(VOLUME II) ***




Produced by Al Haines.


                       STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON!

                                A Novel


                                   BY

                             WILLIAM BLACK,

                               AUTHOR OF
             "A DAUGHTER OF HETH," "MACLEOD OF DARE," ETC.



                          _IN THREE VOLUMES._
                                VOL. II.



                                LONDON:
           SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON, LIMITED
                          St. Dunstan's House
                    FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
                                 1891.

                        [_All rights reserved._]




                                LONDON:
              PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
                   STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.




                          CONTENTS OF VOL. II.

CHAPTER

      I. Doubts and Dreams
     II. By Northern Seas
    III. "Holy Palmer's Kiss"
     IV. Interposition
      V. The Gnawing Fox
     VI. Put to the Proof
    VII. Renewing is of Love
   VIII. On the Brink
     IX. "And hast thou played me this!"




                       STAND FAST, CRAIG-ROYSTON!



                               CHAPTER I.

                           DOUBTS AND DREAMS.


And at first Vincent was for rebelliously thrusting aside and ignoring
this information that had reached him so unexpectedly.  Was he, on the
strength of a statement forwarded by an unknown correspondent in New
York, to suspect--nay, to condemn unheard--this proud and solitary old
man with whom he had all this while been on terms of such close and
friendly intimacy?  Had he not had ample opportunities of judging
whether George Bethune was the sort of person likely to have done this
thing that was now charged against him?  He went over these past weeks
and months.  Was it any wonder that the old man's indomitable courage,
his passionate love of his native land, and the constant and assiduous
care and affection he bestowed on his granddaughter, should have aroused
alike the younger man's admiration and his gratitude? What if he talked
with too lofty an air of birth and lineage, or allowed his enthusiasm
about Scotland and Scottish song to lead him into the realms of
rodomontade: may not an old man have his harmless foibles?  Any one who
had witnessed Maisrie's devotion to her grandfather, her gentle
forbearance and consideration, her skilful humouring of him, and her
never-failing faith in him, must have got to know what kind of man was
old George Bethune.

And yet, when Vincent turned to the letter, it seemed terribly simple,
and straightforward, and sincere.  There was no vindictiveness in it at
all; rather there was a pained surprise on the part of the writer that a
loyal Scot--one, too, who had been admitted into that fraternity of
song-writing exiles over the water--should have been guilty of such a
flagrant breach of trust.  Then Lord Musselburgh's patronage, as the
young man knew very well, had taken the form of a cheque; so that the
charge brought by the writer of this letter practically was that George
Bethune had obtained, and might even now be obtaining, money by fraud
and false pretences.  It was a bewildering thing--an impossible
thing--to think of.  And now, as he strove to construct all sorts of
explanatory hypotheses, there seemed to stand in the background the
visionary form of Mrs. Ellison; and her eyes were cold and inquiring.
How had she come to suspect? It was not likely that she could be
familiar with the Scotch-American newspaper offices of the United
States.

No, he could make nothing of it; his perplexity only increased.  All
kinds of doubts, surmises, possible excuses went chasing each other
through his brain.  Perhaps it was only literary vanity that had
prompted the old man to steal this project when it was placed before
him?  Or perhaps he thought he had a better right to it, from his wide
knowledge of the subject?  Vincent knew little of the laws and bye-laws
of the literary world; perhaps this was but a bit of rivalry carried too
far; and in any case, supposing the old man had erred in his eagerness
to claim this topic as his own, surely that did not prove him to be a
charlatan all the way through, still less a professional impostor? But
then his making use of this scheme to obtain money--and that not only
from Lord Musselburgh? Oh, well (the young man tried to convince
himself) there might not be so much harm in that.  No doubt he looked
forward to issuing the volume, and giving his patrons value in return.
Old George Bethune, as he knew, was quite careless about pecuniary
matters: for example, if the bill for those little dinners at the
various restaurants was paid by some one, that was enough; the old
gentleman made no further inquiries.  He was content to let his young
friend settle these trivial details; and Master Vin was willing enough.
In fact, the latter had devised a system by which the awkwardness of
calling for the bill in Maisrie's presence was avoided; this system
worked admirably; and Mr. Bethune asked no questions.  Doubtless, if he
had remembered, or taken the trouble, he would have paid his shot like
anyone else.

But amid all these conflicting speculations, there was one point on
which the mind of this young man remained clear and unswerving; and that
was that whatever might be the character or career of old George
Bethune, his principles or his practice, Maisrie was as far apart and
dissociated from them as if worlds intervened.  If there had been any
malfeasance in this matter, she, at least, was no sharer in it.  And the
more he pondered, the more anxious he became to know whether Maisrie had
any idea of the position in which her grandfather was placed.  How much
would he be entitled to tell her, supposing she was in ignorance?  And
when could he hope for an opportunity?  And then again, failing an
opportunity, how was he to go and spend the evening with those two
friends of his, pretending to be entirely engrossed by their little
amusements and occupations outdoors and in, while all the time there was
lying in his pocket this letter, unanswered and perhaps unanswerable?

Fortune favoured him.  Towards evening, a little before six o'clock, he
heard a door shut on the other side of the street; and, lifting his
head, he perceived that it was Mr. Bethune who had just come out of the
house, alone.  Here was a chance not to be missed.  Waiting for a couple
of minutes, to make sure that the coast was clear, he passed downstairs,
crossed the little thoroughfare, and knocked.  The landlady told him
that Miss Bethune was upstairs, and upstairs he went.  The next moment a
voice that he knew well invited him to enter, and therewithal the two
young people found themselves face to face.

"You are early," she said, with a little smile of welcome, as she
stopped in her sewing.

"Yes," said he, and he added quite frankly, "I saw your father go out,
and I wished to speak with you alone.  The fact is, Maisrie," he
continued, taking a chair opposite her, "I have heard from America
to-day about that proposal I made--to get some one to collect materials
for your grandfather's book; and the answer is rather a strange one--I
don't quite understand--perhaps you can tell me something about it."  He
hesitated, and then went on: "Maisrie, I suppose it never occurred to
you that--that some one else in America might be proposing to bring out
a similar book?"

She looked up quickly, and with a certain apprehension in her eyes.

"Oh, yes, I knew.  My grandfather told me there had been talk of such a
thing.  What have you heard?"

He stared at her.

"You knew?" said he.  "Then surely you might have told me!"

There was something in his tone--some touch of reproach--that brought
the blood to her face; and yet she answered calmly and without
resentment----

"Did I not tell you?--nor my grandfather? But perhaps neither of us
thought it of much importance.  It was only some vague talk, as I
understood; for everyone must have known that no one was so familiar
with the subject as my grandfather, and that it would be foolish to try
to interfere with him.  At the same time I have always been anxious that
he should get on with the book, for various reasons; and if you have
heard anything that will induce him to begin at once, so much the
better."

It was clear that she was wholly in ignorance of the true state of the
case.

"No," said he, watching her the while.  "What I have heard will not have
that effect, but rather the reverse.  To tell you the plain truth, the
American or Scotch-American writer has finished his book, and it will be
out almost directly."

She sprang to her feet with an involuntary gesture, and stood still for
a moment, her lips grown suddenly pale, and her eyes bewildered: and
then she turned away from him to hide her emotion, and walked to the
window.  Instantly he followed her.

"Maisrie, what is the matter!" he exclaimed in astonishment, for he
found that tears had sprung to her eyes.

"Oh, it is a shame--it is a shame," she said, in broken accents, and her
hands were clenched, "to steal an old man's good name from him, and that
for so small a thing!  What harm had he ever done them?  The book was
such a small thing--they might have left it to him--what can they gain
from it----"

"But Maisrie----!"

"Oh, you don't understand, Vincent, you don't understand at all," she
said, in a despairing sort of way, "how my grandfather will be
compromised! He undertook to bring out the book; he got friends to help
him with money; and now--now--what will they think?--what can I say to
them?--what can I do?  I--I must go to them--but--but what can I say?"

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