as proud and passionate and piteous as the tragic story to which it is wedded. Perhaps the stranger over there did not know the ballad; but George Bethune knew it only too well; and his voice almost broke into a sob as he said, when she had finished —

"Ah, Maisrie, it was no music-master taught you that; it was born in your nature. Sometimes I wonder if a capacity for intense sympathy means an equal capacity for suffering; it is sad if it should be so; a thick skin would be wholesomer – as far as I have seen the world; and few have seen more of it. Well, what has our neighbour to say?"

Their unseen companion on the other side of the little thoroughfare responded with a waltz of Chopin's – a mysterious, elusive sort of a thing, that seemed to fade away into the dark rather than to cease. Maisrie appeared disinclined to continue this do ut des programme; but her grandfather overruled her; and named the airs for her to play, one by one, in alternation with those coming from the open window opposite. At last she said she was tired. It was time for the gas to be lit, and the hot water brought up for her grandfather's toddy. So she closed the window and pulled down the blind; lit up the room; rang the bell for the hot water; and then placidly sate down to her knitting, whilst her grandfather, brewing himself an unmistakable gude-willie waught, and lighting another pipe, proceeded to entertain her with a rambling disquisition upon the world at large, but especially upon his own travels and experiences therein, his philosophical theories, and his reminiscences of the Scotch countryside ballads of his youth.

That mystic and enigmatic conversation with their neighbour over the way was not continued on the following evening, for the old man and his granddaughter went to the theatre; but on the next night again it was resumed; and thereafter, on almost every evening, the two windows replied to each other, as the twilight deepened into dusk. And Maisrie was less reluctant now – she almost took this little concert à deux as a matter of course. For one thing, the stranger, whoever he or she might be, did not seem in any way anxious to push the acquaintance any further; no one ever appeared at that open window; nor had she ever encountered any one coming out as she stood on the doorstep waiting for her grandfather. As for him, he still maintained that the new occupant of those rooms must be a woman – perhaps some shy creature, willing to think that she had friendly neighbours, and yet afraid to show herself. Besides, the music that came in response to Maisrie's Scotch airs was hardly what a man would have chosen. The stranger over there seemed chiefly fond of Mendelssohn, Chopin, and Mozart; though occasionally there was an excursion into the Volkslieder domain – "Zu Strassburg auf der Schanz," "Es ritten drei Reiter zum Thore hinaus," "Von meinetn Bergli muss i scheiden," or something of that kind; whereas, if it had been a man who occupied those rooms, surely they would have heard – during the day, for example – a fine bold ditty like "Simon the Cellarer," "The Bay of Biscay," or "The Friar of Orders Gray," with a strident voice outroaring the accompaniment? Maisrie answered nothing to these arguments; but in spite of herself, when she had to cross the room for something or other, her eyes would seek that mysteriously vacant window, with however rapid and circumspect a glance. And always in vain. Moreover, the piano was never touched during the day: the stranger invariably waited for the twilight before seeking to resume that subtle link of communication.

Of course this state of things could not go on for ever – unless the person over there possessed the gift of invisibility. One morning as Maisrie and her grandfather were going out as usual for a stroll in the Park, she went downstairs first, and along the lobby, and opened the door, to wait for him. At the very same instant the door opposite was opened, and there, suddenly presented to her view, was a young man. He was looking straight across; she was looking straight across; their eyes met without the slightest chance of equivocation or denial; and each knew that this was recognition. They regarded each other but for a swift second; but as plainly as possible he had said to her "Do you guess? Are you angry? No, do not be angry!" – and then his glance was averted; he shut the door behind him; and slowly proceeded on his way. Was she surprised? No. Perhaps she was startled by the unexpectedness of the meeting; perhaps her heart was beating a little more quickly than usual; but a profound instinct had already told her that it was no woman who had spoken to her in those dusky twilights, evening after evening. A woman would not have wrapped herself up in that mysterious secrecy. A woman who wished to make friends with her neighbours over the way would have come to the window, would have smiled, would have made some excuse for calling. Maisrie did not ostensibly look after the young man – but she could see him all the same, until he turned the corner. She was vaguely troubled. The brief glance she had met had in it a kind of appeal. And she wished to say in return that she was not offended; that, being strangers, they must remain strangers; but that she had not taken his boldness ill. She wished to say – she did not know what. Then her grandfather came down; and they went away together; but she uttered not a syllable as to what had just occurred. It was all a bewilderment to her – that left her a little breathless when she tried to think of it.

That night, when the customary time arrived, she refused to take up her violin; and when her grandfather remonstrated, she had no definite excuse. She hesitated and stammered – said they had not played chess for ever so long – or would he rather have a game of draughts? – anything but the violin.

"Are you forgetting your good-natured neighbour over there?" her grandfather asked. "It will be quite a disappointment for her. Poor thing, it appears to be the only society she has; we never hear a sound otherwise; there seems to be no one ever come to talk to her during the day, or we should hear a voice now and again."

"Yes, but, grandfather," said Maisrie, who seemed much embarrassed, "don't you think it a little imprudent to – to encourage this kind of – of answering each other – without knowing who the other person is?"

"Why, what can be more harmless!" he protested, cheerfully, and then he went on: "More harmless than music? – nothing, nothing! Song is the solace of human life; in joy it is the natural expression of our happiness – in times of trouble it refreshes the heart with thoughts of other and brighter days. A light heart – a heart that can sing to itself – that is the thing to carry you through life, Maisrie!" And he himself, as he crossed the room to fetch a box of matches, was trolling gaily, with a fine bravura execution —

"The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,Fu' loud the wind blows frae the ferry;The ship rides by the Berwick Law,And I maun leave my bonnie Mary."

Maisrie was not to be moved; but she appeared down-hearted a little. As time went on the silence in the little street seemed somehow to accuse her; she knew she was responsible. She was playing draughts with her grandfather, in a perfunctory sort of way. She remembered that glance of appeal – she could not forget it – and this had been her answer. Then all of a sudden her hand that hovered over the board trembled, and she had almost dropped the piece that was in her fingers: for there had sprang into the stillness a half-hushed sound – it was an air she knew well enough – she could almost recognise the words —

"Nachtigall, ich hör' dich singen;S'Herz thut mir im Leibe springen,Komm nur bald und sag mir's wohl,Wie ich mich verhalten soll."

Her grandfather stopped the game to listen; and when the soft-toned melody had ceased, he said —

"There, now, Maisrie, that is an invitation: you must answer."

"No, no, grandfather," she said, almost in distress. "I would rather not – you don't know – you must find out something about – about whoever it is that plays. I am sure it will be better. Of course it is quite harmless, as you say – oh, yes, quite harmless – but I should like you to get to know first – quite harmless, of course – but I am frightened – about a stranger – not frightened, of course – but – don't ask me, grandfather!"

Well, it was not of much concern to him; and as he was winning all along the line, he willingly returned to the game. It had grown so dark, however, that Maisrie had to go and light the gas – having drawn down the blinds first, as was her invariable habit. When she came back to the table she seemed to breathe more freely; though she was thoughtful and pre-occupied – not with the game. The music on the other side of the way was not resumed that evening, as far as they could hear.

Several days passed; and each evening now was silent. Maisrie saw nothing more of the young man; indeed, she studiously refrained from glancing across to the other side of the street – except when she was going out, and wanted to make sure there was no one there. But something was now about to happen that entirely altered this disposition of affairs.

One morning George Bethune and his granddaughter had gone for their accustomed stroll in Hyde Park, and in course of time had taken their places on a bench near the Serpentine, while the old man had pulled out a newspaper and began to read it. The day was sultry, despite an occasional stirring of wind; and Maisrie sitting there, and having nothing to do but look at the water, and the trees, and the sky, observed that all the world around them was gradually growing darker. In the south, especially, the heavens were of a curious metallic hue – a livid grey, as it were; while across that hung two horizontal belts of deepest purple that remained motionless, while other and lighter tags of vapour were inter-twisting with each other or melting away into nothingness. Those two clouds were not of the usual cloud-form at all – they were rather like two enormous torpedoes lying one above the other; and there was a sombre deadness of hue about them that looked ominous. Suddenly, as she was thus vaguely regarding those long purple swathes, there ran across them – springing vertically upwards – a quivering line of yellow flame – so thin it was, it appeared like a thread of golden wire – and when that had vanished, there was a second or two of silence, followed by a dull, low, rumbling noise that seemed to come from a considerable distance. She was not much alarmed. There were no signs of a terrific thunderstorm; probably a few more flashes would serve to loosen and disperse those lowering clouds, and allow the day to clear.

It was at this moment that a young man came up and addressed Mr. Bethune – with a certain courteous hesitation, and yet in frank and ingenuous tones.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said he, "but may I claim the privilege of a neighbour to offer you this umbrella – I'm afraid there's a shower coming – and the young lady may get wet."

It was a pleasant voice; George Bethune looked up well-disposed towards the stranger, whoever he might be. And the face of the young man was also prepossessing; it was something more than handsome; it was intelligent and refined; and the honest and straightforward eyes had a certain confidence in them, as if they were not used to having their friendly advances repulsed.

"I thank you – I thank you," said George Bethune, with much dignity. "I had not observed. But you will want the umbrella for yourself – we can get shelter under one of the trees."

"Would that be wise, sir, in a thunderstorm?" said the young man. "Oh, no, let me give you the umbrella – I don't mind a shower – and it won't be more than that, I fancy."

George Bethune accepted the proffered courtesy.

"Here, Maisrie, since this young gentleman is so kind; you'd better be prepared. A neighbour did you say, sir?" he continued.

"A very near neighbour," answered the young man, with a smile, and he seated himself by the side of Mr. Bethune without more ado. "I have often thought of speaking to you, and asking to be allowed to make your acquaintance; for you seem to have very few visitors – you will pardon my curiosity – while I have none at all."

"Oh, really, really," the old man said, somewhat vaguely; perhaps he was wondering how so faultlessly attired a young gentleman (his patent-leather boots, for example, were of the most approved pattern) should have chosen lodgings in so humble a thoroughfare.