"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.