Stand Fast, Craig-Royston! (Volume II). William Black
ring of sincerity in her tone, sometimes even a tremor in her voice – perhaps of pride.
"Well," she resumed, as they strolled along under the beetled crags that were all aflame with golden-yellow birch and blood-red rowan, "I am not going to stand aside and see all that fair promise lost. I own I am a selfish woman; and hitherto I have kept aloof, as I did not want to get myself into trouble. I am going to hold aloof no longer. The more I hear the more I am convinced that Vin has fallen into the hands of an unscrupulous sharper – perhaps a pair of them; and I mean to have his eyes opened. Here is this new revelation about that American book, which simply means that you were swindled out of £50 – "
"One moment," her companion said hastily, and there was a curious look of mortification on his face. "I had no right to tell you that story. I broke confidence: I am ashamed of myself. And I assure you I was not swindled out of any £50. When the old man came to me, with his Scotch accent, and his Scotch patriotism, and his Scotch plaid thrown over his shoulder – well, 'my heart warmed to the tartan'; and I was glad of the excuse for helping him. I did not want any book; and I certainly did not want the money back. But when Vin came to me, and made explanations, and finally handed me a cheque for £50, there was something in his manner that told me I dared not refuse. It was something like 'Refuse this money, and you doubt the honour of the woman I am going to marry.' But seeing that I did take it, I have now nothing to say. My mouth is shut – ought to have been shut, rather, only you and I have had some very confidential chats since we came up here."
"All the same, it was a downright swindle," said she, doggedly; "and the fact that Vin paid you back the money makes it none the less a swindle. Now I will tell you what I am about to do. I must be cruel to be kind. I am going to enlist the services of George Morris – "
"Sir George?" he asked.
"No, no; George Morris, the solicitor – his wife and I are very great friends – and I know he would do a great deal for me. Very well; he must get to know simply everything about this old man – his whole history – and if it turns out to be what I imagine, then some of us will have to go to Vin and tell him the truth. It won't be a pleasant duty; but duty never is pleasant. I know I shall be called a traitor for my share in it. Here is Vin appealing to me to be his friend – as if I were not his friend! – begging me to come and take this solitary and friendless girl by the hand, and all the rest of it; and instead of that I go behind his back and try to find out what will destroy his youthful romance for ever. But it's got to be done," said the young widow, with a sigh. "It will be a wrench at first; then six months' despair; and a life-time of thankfulness thereafter. And of course I must give George Morris all the help I can. He must make enquiries, for one thing, at the office of the Edinburgh Chronicle: I remember at Henley the old gentleman spoke of the proprietor as a friend of his. Then the man you know in New York, who gave Mr. Bethune a letter of introduction to you: what is his name and address?"
"Oh, no," said Lord Musselburgh, shrinking back, as it were. "No; I don't want to take part in it. Of course, you may be acting quite rightly; no doubt you are acting entirely in Vin's interests; but – but I would rather have nothing to do with it."
"And yet you call yourself Vin's friend! Come, tell me!" she said, coaxingly.
Again he refused.
"Mind you, I believe I could find out for myself," she went on. "I know that he is the editor of a newspaper in New York – a Scotch newspaper: come, Lord Musselburgh, give me his name, or the name of the newspaper!"
He shook his head.
"No – not fair," he said.
Then she stopped, and faced him, and regarded him with arch eyes.
"And yet it was on this very pathway, only yesterday morning, that you swore that there was nothing in the world that you wouldn't do for me!"
"That was different," said he, with some hesitation. "I meant as regards myself. This concerns some one else."
"Oh, very well," said she, and she walked on proudly. "I dare say I can find out."
He touched her arm to detain her.
"Have you a note-book?" he asked.
She took from her pocket a combined purse and note-book; and without a word – or a smile – she pulled out the pencil.
"'Hugh Anstruther, Western Scotsman Office, New York,'" said he, rather shamefacedly.
"There, that is all right!" she said, blithely, and she put the note-book in her pocket again. "That is as far as we can go in that matter at present; and now we can talk of something else. What is the name of this little bay?"
"Little Ganovan, I believe."
"And the other one we passed?"
"Port Bân."
"What is the legend attached to the robber's cave up there in the rocks?"
"The legend? Oh, some one told me the gardener keeps his tools in that cave."
"What kind of a legend is that!" she said, impatiently; and then she went on with her questions. "Why doesn't anybody ever come round this way?"
"I suppose because they know we want the place to ourselves."
"And why should we want the place to ourselves?"
This was unexpected. He paused.
"Ah," said he, "what is the use of my telling you? All your interest is centred on Vin. I suppose a woman can only be interested in one man at any one time."
"Well, I should hope so!" the young widow said, cheerfully. "Shall we go round by the rocks or through the trees?"
For they were now come to a little wood of birch and larch and pine; and without more ado he led the way, pushing through the outlying tall bracken and getting in underneath the branches.
"I suppose," said he, in a rather rueful tone, "that you don't know what is the greatest proof of affection that a man can show to a woman? No, of course you don't!"
"What is it, then?" she demanded, as she followed him stooping.
"Why, it's going first through a wood, and getting all the spider's-webs on his nose."
But presently they had come to a clearer space, where they could walk together, their footfalls hushed by the carpet of withered fir-needles; while here and there a rabbit would scurry off, and again they would catch a glimpse of a hen-pheasant sedately walking down a glade between the trees. And now their talk had become much more intimate and confidential; it had even assumed a touch of more or less affected sadness.
"It's very hard," he was saying, "that you should understand me so little. You think I am cold, and cynical, and callous. Well, perhaps I have reason to be. I have had my little experience of womankind – of one woman, rather. I sometimes wonder whether the rest are anything like her, or are capable of acting as she did."
"Who was she?" his companion asked, timidly.
And therewith, as they idly and slowly strolled through this little thicket, he told his tragic tale, which needs not to be set down here: it was all about the James river, Virginia, and a pair of southern eyes, and betrayal, and farewell, and black night. His companion listened in the deep silence of sympathy; and when he had finished she said, in a low voice, and with downcast eyes —
"I am sorry – very sorry. But at least there was one thing spared you: you did not marry out of spite."
He glanced at her quickly.
"Oh, yes," she said, and she raised her head, and spoke with a proud and bitter air, "I have my story too! I do not tell it to everyone. Perhaps I have not told it to anyone. But the man I loved was separated from me by lies – by lies; and I was fool and idiot enough to believe them! And the one I told you about – the one with the beautiful, clear, brown eyes – so good and noble he was, as everyone declared! – it was he who came to me with those falsehoods; and I believed them – I believed them – like the fool I was! Oh, yes," she said, and she held her head high, for her breast was heaving with real emotion this time, "it is easy to say that every mistake meets with its own punishment; but I was punished too much – too much; a life-long punishment