‘I believe Dad knows all the Walter Scott literature by heart,’ said Vanda—‘stock, lock, and barrel, or rather, prose, poetry, and miscellany. Those who are for—hold up the right hand. Against—none: carried unanimously. Who will contribute the immortal invocation? Behold the hour and the man!’ as Eric Banneret stepped forward, in answer to a signal from his mother.
That young man, who strongly resembled his mother in appearance and leading characteristics, as sons are wont to do by the acknowledged rules of heredity, responded with a look of assent to Mrs. Banneret’s suggestive smile of approval, and, without further delay, began with the opening lines:—
‘If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight; For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey. When the broken arches are black in night, And each shafted oriel glimmers white; When the cold light’s uncertain shower Streams on the ruin’d central tower; When buttress and buttress, alternately, Seem framed of ebon and ivory; When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o’er the dead man’s grave, Then go—but go alone the while— Then view St. David’s ruin’d pile; And, home returning, soothly swear, Was never scene so sad and fair!’
‘Bravo, Eric!’ said Hermione. ‘I had no idea you had such poetical leanings. Do they examine in modern verse and elocution at Cambridge? I didn’t know they taught anything but Greek and Latin.’
‘Didn’t you?’ replied her brother. ‘Perhaps you would like to enter next term?’
‘I shouldn’t mind,’ returned the young lady; ‘only it’s rather late in life to begin. If I thought I’d pull off the classic tripos, as Hypatia Tollemache did, it might be worth while. One girl did—an Australian, too—a year or two back. I forget her name now. Oh, listen! wasn’t that an owl? Let no one talk for five minutes, until “the distant Tweed is heard to rave.” There it is; you can hear it quite plainly now.’
The night was free from slightest breeze; no sound broke the air but the weird, occasional cry of the night bird.
‘I hear the Tweed,’ said Corisande suddenly, as the ripple of the river over the shallows of the upper stream came faintly but distinctly on the ear. ‘What a solemn rhythm it has! We shall never forget this night, shall we? I feel drawn so much nearer to dear Sir Walter, and to think that he should no sooner have built and planted this lovely place, decorated, beautified it—loved it, and benefited every one within his reach, than the great brain and the great heart wore out.’