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

evening was now well advanced. When they were ready, the frugal banquet was also ready; and the old man, seated at the head of the table, with Maisrie on his right, soon grew eloquent about the virtues of the bottle of claret which he had just opened. The girl – who did not take any wine – seemed hardly to hear. She was more thoughtful even than usual – perhaps, indeed, there was a trace of sadness in the delicate, pensive features. When the fresh-coloured servant-lass brought in the things, and happened to remain in the room for a second or two, Maisrie made some pretence of answering her grandfather; then, when they were left alone again, she relapsed into silence, and let him ramble on as he pleased. And he was in a satisfied and garrulous mood. The evening was fine and warm – the window behind them they had left open. He approved of the lodging-house cookery; he emphatically praised the claret, with the conviction of one who knew. Dinner, in fact, was half way over before the girl, looking up with her beautiful, clear, limpid eyes – beautiful although they were so strangely wistful – ventured to say anything.

      "Grandfather," she asked, with obvious hesitation, "did – did Lord Musselburgh – give you – something towards the publication of that book?"

      "Why, yes, yes, yes, certainly," the old man said, with much cheerfulness. "Certainly. Something substantial too. Why not?"

      The hot blood was in her face again – and her eyes downcast.

      "Grandfather," she said, in the same low voice, "when will you set about writing the book?"

      "Ah, well," he made answer, evasively, but with perfect good humour, "it is a matter to be thought over. Indeed, I heard in New York of a similar volume being got together; but I may be first in the field after all. There is no immediate hurry. A thing of that kind must be thought over and considered. And indeed, my dear, I cannot go back to America at present; for my first and foremost intention is that you should begin to learn something of your native country. You must become familiar with the hills and the moorlands, with the roaring mountain-torrents, and the lonely islands amid the grey seas. For of what account is the accident of your birth? Omaha cannot claim you. There is Scotch blood in your veins, Maisrie – the oldest in the land; and you must see Dunfermline town, where the King sate 'drinking the blood-red wine'; and you must see Stirling Castle, and Edinburgh, and Holyrood, and Melrose Abbey. Nebraska has no claim over you – you, a Bethune of Balloray. And you have some Highland blood in your veins too, my dear; for if the Grants who intermarried with the Bethunes were not of the northern Grants whose proud motto is 'Stand fast, Craigellachie!' none the less is Craig-Royston wild and Highland enough, as I hope to show you some day. And Lowland or Highland, Maisrie, you must wear the snood when you go north; a young Scotch lass should wear the snood; yes, yes, the bit of blue ribbon will look well in your hair. Melrose," he rambled on, as he filled his glass again, "and Maxwellton Braes; Yarrow's Banks; and fair Kirkconnel Lea: a storied country: romance, pathos, tragic and deathless music conjured up at every footstep. Instead of the St. Lawrence, you shall have the murmur of the Tweed: instead of Brooklyn – the song-haunted shores of Colonsay! But there is one place that with my will you shall never visit – no, not while there are strangers and aliens there. You may wander all over Scotland – north, south, east, and west – but never, never while I am alive, must you ask to see 'the bonny mill-dams o' Balloray.'"

      She knew what he meant; she did not speak. But presently – perhaps to draw away his thoughts from that terrible law-suit which had had such disastrous consequences for him and his – she said —

      "I hope, grandfather, you won't think of remaining in this country on my account. Perhaps it is better to read about those beautiful places, and to dream about them, than to see them – you remember 'Yarrow Unvisited.' And indeed, grandfather, if you are collecting materials for that book, why should we not go back at once? It would be dreadful if – if – the other volume were to come out first – and you indebted to Lord Musselburgh, or any one else; but if yours were written and published – if you could show them you had done what you undertook to do, then it would be all perfectly right. For you know, grandfather," she continued, in a gently persuasive and winning voice, "no one could do it as well as you! Who else has such a knowledge of Scotland and Scottish literature, or such a sympathy with Scottish music and poetry? And then your personal acquaintance with many of those writers – who used to welcome you as one of themselves – who else could have that? You could do it better than any one, grandfather; and you have always said you would like to do something for the sake of Scotland; and here is the very thing ready to your hand. Some other time, grandfather," she pleaded, with those beautiful clear eyes turned beseechingly upon him, "some other time you will take me to all those beautiful places. It is not as if I had come back home; I have hardly ever had a home anywhere; I am as well content in Montreal or Toronto as anywhere else. And then you could get all the assistance you might need over there – you could go to your various friends in the newspaper offices, and they would give you information."

      "Yes, yes; well, well," he said, peevishly; "I am not a literary hack, to be driven, Maisrie. I must have my own time. I made no promise. There, now, get me my pipe; and bring your violin; and play some of those Scotch airs. Yes, yes; you can get at the feeling of them; and that comes to you through your blood, Maisrie – no matter where you happen to be born."

      Twilight had fallen. At the open window, with a long clay pipe, as yet unlit, in his fingers, old George Bethune sate and stared out into the semi-darkness, where all was quiet now, for the carriages from the neighbouring mews had long ago been driven away to dinner-parties and operas and theatres. And in the silence, in the dusky part of the room, there arose a low sound, a tender-breathing sound of most exquisite pathos, that seemed to say, as well as any instrument might say —

      "I'm wearin' awa', Jean,

      Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean,

      I'm wearin' awa',

      To the land o' the leal;

      There's nae sorrow there, Jean,

      There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,

      The day's aye fair

      In the land o' the leal."

      Most tenderly she played, and slowly; and with an absolute simplicity of tone.

      "There's Scotch blood in your veins, Maisrie – Scotch blood," he said, approvingly, as the low-vibrating notes ceased.

      And then again in the darkness another plaintive wail arose – it was the Flowers o' the Forest this time – and here the old man joined in, singing in a sort of undertone, and with a sufficiently sympathetic voice:

      "I've heard the liltin' at our yowe-milkin',

      Lasses a-liltin, before the dawn o' day;

      But now there's a moanin' on ilka green loanin';

      The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away.

* * * * *

      "We hear nae mair liltin' at our yowe-milkin',

      Women and bairns are dowie and wae;

      Sighin' and moanin', on ilka green loanin' —

      The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede away."

      "Yes, yes," he said, as he rose and came away from the window, "it is the Scotch blood that tingles, it is the Scotch heart that throbs. 'Yestreen, when to the trembling strings, the dance gaed through the lichted ha' – ' Who but a Scotchman could have written that? Well, now, Maisrie, we'll have the gas; and you can get out the spirits; and we'll try some of the livelier airs. There's plenty of them, too, as befits a daring and energetic people – a nation of fighters. They were not always bewailing their losses in the field." And therewith the old man, pacing up and down before the empty fire-place, began to sing, with upright head and gallant voice —

      "London's bonnie woods and braes,

      I maun leave them a', lassie;

      Wha can thole when Britain's faes

      Would gie Briton law, lassie?

      Wha would shun the field o' danger?

      Wha to fame would live a stranger?

      Now when freedom bids avenge her,

      Wha