"It is ready," said Vincent.
"She will make a good wife—she will stand firm by the man she marries—she has courage—and a loyal heart. Perhaps—perhaps I should have seen to it before—perhaps you should have had your way at Brighton—and she—well, she was so willing to go—that deceived me. And there must be laughing now for her—it is natural for a young lass to be glad and merry—not any more weeping—she is in her own land. Why," said he, and his eyes burned still more brightly, and his speech became more inconsecutive, though always hurried and panting. "I remember a story—a story that a servant lass used to tell me when I was a child—I used to go into the kitchen—when she was making the bread—it was a story about a fine young man called Eagle—he had been carried away to an eagle's nest when he was an infant—and his sweetheart was called Angel. Well, I do not remember all the adventures—I have been thinking sometimes that they must have been of Eastern origin—Eastern origin—yes—the baker who tried to burn him in an oven—the Arabian Nights—but no matter—at the end he found his sweetheart—and there was a splendid wedding. And just as they were married, a white dove flew right down the middle of the church, and called aloud 'Kurroo, kurroo; Eagle has got his Angel now!' I used to imagine I could see them at the altar—and the white dove flying down the church——
"Don't you think you should try to get a little rest now?" Vincent said, persuasively. "You have arranged everything—all is put in order. But what we want is for you to get rest and quiet, until this illness leaves you, and you grow strong and well again."
"Yes, yes," said the old man, quickly, "that is quite right—that is so—for I must pay off Thompson, you know, I must pay off Thompson. Thompson is a good fellow—and an honest Scot—but he used to talk a little. Let him do this—for Maisrie's sake—afterwards—afterwards—when I am well and strong again—I will square up accounts with him. Oh, yes, very easily," he continued; and now he began to whisper in a mysterious manner. "Listen, now—I have a little scheme in mind—not a word to anybody—there might be some one quick to snatch it up. It is a volume I have in mind—a volume on the living poets of Scotland—think of that, now—a splendid subject, surely!—the voice of the people—everyday sorrows and joys—the minstrelsy of a whole race. There was the American book—but something went wrong—I did not blame any one—and I was glad it was published—Carmichael let me review it—yes, yes, there may be a chance for me yet—I may do something yet—for auld Scotland's sake! I have been looking into the domus exilis Plutonia—the doors have been wide open—but still there may be a chance—there is some fire still burning within. But my memory is not what it was," he went on, in a confused, perplexed way. "I once had a good memory—an excellent memory—but now things escape me. Yesterday—I think it was yesterday—I could not tell whether Bob Tennant was still with us—and his verses to Allander Water have all gone from me—all but a phrase—'How sweet to roam by Allander'—'How sweet to roam by Allander'—no, my head is not so clear as it ought to be——"
"No, of course not," said Vincent, in a soothing sort of way. "How could you expect it, with this illness? But these things will all come back. And I'm going to help you as much as I can. When I was in New York I heard your friend, Hugh Anstruther, deliver a speech about those living Scotch poets, and he seemed to be well acquainted with them; I will write to him for any information you may want. So now—now that is all settled; and I would try to rest for a while, if I were you: that is the main thing—the immediate thing."
But the old man went on without heeding him, muttering to himself, as it were:
"Chambers's Journal—perhaps as far back as thirty years since—there's one verse has rung in my ears all this time—but the rest is all blank—and the name of the writer forgotten, if it ever was published ... ''Tis by Westray that she wanders ... 'Tis by Westray that she strays ... O waft me, Heavens, to Westray ... in the spring of the young days!' ... No, no, it cannot be Westray—Westray is too far north—Westray?—Yet it sounds right ... ''Tis by Westray that she wanders ... 'tis by Westray that she strays—'"
There was a tap at the door, and the doctor appeared: a little, old, white-haired man, of sharp and punctilious demeanour. Behind him was the landlady, hanging back somewhat as if it were for further instructions; so, she being there to help, Vincent thought he would go downstairs and seek out Maisrie. He found her in the little parlour—awaiting him.
"What do you think, Vincent?" she said, quickly.
"I haven't spoken to the doctor yet," he made answer. "Of course, everyone can see that your grandfather is very ill; but if courage will serve, who could have a better chance? And I will tell you this, Maisrie, he is likely to have more peace of mind now. He has been vexing himself about many things, as you guessed; and although he was wandering a good deal while I was with him—perhaps all the time—I could not quite make sure—still, it is wonderful how he has argued these matters out, and how clearly you can follow his meaning. It was about you and your future he was most troubled—in the event of anything happening to him; and he has not been afraid to look all possibilities in the face; he told me the doors of the domus exilis Plutonia had stood wide open before him, and I know he was not the one to be alarmed, for himself. But about you, Maisrie: do you know that he has given you over to me—if the worst comes to the worst? He asked me to provide a home for you: I told him it was already there, awaiting you. You see I have not forgotten what you said to me at Brighton; and I knew that some day you and I should find ourselves, as we now find ourselves, face to face—perhaps in sad circumstances, but all the more dependent on each other——"