Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume II). William Black

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Her tears were running afresh now; and at sight of them the young man threw to the winds all his doubts and conjectures concerning George Bethune's honesty. That was not the question now.

      "No, you shall not go to them!" said he, with indignant eyes. "You? – you go to any one – in that way? No, you shall not. I will go. It is a question of money: I will pay them their money back. Tell me who they are, and the amounts; and they shall have every farthing of their money back, and at once: what can they ask for more?"

      For a second she regarded him with a swift glance of more than gratitude; but it was only to shake her head.

      "No, how could I allow you to do that? What explanation could you make? There must be some other way – often I have wished that ray grandfather would let me try to earn something – I am willing enough – and I am never sure of my grandfather, because he can believe things so easily." She had grown calmer now; and over her face there had come the curious look of resignation that he had noticed when first he saw her, and that seemed so strange in a young girl. "I might have expected this," she went on, absently and sadly. "My grandfather can persuade himself of anything: if he thinks a thing is done, that is enough. I am sure I have urged him to get on with this book – not that I thought anybody could be so mean and cruel as to step in and forestall him – but that he might get free from those obligations; but I suppose when he had once arranged all the materials in his own mind he felt that the rest was easy enough and that there was no hurry. He takes things so lightly – and now – the humiliation – well, I shall have to bear that – "

      "I say you shall not," he said, hotly. "I claim the privilege of a friend, and you cannot refuse. Who are the people to whom your grandfather is indebted over this volume?" he demanded.

      "For one, there is Lord Musselburgh," she said, but indifferently, as if no hope lay that way. "And there is Mr. Carmichael, who owns an Edinburgh paper – the Chronicle."

      "Very well," said he, promptly. "What is to hinder my explaining to them that circumstances have occurred to prevent Mr. Bethune bringing out the volume he had projected; and that he begs to return them the money they had been good enough to advance?"

      She shook her head again and sighed.

      "No. It is very kind of you: You are always kind. But I could not accept it. I must try some way myself – though I am rather helpless: it is so difficult to get my grandfather to see things. I told you before: he lives in a world of imagination, and he can persuade himself that everything is well, no matter how we are situated. But it was shameful of them," she said, with her indignation returning, and her lips becoming at once proud and tremulous, "to cheat an old man out of so poor and small a thing! Why, they all knew he was going to write this book – all the writers themselves – they were known to himself personally – and glad enough they were to send him their verses. Well, perhaps they are not to blame. Perhaps they may have been told that he had given up the idea – that is quite likely. At all events, I don't envy the miserable creature who has gone and taken advantage of my grandfather's absence – "

      She could say no more just then, for there was a sound below of the door being opened and shut; and the next minute they could hear old George Bethune coming with his active step up the flight of stairs, while he sang aloud, in fine bravura fashion, "'Tis the march – 'tis the march – 'tis the march of the Cameron men!"

      The little dinner in the restaurant that evening was altogether unlike those that had preceded it. The simple and innocent gaiety – the sense of snugness and good-comradeship – appeared to have fled, leaving behind it a certain awkwardness and restraint. Vincent was entirely perplexed. The story he had heard from America was in no way to be reconciled with Maisrie's interpretation of her grandfather's position; but it was possible that the old man had concealed from her certain material facts; or perhaps had been able to blind himself to them. But what troubled the young man most of all was to notice that the old look of pensive resignation had returned to Maisrie's face. For a time a brighter life had shone there; the natural animation and colour of youth had appeared in her cheeks; and her eyes had laughter in them, and smiles, and kindness and gratitude; but all that had gone now – quite suddenly, as it seemed – and there had come back that strange sadness, that look of unresisting and hopeless acquiescence. Alone of the little party of three George Bethune retained his usual equanimity; nay, on this particular evening he appeared to be in especial high spirits; and in his careless and garrulous good-humour he took little heed of the silence and constraint of the two younger folk. They made all the better audience; and he could enforce and adorn his main argument with all the illustrations he could muster; he was allowed to have everything his own way.

      And perhaps Vincent, thinking of Maisrie, and her tears, and the hopelessness and solitariness of her position, may have been inclined to resent what he could not but regard as a callous and culpable indifference. At all events, he took the first opportunity that presented itself of saying —

      "I hope I am not the bearer of ill-news, Mr. Bethune; but I have just heard from New York that someone over there has taken up your subject, and that a volume on the Scotch poets in America is just about ready, and will be published immediately."

      Maisrie glanced timidly at her grandfather; but there was nothing to fear on his account; he was not one to quail.

      "Oh, indeed, indeed," said he, with a lofty magnanimity. "Well, I hope it will be properly and satisfactorily done: I hope it will be done in a way worthy of the subject. Maisrie, pass the French mustard, if you please. A grand subject: for surely these natural and simple expressions of the human heart are as deeply interesting as the more finished, the more literary, productions of the professional poet. A single verse, rough and rugged as you like – and the living man stands revealed. Ay, ay, so the book is coming out. Well, I hope the public will be lenient; I hope the public will understand that these men are not professional poets, who have studied and written in leisure all their lives; it is but a homely lilt they offer; but it is genuine; it is from the heart – and it speaks to the heart – "

      "But, grandfather," said Maisrie, "you were to have written the book!"

      "What matters it who compiles the pages? – that is nothing at all; that is in a measure mechanical. I am only anxious that it should be well done, with tact, and discretion, and modesty," he continued – and with such obvious sincerity that Vincent was more than ever perplexed. "For the sake of old Scotland I would willingly give my help for nothing – a little guidance here and there – a few biographical facts – even an amended line. But after all the men must speak for themselves; and well they will speak, if the public will but remember that these verses have for the most part been thought of during the busy rush of a commercial life, and written down in a chance evening hour. It will be a message across the sea, to show that Scotland's sons have not forgotten her. MacGregor Crerar – Donald Ramsay – Hugh Ainslie – Evan MacColl – Andrew Wanless – I wonder if they have got Wanless's address to the robin that was sent to him from Scotland – you remember, Maisrie?

      'There's mair than you, my bonnie bird,

      Hae crossed the raging main,

      Wha mourn the blythe, the happy days,

      They'll never see again.

      Sweet bird, come sing a sang to me,

      Unmindfu' o' our ills;

      And let us think we're ance again

      'Mang our ain heather hills!'

      The book will be welcomed by many a proud heart, and with moist eyes, when it gets away up among the glens, to be read by the fireside and repeated at the plough; and I think, Maisrie, when you and I take a walk along Princes-street in Edinburgh we may see more than one or two copies in the bookseller's windows. Then I hope Blackwood will have a friendly word for it; and I am sure Mr. Carmichael will allow me to give it a hearty СКАЧАТЬ