Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume II)

What illustration could improve on that? – why, it burns clear as flame! Then, again, take the girl who was drowned by her sister in 'the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray' – "

At this point the silent and neglected Maisrie suddenly looked up – glancing from her grandfather to the young man in a curiously appealing way. She seemed to say 'Grandfather, you forget: it is not Balloray, it is Binnorie;' and again 'Vincent, he has forgotten: that is all.' But neither of them took any notice of her; nay, the younger man, in his insensate indignation and disappointment, would not look her way at all; while old George Bethune, with his mind fixed on those imaginary pictures, went on in a rapt fashion to repeat certain of the verses —

"Ye couldna see her yellow hair,
Balloray, O Balloray,
For gowd and pearls that were sae rare,
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.

Ye couldna see her middle sma',
Balloray, O Balloray,
Her gowden girdle was sae braw,
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.

Ye couldna see her lily feet,
Balloray, O Balloray,
Her gowden fringes were sae deep,
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray.

'Sair will they be, whae'er they be,
Balloray, O Balloray,
The hearts that live to weep for thee!'
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Balloray!"

"It is like a picture by one of the pre-Raphaelites," Vincent said; and then the old man proceeded to talk of paper and type and binding, as if the new work were just ready for press.

But silence was not to reign for ever between those two. On their way home Mr. Bethune was talking of "The Demon Lover," of its alleged Italian origin, and of a suggestion he had seen somewhere that it was no forsaken sweetheart who had come to tempt the wedded wife, but a fiend adopting that disguise. When they reached the little parlour he began to search about for the volume in which "The Demon Lover" was thus treated; but could not find it; whereupon he went off upstairs, to see if it was not among his books and papers there. As soon as he had gone, Maisrie rose and came over to where the young man was standing by the fireplace.

"What have I done, Vincent?" she said.

"Oh, nothing," he made answer, avoiding her eyes.

"I have a right to know," she said, proudly.

"It is nothing," said he. "I – I made a mistake; that is all."

She looked at him in mute reproach: then she turned away, and went back to her seat. There was a paper-knife on the table beside her; she took that into her hands, and began to finger it; her eyes were downcast; he was free to go now, when he chose.

But he did not go. On the contrary, after a second or two of vacillation, he followed her.

"Maisrie," said he, in a very different tone, "perhaps it's all a mistake on my part. If so, I am sorry. I don't want to vex you —

"I don't want to vex you, Vincent," said she, in a somewhat low voice. "Tell me what it is."

"Well," said he, "I came here this afternoon thinking – hoping – there might be some more definite understanding between you and me: yes, I was hoping for much – and then – and then I found you quite careless and thoughtless, just as if nothing at all had happened last night – "

"Last night?" she repeated.

"Yes," said he, rather reproachfully. "Don't you remember what happened last night? Don't you know that you pressed my hand to your heart? But perhaps that was nothing – perhaps that meant nothing at all – "

"It meant a very great deal, Vincent," said she, warmly, looking up at him with honest eyes. "We were talking of the value of true friends – and I could not say much – yet I wished to tell you what I thought of all your goodness and kindness. Indeed, indeed it meant a great deal, Vincent – and I hoped you would understand – "

"I have understood too much," said he, and he was silent for a second. Then he went on. "I thought you had something more than that to say to me, Maisrie. For why need I tell you what you must have guessed already? You know I love you; you must have seen it all this time; there was no need for me to speak. And when the future has but the one hope for me, that some day or other you should be my wife, then perhaps I was too eager to believe it had all come true – that you were giving me a promise in that quiet way – and no need of a spoken word between us. But I was mistaken, I see. You only meant friendship. You only wanted to say 'Thank you!' to a friend – "

But by this time she had risen from her chair; and there was in her eyes the strangest look of pride, and joy, and perhaps, too, of sadness.

"Do you know what you are saying, Vincent?" she said, quite gently. "You – of all people in the world – "

She hesitated: she regarded, with admiring, and grateful, and affectionate eyes, this handsome lad on whom fortune had shed all good things – and perhaps she could not quite confess all she thought.

"You – of all people in the world – every one making much of you – every one hoping such great things of you – and you come seeking a wife here." She glanced round at the shabby little apartment. Then she turned her eyes towards him again; and there was a smile in them, of an unstable kind; and tears were gathering in the lashes. "Well," she said, "it will be something for me to think of. It will be something for me to be proud of. There can be no harm in that. I shall be able to say to myself 'Vincent thought so well of you that he once asked you to be his wife' – "

"But I don't know what you mean, Maisrie!" he exclaimed, and in spite of her he seized her hand and held it tight between his two. "What do you mean? You are going to be my wife! Oh, I don't want you to make rash promises; I don't want to frighten you; no, I want you to be of good heart, and you will see things will turn out all right in the end. And if you don't know your own mind yet – if you are afraid to say anything – won't you let me guess? Surely we have not been all this time together, and seeing so much of each other, without getting to know each other pretty intimately? And if I did make a mistake last night – well, that is a trifling matter – and I was too presumptuous – "

She managed to release her hand.

"Sit down, Vincent, and let me talk to you," she said. "Perhaps I may not have another chance; and I do not wish you ever to look back and say I was ungrateful, or unreasonable, or cold-hearted. Cold-hearted? – not that – not that – towards you!" And then she went on in rather a sad way, "I think the time has about come that we should part. It has been a pleasant companionship: I am not likely ever to forget it. But your future is so important, and ours so uncertain, that I am sure the sooner we go separate ways the better. And I am anxious to make a change now. I think if my grandfather and I went away somewhere where we could live more cheaply – where there would be fewer temptations towards the spending of money – I could do something to support him, and leave him the luxury of his books. I am a woman now – I want to work – "

"You work? Not while I can!" he said, hotly.

She went on without heeding him.

"That is why I have been glad to see him so eager about this book of ballads. If he could only get rid of all indebtedness, to friends and others, through this book, then we should start clear; and I should ask him not to fret any more about his literary schemes. He is an old man. He has done everything for me: why should I not do something for him now? And I have no pride. The story about those Scotch estates was always a kind of fairy tale to me; I never had any real belief in the possibility of their coming to us; I was never a fine lady even in imagination. So that it matters little to me what I turn my hand to; if what little education I have had is useless, I would take to something else; I would work about a farm-house as soon as anything – for I am a great deal stronger than you may imagine – "

"Oh, what are you talking about, Maisrie!" he said, with simulated anger. "If you think I am going to allow any such folly, you are mistaken. There are plenty of dairymaids in the world without you. And I have the right to say something – I claim the right: I am going to interfere, whether you like it or not. When you speak of your duty towards your grandfather, that I understand. He has been everything to you: who would ask you to forsake him? But, as you say, he is an old man. If anything were to happen to him, think of your own position. You have hardly a friend in the world – a few acquaintances in Canada, perhaps – but what is that? You will want some one to protect you: give me that right! If I let you go from me now, how am I to find you again? – how am I to know what may happen? Maisrie, have courage! – be frank! – tell me that the little message of last night meant something more!"

The eloquence was not in the words, but in the vibrating tones of his voice; and there were tears in her eyes as she answered —

"Vincent, I cannot – I dare not! You don't know how grandfather and I are situated: you are so generous, so open-minded, that – that you see everything in so favourable a light; but then other people might step in —

"Between you and me? Who?" he demanded, with set lips.

"Ah," she said, with a sigh, "who can tell? And besides – besides – do you not think I am as proud of you as any one? – do you not think I am looking forward to all that is expected of you? – and when I hear of you as this or that, I will say to myself 'I knew what Vincent was going to do; and now he is glad that he did not hamper himself out of – out of pity – for a friendless girl' – "

But here she broke down altogether, and covered her face with her hands, and sobbed without possibility of concealment. He was by her side in a moment; he laid his hand on the down-bent head – on the soft hair.

"Maisrie," he said, with the utmost gentleness, "don't make me angry. If you have anything to say why you cannot, or will not, be my wife, tell me; but do not be unreasonable and foolish. You speak of my future: it is nothing to me without you. You talk of the expectations of my friends: I tell you that my life is my own. And why should you be any drag or hamper – you! I wish you would think of yourself a little: not of me. Surely there is something better in the world than ambition, and figuring before the public in newspapers." Then he stopped for a second or two; and resumed in a lower and different tone. "Of course, if you refuse me your love, that is different. That I can understand. I have done nothing to deserve it: I have come to you as a beggar. If you refuse me that, there is nothing more to be said. I do not blame you. If I have made a mistake, so much the worse for me – "

She rose.

"Vincent," she said, between her half-stifled sobs, "you are not very kind. But it is better so – much better. Now I must go and help grandfather to find that book. And as this is to be the last word – well, then – dear friend – don't be so ungenerous to me when in after years you look back – "

But he was not likely to let her go like that. He interposed between her and the door; nay, he drew her towards him, and took her head between his hands, and pushed back the hair from her brow, as though he would read down to the very depths of those beautiful, tear-dimmed eyes.

"You have not refused me your love, Maisrie – because you dare not!" he said. "And what do I care whether you say it or not – when I know?" And therewith he kissed her on the mouth – and again – and again. "Now you are mine. You dare not deny your love – and I claim you as my wife – "

She struggled backward to be free from him, and said almost wildly —

"No, no – Vincent, you do not understand – I have not been frank with you – I cannot ever be your wife! – some day I will tell you – "