He did not meet her look.
"I? Oh, I must keep to work; I can't afford to go away down and idle among those fashionable folk. My Mendover lecture isn't half sketched out yet. And then, again, you remember the article I told you about?—before beginning it I ought really to run down to Scotland, or at least to Yorkshire, and see one of those Municipal Lodging-houses in actual operation. They seem to me marvellous institutions," continued this consummate hypocrite (as if the chief thought in his mind at this moment was the housing of the industrious poor!), "and of the greatest importance to the country at large; worked at a profit, too, that is the amazing thing! Fancy at Huddersfield; threepence a day includes use of cooking and table utensils, a smoking-room, reading-room, and conversation-room, and then a bed at night—all for threepence! Belonging to the rate-payers, themselves—under the management of the Corporation—and paying a profit so that you can go on improving and extending. Why, every big town in the kingdom ought to have a Municipal Lodginghouse, or half a dozen of them; and it only needs to be shown how they are worked for the example to be copied everywhere——"
"And when do you go, Vincent?" she asked, with downcast eyes.
"Oh, I am not sure yet," he made answer cheerfully. "Of course, I ought in duty to go; but it will cost me half what I shall get for the article. However, that is neither here nor there. But if this is to be our last night together for a little while, Maisrie," he went on, to keep up his complacent acquiescence in this temporary separation, "you might give us a little music—won't you?—you haven't had the violin out of its case for a long time."
She was very obedient. She went and got the violin—though she was in no playing or singing mood.
"What, then, grandfather?" she said when she was ready.
"Whatever you please."
Then she began, and very slowly and tenderly she played the air of a Scotch song—"Annie's Tryst." It is a simple air, and yet pathetic in its way; and indeed so sensitive and skilful was her touch that the violin seemed to speak; any one familiar with the song might have imagined he could hear the words interpenetrating those vibrant notes—
"Your hand is cauld as snaw, Annie,
Your cheek is wan and white;
What gars ye tremble sae, Annie,
What maks your e'e sae bright?
The snaw is on the ground, Willie,
The frost is cauld and keen,
But there's a burnin' fire, Willie,
That sears my heart within.
* * * * *
Oh, will ye tryst wi' me, Annie,
Oh, will ye tryst me then?
I'll meet ye by the burn, Annie,
That wimples down the glen.
I daurna tryst wi' you, Willie,
I daurna tryst ye here,
But we'll hold our tryst in heaven, Willie,
In the springtime o' the year."
"That is too sad, Maisrie," her grandfather said, fretfully. "Why don't you sing something?"