Maisrie leant over and said to him, quite gently —
"Grandfather, you are forgetting; it was of John Knox that was said."
He looked at her doubtfully; and then seemed to be puzzling with his own memory.
"Perhaps – perhaps," he said; and then he added, quite humbly, "I beg your pardon for misleading you, madam – I did not intend it – but I forget things – and Maisrie is generally right. John Knox? – perhaps – perhaps – I thought it was a Beaton or a Bethune – but I cannot remember which of them – perhaps she is right – "
He closed his eyes, and turned away a little, as if to debate this question with himself – or perhaps to seek some rest: seeing which Lady Musselburgh and Vincent quietly withdrew, and went downstairs. "Poor old man!" said she, when they were in the small parlour. "There is a great change in him, entirely apart from his illness. Even in manner he is not nearly so – so grandiose as he used to be: sometimes he was quite humble. And as for her – my heart bleeds for her. I will do anything you like, Vin – if she will accept. What is more, I will confess to you now that, as far as she is concerned, I am convinced I was quite wrong. You were right: your eyes were wide open, after all. How can one judge of any one by an afternoon and an evening at Henley? That was my only chance. Then perhaps there was a little excuse for prejudice – there was the association – . But we'll say no more about that. I confess I was wrong; you were right. That girl is as true as steel. If she gives her husband half the devotion she bestows on that old man, he'll do very well." She looked at her nephew. Then she said suddenly: "Vin, you don't say a word. I believe you have never forgiven me one bit!"
"Oh, yes, I have, aunt," he made answer, uneasily. "But there are some things that need never have happened."
She regarded him again.
"Vin, you are too unforgiving! But can I not make up? See, now! If Miss Bethune is left alone – I should like to call her Maisrie, if she will let me: indeed I should: but it is so difficult to get any nearer her – she is all wrapped up in her anxiety about her grandfather: well, if she is left alone, I will take her with me. I will take her to London. She will stay with me; there will be a home for her there, at any rate; and we may become better friends. Oh, I know we shall; it is only that at present she cares for nothing, and thinks of nothing, but her duty towards her grandfather. I intend to be very kind to her – I intend to win her affection if I can – "
"And I shall be very grateful to you, aunt," said he. "But it is hardly time yet to speak of such a thing: Mr. Bethune has always had a wonderful constitution."
"Did you notice how reticent the doctor was this morning?" she asked, – and he did not answer.
But at least one thing that Lady Musselburgh had observed and mentioned was true: much, if not all, of the old grandiose manner had gone away from George Bethune. If on rare occasions some flash of defiance flamed up – as if he were still face to face with adversity and disappointment, and determined not to abate one jot of his pride and independence – he was ordinarily quite gentle and even humble, especially towards Maisrie. On this same evening he said —
"Margaret" (as he sometimes called her now, forgetting) "will ye read to me the XLVI. Psalm?"
She went and got the book and began —
"God is our refuge and our strength,
In straits a present aid;
Therefore, although the earth remove,
We will not be afraid:
Though hills amidst the sea be cast;
Though waters roaring make,
And troubled be; yea, though the hills
By swelling seas do shake.
"A river is, whose streams do glad
The city of our God;
The holy place, wherein the Lord
Most high hath his abode.
God in the midst of her doth dwell;
Nothing shall her remove:
The Lord to her our helper will,
And that right early, prove."
But when she had got so far, he said —
"Margaret – I hope ye will not take it ill – if I interrupt ye – it is no unkindness I mean, my lass – but, ye see, ye've got the English speech, as is natural – and I was trying to think how my father used to read out the Psalm at family worship – and ye've not got the Scotch way – nor the strong emphasis – how could ye? – how could ye? Ye'll not take it ill," he went on, with the most piteous concern visible in his face – "ye'll not think it's any unkindness – "
"No, no, no, grandfather!" she said. "Of course not. Shall I ask Mrs. MacGill to come up, to read to you in the Scotch way?"
"No, no one but you, Maisrie – no one but you – perhaps if you take the CXXVI. Psalm – 'When Sion's bondage God turned back, as men that dreamed were we' – I mind, they used to sing that to the tune of Kilmarnock– and the young women's voices sounded beautiful. But you're not vexed, Maisrie! – for I did not mean any unkindness to ye, my dear – "
"No, no, grandfather," she said; and she turned to this other Psalm, and read it to him; and even after that it was some time before she could assure him that she had not been in the least hurt.
Two more of those long and anxious days went by; the fever waxing and waning by turns; but all the time the strength of that once powerful frame was slowly ebbing away. For one thing, his mind was well content. He had no more anxiety about Maisrie; he appeared to regard her future as well assured. He lay quietly murmuring to himself; and they could make out, from chance sentences here and there, that he was going over his boyhood's days again – bird's-nesting in the spring woods, making swaying seats out of the shelving branches of the beeches, guddling for trout in the small hill burns. An old refrain seemed to haunt him —
'Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,
And O to be lying beyond thee:
O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep,
That's laid in the bed beyond thee.'
'Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde': that phrase also returned again and again. And then he would go back to his school-days, and tell Maisrie about a little patch of garden that had been given all to himself; how he had watched the yellow spears of the crocuses pierce the dry earth, and the green buds begin to show on the currant-bushes; how he had planted scarlet-runners, and stuck the wands in, and trained the young shoots; how he had waited for the big red globes of the peonies to unroll; how he had white monkshood, and four distinct colours of columbine. Then his pets; his diversions; his terrible adventures – half drowned in a mill-dam – lost in a snowstorm on Laidlaw moor – the horrors of a certain churchyard which he had sometimes to pass, alone, on the dark winter evenings. Maisrie did not seek to interrupt him. There was no agitation in these wandering reminiscences. Nay, they seemed to soothe him; and sometimes he sank into an altogether dozing state.
"Vincent," said Lady Musselburgh, when these two happened to find themselves together, in the room below, "have you no authority over that girl? She is killing herself!"
"It is no use remonstrating," said he. "She knows what the doctor has not dared to tell her. She sees that her grandfather is so weak he may slip away at any moment, without a word or a sign."
But on the evening of this second day, the old man, with such remnant of his former resolution and defiance as still clung to him, seemed to try to shake off this fatal lethargy – if only to say farewell. And in this last hour or so of his life, the spectacle that George Bethune presented was no unworthy one. Death, or the approach of death, which ennobles even the poorest and the meanest, was now dealing with this man; and all the husks and histrionic integuments that had obscured or hidden his true nature seemed to fall away from him. He stood out himself – no pressure of poverty distorting his mind – no hopeless regrets embittering his soul. It was Scotland he thought of. In those last minutes and moments, the deepest passion of his heart – an intense and proud love of his native land – burned pure and strong and clear; and if he showed any anxiety at all, it was merely that Maisrie, who was a kind of stranger, should form a liking for this country to which she, too, in a measure, belonged – that she should see it under advantageous conditions – that she should think of all that had been said of those hills and vales, and endow them with that added charm.
"But I do not fear," he said (his eyes, with some brilliancy still left in them, fixed on her, his voice low and panting). "You have an inheritance, Maisrie – it is in your blood – a sympathy – an insight – Scotland claims you – as one of her own. I knew that when – when – you used to play the Scotch airs for me – the trembling string, that made the soul tremble too – 'The sun shines bright in France' – 'The Lowlands o' Holland, that twined my love and me' – it was Scotch blood that made them thrill. Ye'll not be disappointed, Margaret – ye'll understand – when ye get to Yarrow – and Ettrick Water – and the murmur of the Tweed. I meant – to have taken ye myself – but it was not to be – ye'll have younger and happier guidance – as is but natural – I – I wish ye both well. And – and I would like ye – to go in the spring-time, Maisrie – and – and if ye could find out William Motherwell's grave – I have forgotten where it is – my memory is not what it used to be – but if ye could find out Motherwell's grave – ye might put a handful of primroses on it – for the sake of – of Jeanie Morrison."
He relapsed into silence; his breathing grew more laboured – and also feebler; it was evident to those standing by that the end was not far off now. Maisrie sate holding his hand in hers; the fountain of her tears all dried up; her tragic grief seemed to have turned her to stone. Even those spring days of which he had spoken – when she would have her young husband by her side – they would want something. Her grandfather had been kind to her; and they had been through many years together.
He lay thus for nearly half-an-hour, the tide of life slowly receding. He made but one final effort to speak – nay, for a second, it seemed as if he would raise his head to give effect to his last proud protestation.
"Maisrie – Maisrie – they never saw me cowed – never once! I met – ill fortune – or good – face to face … I held – by the watchword – of our house – Stand – Fast – Craig-Royston! …"
It was his last breath. And so, with a lie on his lips, but with none in his heart, old George Bethune passed away: passed away from a world that had perhaps understood him but none too well.