A daughter of Heth

CHAPTER LII.

CONSENT.

Sharp and bitter was the talk that ran through Airlie about the Minister's niece; and Coquette guessed at it; and shrank away from the people; and would fain have hidden herself from the light, as one accursed. Now indeed she knew what it was to have a ban placed upon her; and all the old fearless consciousness of rectitude had gone; so that she could no longer attempt to win over the people to her by patience, and sweetness, and the charm of her pleasant ways. She had fallen too far in her own esteem; and Leezibeth began to be alarmed about the effects of that calm and reticent sadness, which had grown to be the normal expression of Coquette's once light and happy face.

It was Leezibeth who unintentionally confirmed the worst surmises of the villagers, by begging the Minister to conceal from Coquette the knowledge of Earlshope's tragic death. The Minister, anxious above all things for the girl's health, consented; and it then became necessary to impose silence on those who were likely to meet Coquette elsewhere. So it became known that mention of Lord Earlshope was not to be made to this quiet and pale-faced girl, who still, in spite of her sadness, had something of a proud air, and looked at people with dark and troubled eyes, as though she would ask them what they thought of her.

Whether this policy of silence were advisable or not, it was certainly not very prudent to conceal from the Whaup likewise all intelligence of what had happened. He had heard of Lord Earlshope's death, of course; and was a little surprised to be asked not to mention the matter in his letters to Coquette; but, beyond that, he was in complete ignorance of all that had occurred at Airlie. By-and-by however rumours came to him. He began to grow uneasy. Finally, he saw Lady Drum; and she, seeing the necessity of being explicit, told him everything in as gentle a way as she could.

"And so," he said, "my cousin is looked upon as an outcast; and the good people of Airlie say evil things of her; and I suppose wonder why she dares go into the church?"

Lady Drum made no reply; he had but described the truth.

Then the Whaup rose up, like a man, and said—

"Lady Drum, I am going down to Airlie to get Coquette to marry me; and I will take her away from there; and the people may talk then until their rotten tongues drop out."

Lady Drum rose too, and put her hand on his shoulder, and said gently—

"If I were a man that is what I would do. Off wi' ye to Airlie directly, and whether, she say yes or no, bring her away wi' ye as your wife. That will mend a great many matters."

So the Whaup went down to Airlie; and all the way in the train his heart was on fire with varied emotions of pity, and anger, and love; and his brain was busy with plans and schemes. He would have liked another year's preparation, perhaps; but his position now with regard to Dr. Menzies was fully secured; and his income, if not a very big one, sufficient for the meantime. And when he arrived at Airlie, and reached the Manse, he made no inquiries of anybody; he went at once, in his old straightforward way, into the room where he expected to find Coquette.

Coquette was alone; and, when he opened the door, he found her eyes fixed on him.

"Oh, Coquette, you are ill!" he said, seizing both her hands and looking into her face.

"No," she said, "I am not ill. You must not vex yourself about me—it is only I have not been much out of late."

"Ah, I know why you have not been out," he said; "and I am come down to put all these things straight. Coquette, you must marry me now. I won't go away unless you go with me as my wife. That is what I have come down for."

The girl started, as though a whip had stung her; and now a flush of shame and pain was visible in her face. She withdrew her hands from his, and said, with her eyes cast down—

"I understand why you have come. You know what they say of me. You wish to marry me to prove it is not true, and give me some better opinion of myself. That is very good of you—it is what I did expect of you—but—but I am too proud to be married in that way, and I do not wish any sacrifice from anybody."

"What is the use of talking like that, Coquette?" he said, impetuously. "What has sacrifice or pride got to do between you and me? Why need you care what the people at Airlie, or the people all over the world, think of you? I am going to take you away from here, Coquette. I will teach you what to think of yourself, and then you will talk no more of sacrifice. Sacrifice! If there is any sacrifice, it is in your thinking of marrying a good-for-nothing fellow like me. It is like a princess marrying a gamekeeper, or something like that; and you talk of sacrifice, and what the wretched idiots of a ridiculous little village think of you! It is absurd, Coquette! It all comes of your being shut up here, and seeing nothing, and being left to your own dreams. You are getting distorted views of everything in this dismal place. It's like conducting experiments in a vacuum: what you want is to get braced up by the actual atmosphere of the world; and learn how things work there; and discover the value that people will put upon you. What can the croaking frogs of a marsh like this know of your value, Coquette? Don't you remember how you went about Lady Drum's rooms like a queen; and everybody waited on you; and I scarcely dared come near you? Sacrifice! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Coquette!"

He spoke in the old and rapid fashion with which she used to be familiar; and his cheeks were flushed with enthusiasm; and his handsome face full of daring and confidence, as though he would have laughed at her scruples and defied the world for her sake. Perhaps he did not despise Airlie altogether as much as he said; but in the hot haste of his eloquence there was no time to be particular, or even just.

"You are as impetuous as ever; and you are as generous as ever; but you are grown no wiser," she said, looking at him in a kindly way. "For me, I have grown much older than when we went about here. I do see many things differently; and just now I must tell you what is right and best for both of us. You must not say any more about our marriage; but go up to Glasgow again, and forget all about me. If it is painful for you in the meantime, I am sorry; it will be better for you by-and-by. If you did marry a wife who had not a good name among all people—strangers as well—you might not care for a little while; but you would remember of it afterwards; and that would be very sorrowful for both."

With that she rose and would have passed him, and gone to the door. But he stood in her way, and confronted her, and said, with a certain formality of tone—

"You must answer me one question, Coquette, clearly and truthfully. Is all that you say merely an excuse for breaking off our marriage altogether?"

She looked surprised.

"Then you do no longer believe I speak the truth? An excuse—that is something untrue. No—I have no need of excuses."

She would have left the room then; but he caught her hand and said—

"We are no longer children, Coquette. This is too serious a matter to be settled by a mere misunderstanding or a quarrel. I want to know if you have no other reason to postpone our marriage, or break it up altogether, than the foolish talk that prevails in the village?"

"You do forget," she said, evidently forcing herself to speak in a cold and determined manner, "that the people have some right to talk—that I did go away from the Manse, expecting——"

She could get no further. She shuddered violently; and then, sitting down, covered her face with her hands.

"I know all about that, Coquette," he said, sadly. "It was very bitter for me to hear it——"

"And then you did come here, despising me, and yet wishing to marry me, so that I might not be too cast down. It is very generous—but you see it is impossible."

"And you mean that as a final answer, Coquette?"

She looked up into his face.

"Yes," she said, with her eyes fixed on his.

"Good-bye, then, Coquette," said he.

Anxious as was her scrutiny, she could not tell how he received this announcement; but the tone in which he bade her good-bye went like a knife through her heart. She held out her hand and said, or was about to say, "Good-bye," when, somehow, she failed to reach his hand, and the room swam round her. Then there was a space of blank unconsciousness; followed by the slow breathing of returning life; and she knew that he was bathing her forehead with a handkerchief and cold water.

"You must not go away like that," she said to him, when she had somewhat recovered; "I have not many friends."

And so, sitting down beside her, he began to tell her, in a gentle and, at times, somewhat embarrassed voice, the story of his love for her, and all the plans he had formed, and how his only hope in the world was to marry her. He did not care what lay in the past; the future was to be theirs; and he would devote himself to making her once more the light-hearted Coquette of former days. He spoke to her as if afraid to disturb her even by the urgency of his affection; and while he talked in this low and earnest fashion, the girl's eyes were wistful and yet pleased, as if she were looking at the pictures he drew of a happy future for both of them, and beginning to believe in their possibility.

"People have sorrows and disappointments, you know, Coquette," he said; "and yet they forget them in great measure, for it is useless to spend a lifetime in looking back. And people do weak things and wrong things that haunt their conscience and trouble them bitterly; but even these are lightened by time. And the ill opinion of the world—that, too, gets removed by time; and all the old years, with their griefs, and their follies, and mistakes, get wiped out. You are too young to think that life has been irretrievably spoiled for you. You have got another life to set out on; and you may depend on my making it as pleasant and as happy as possible if you will only give me the chance."

"You do talk as if it was my pleasure and happiness I did think of," said Coquette. "No—that is not so. When I did say I would not marry you—it was for your sake; and then, when you seemed to be going away estranged from me, I thought I would do anything to keep you my friend. So I will now. Is that all true you say, my poor boy, about your caring only for one thing in the world? Will your life be wretched if I am not your wife? Because then I will marry you, if you like."

"Ah! do you say that, Coquette?" he said, with a flash of joy in his eyes.

There was no such joy visible on her face.

"If you could say to yourself," she added, calmly, "after a little time, 'I will keep Coquette as my friend—as my best friend—but I will marry some other one,' that would be better for you."

"It would be nothing of the kind," he said, cheerfully, "nor for you either. I am about to set myself the task of transforming you, Coquette; and in a year or two you won't know yourself!"

"In a year or two," she repeated, thoughtfully.

"You know I am a doctor now; and I am going to become your attendant physician; and I will prescribe for you, Coquette, plenty of amusement and holidays; and of course I will go with you to see that my orders are obeyed. And you will forget everything that is past and gone; for I will give you plenty to think about in managing the details of the house, you know, and arranging for people coming to see you in the evenings. And then, in the autumn-time, Coquette, you will get as brown as a berry among the valleys and the mountains of Switzerland; and if we come through France, you shall be interpreter for me, and take the tickets, you know, and complain to the landlords. All that, and ever so much more, lies before you; and what we have to do in the meantime is to get you away from this melancholy place, that has been making you wretched, and pale, and sad. Now, Coquette, tell me when I am to take you away!"

She rose with almost an expression of anguish on her face.

"Ah, not yet, not yet!" she said. "You will think over it first—perhaps you will alter your intentions."

"I shan't do anything of the kind, Coquette, unless you alter yours. Mind you, I don't mean to goad you into marrying me; and if you say now that it vexes you to think of it——"

"It does not vex me, if it will make you happy," she said.

"Then you don't wish to rescind your promise?"

"No, I do not wish it."

"And you will really become my wife, Coquette?"

She hesitated for a moment; then she said, in a low voice—

"I will be your wife if you wish it, and make you as happy as I can; but not yet, Tom—not yet; and you must not be vexed if I cannot set a time."

With that she left the room; and he flung himself into a chair to ponder over his recollections of an interview which seemed very strange and perplexing to him. "It does not vex me, if it will make you happy"—that was all he could get her to say. No expression of interest—no hopeful look—such as a girl naturally wears in talking of her coming marriage. And these moods of fear, of despondency, even bordering on wild despair, what did they mean?

"There is something altogether wrong in her relations with the people around her," he said. "She seems to labour under a burden of self-constraint and of sadness which would in another year kill a far stronger woman than she is. The place does not suit her—the people don't suit her. Everything seems to have gone wrong; and the Coquette I see bears no resemblance to the Coquette who came here a few years ago. Whatever it is that is wrong, our marriage will solve the problem, and transfer her to a new sphere and new associations."

The Whaup endeavoured to reassure himself with these anticipations; but did not quite succeed, for there was a vague doubt and anxiety hanging about his mind which would not be exorcised.

CHAPTER LIII.

THE PALE BRIDE.

The Whaup telegraphed to Dr. Menzies for permission to remain in Airlie another couple of days, and received it. He made good use of his time. Some brief conversation he had with Leezibeth in regard to Coquette quickened his resolve. He went to his father, too, and told him of his wishes.

The old man could at first scarce credit this strange announcement. He had never even suspected his son of being particularly fond of Coquette; and now his first idea was that the Whaup, in an exceptionally chivalrous fashion, had proposed to marry her as an answer to the evil rumours that were afloat. He was soon disabused on this point. Confidences at such a crisis, between father and son, are somewhat embarrassing things, particularly in most Scotch households, where reticence on all matters of the affections is the established law; but the Whaup was too deeply in earnest to think of himself. With a good deal of rough eloquence, and even a touch of pathos here and there, he pleaded the case of Coquette and himself; and at the end of it the Minister, who was evidently greatly disturbed, said he would consider the subject in privacy. The Whaup left his father's study with a light heart; he knew that the Minister's deep-seated tenderness for his niece would carry the day, were all Airlie to sign a protest.

The Whaup was in the garden. His brothers were at school; Coquette had disappeared, he knew not whither; and he was amusing himself by whistling in reply to a blackbird hid in a holly tree. The Minister came out of the house, and gravely walked up to his son, and said—

"You have done well in this matter. I do not say that, under other circumstances, I might not have preferred seeing you marry a wife of your own country, and one accustomed to our ways and homely fashion of living, and, above all, one having more deeply at heart our own traditions of faith. But your duty to your own kinswoman—who is suffering from the suspicions of the vulgar—must count for something——"

"But what counts most of all, father," said the Whaup—who would not have it thought he was conferring a favour on Coquette—"is her own rare excellence. Where could I get a wife like her? I don't care twopence-farthing for all that Airlie, and a dozen neighbouring parishes, may think or say of her, when I know her to be what she is. And you know what she is, father; and the best thing you can do for her is to persuade her to be married as soon as possible—for I mean to take her away from here, and see if I cannot break that sort of dead calm that seems to have settled over her."

"The Manse will be very lonely without her," said the Minister.

"Look here, father," said the Whaup, with a great lump rising in his throat, "the Manse would be very lonely if she were to remain as she is much longer. Leezibeth says she eats nothing—she never goes out—only that dull, uncomplaining monotony of sadness, and the listless days, and the reading of religious books. I know how that would end if it went on—and I don't mean to let Coquette slip out of our fingers like that—and I——"

The Whaup could say no more. He turned aside, and began to kick the gravel with his foot. The Minister put his hand on his son's shoulder and said—

"My boy, you may have more watchful eyes than mine in such matters; and, if this be as you suspect, I will use all my influence with her, although her marriage will make a great difference to me."

The Whaup, however, was not one to have his wooing done by proxy. During the remainder of his brief stay in Airlie, he urged Coquette with gentleness, and yet with earnestness, to fix a time for their marriage. At first she was startled by the proposal, and avoided it in a frightened way; but at length she seemed to be won over by his representations and entreaties. He did not tell her his secret reason for thus hurrying on her departure from Airlie. It was entirely as securing his own happiness that he drew pleasant pictures of the future; that he sat and talked to her of all she would see when they went away together; that he endeavoured to win her consent. Then, on the last evening of his visit, they were in a corner of the hushed parlour, speaking in low tones, so as not to disturb the reading of the Minister.

"I do think it is a great misfortune that you are so fond of me," she said, looking at him with rather wistful eyes; "but it seems as if the world were all misfortune; and if it will make you happy for me to marry you, I will do that; for you have always been very kind to me; and it is very little that I can do in return; but if this will please you, I am glad; and I will make you as good a wife as I can."

That was her reply to his entreaties; and, in token of her obedience, she took his hand and pressed it to her lips. There was something in this mute surrender that was inexpressibly touching to the Whaup; and for a moment his conscience smote him; and he asked himself if he were not exacting too much of a sacrifice from this tender-hearted girl, who sat pale and resigned even in the moment of settling her marriage day.

"Coquette," said he, "am I robbing you of any other happiness that you could hope for? Is there any other prospect in life that you are secretly wishing for?"

"There is not," she said, calmly.

"None?"

"None."

"Then I will make this way of it as happy for you as I possibly can. And when, Coquette? You have never named a time yet."

"Let it be whenever you please," she answered, looking down.

The Whaup rose, and pulled himself up to his full height, as if, for the first time, he could breathe freely.

"Father," said he, "have you any objection to my going across the moor and ringing the church bell?"

The Minister looked up from his MSS.

"We are going to have a wedding in the Manse in two or three weeks," said the Whaup.

Coquette went over to the old man's chair, and knelt down by his side, and took his hand in hers.

"I shall be sorry to lose you, Catherine; but I trust you will be more cheerful and happy in your new home than you could be in this dull house."

"You have been very kind to me, uncle," she said.

With that, the Whaup went outside, and clambered up into the hayloft, and roused his brothers, who were in bed, if not all asleep.

"Get up, the whole of you!" he said; "get on your clothes, and come into the house. Look sharp—there's something for you to hear."

Leezibeth was alarmed by the invasion of the Manse which took place shortly thereafter; and came running to what had brought the boys in at that time of night. The Whaup bade Leezibeth come into the parlour to witness the celebration; and they were introduced by the Whaup—who made a pretty speech—to their future sister-in-law; and they were ordered to give her good wishes; and then they all sat down to a sumptuous, if hastily prepared, banquet of currant bun, with a glass of raspberry wine to each of them. Coquette was pleased; and the tinge of colour that came to her cheeks made the Whaup think she was beginning to look like a bride. As for the boys, they expressed their delight chiefly by grinning and showing their white teeth as they ate the cake; one of them only remarking confidentially—

"We a' kenned this would be the end o't."

The chorus of laughter which greeted this remark showed that it expressed a general sentiment. Nor was their merriment lessened when the Whaup cut off a very small piece of cake, and said to Leezibeth—

"Take this to Andrew, with my compliments. He will be delighted with the news."

"Andrew or no Andrew," said Leezibeth, who seemed rather inclined to cry out of pure sympathy; "ye may be a proud man on your wedding day, Maister Tammas; and ye'll take good care o' her, and bring her sometimes down to Airlie, where there's some maybe that likes her better than they can just put into words."

And so it was that, on a fresh June morning, when the earth lay warm and silent in the bright sunshine, and the far sea was as blue and clear as the heart of a sapphire, Coquette arrayed herself in white garments. There was a great stir about the Manse that morning; and the boys were dressed in their Sunday clothes. Flowers were all about the place; and many innocent little surprises in the way of decoration had been planned by the Whaup himself. The Manse looked quite bright, indeed; and Leezibeth had assumed an unwonted importance.

Coquette's bridesmaids were the Misses Menzies; and the Doctor was there too; also Lady Drum and Sir Peter. According to the custom of the country, the marriage was to take place in the house; and when they had all assembled in the largest room, the bride walked slowly in, followed by her bridesmaids.

In a church, amid a crowd of spectators, there would have been a murmur of wonder and admiration over the mysterious and pensive beauty of this delicately modelled girl, whose dark and wistful eyes seemed all the darker by reason of the snowy whiteness of her dress, and the paleness of the pearls that shone in the splendid luxuriance of her hair. But her friends there almost forgot how beautiful she was in regarding the expression of her face—so immovably calm it was, so strangely sad. Lady Drum's heart was touched with a sudden fear. This was not the look of a bride; but the look of a woman—far too young to have any such expression—who seemed to have abandoned all hope in this world. She was not anxious, or perturbed, or pale through any special excitement or emotion; she stood throughout the long and tedious service as though she were unconscious of what was happening; and, when it was over, she received the congratulations of those around her as though she had awakened out of a dream.

The Whaup, too, noticed this look; but he had seen much of it lately; and was only rendered the more anxious to take her away and lighten her spirits by change of scene. And now that he found himself able to do so, he was full of confidence. There was no misgiving in his look. As he stood there, taller by a head than his own father, with his light-brown hair thrown carelessly back from a face bright with health and the tanning of the sun, it was apparent that the atmosphere of the great city had not had much effect on the lithe, and stalwart, and vigorous frame. And his voice was as gentle as that of a woman when he went forward, for the first time after the ceremony, and said to Coquette—

"You are not tired with standing so long, Coquette?"

She started slightly. Then—perhaps noticing that the eyes of her bridesmaids were upon her, and recollecting that she ought to wear a more cheerful expression—she smiled faintly, and said—

"You must not call me that foolish name any more. It is part of the old time when we were girl and boy together."

"But I shall never find any name for you that I shall like better," said he.

About an hour thereafter all preparations had been made for their departure; and the carriage was waiting for them. There was a great shaking of hands, and kissing, and leave-taking; and then, last of all, the Minister stood by the gate as Coquette came out.

"Good-bye, my dear daughter," he said, placing his hand on her head; "may He that watched over Jacob, and followed him in all his wanderings with blessings, watch over and bless you at all times and in all places!"

Coquette's lips began to tremble. She had maintained her composure to the last; but now, as she kissed her uncle, she could not say farewell in words; and when at length she was driven away, she covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

"Coquette," said her husband, "are you sorry, after all, to leave Airlie?"

There was no answer but the sound of her sobbing.

CHAPTER LIV.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

So blinded by his exceeding happiness was the Whaup, that for a little time he could scarcely tell how the rapid change of scene and incident following their marriage was affecting Coquette's health and spirits. He was so near her now, tending her with an extreme and anxious care, that he could not regard her critically and judge whether the old sad look was leaving her eyes. Did she not express her pleasure at the various things she saw? Was she not so very kind and affectionate towards him that he had to protest against her little submissive attentions, and point out that it was his business to wait upon her, not hers to wait upon him?

They went to Edinburgh first; and then to Westmoreland; and then to London, which was in the height of the season. And they strolled into the Park on the summer mornings and on the busier afternoons; and sat on the little green chairs under the lime-trees; and looked at the brilliant assemblage of people there—Cabinet Ministers, actresses, Gun-club heroes, authors, artists, and all the rank and file of fashion. So eager was the Whaup to interest his companion, that it is to be feared he made rather random shots in identifying the men and women who were cantering up and down, and conferred high official dignities on harmless country gentlemen who were but simple M.P.'s.

"There are many pretty ladies here," said Coquette, with a smile, "and yet you do not seem to know one."

"I know one who is prettier than them all put together," said the Whaup, with a glow of pride and admiration in his face; and then he added, "I say, Coquette, how did you manage to dress just like those people when you lived away down in Airlie? I think you must have sent surreptitiously to London for the dresses that used to astonish the quiet kirk-folk. Then you always had the knack of wearing a flower or a rosebud here or there, just as those ladies do, only I don't think any flowers are so becoming as those little yellow blossoms that are on a certain little white bonnet that a particular little woman I know wears at this moment."

"Ah, it is of no use," said Coquette, with a sigh of resignation. "I have tried—I have lectured—I have scolded—it is of no use. You do not know the rudeness of talking of people's dresses, and paying them rough compliments about their prettiness, and making inquiries which gentlemen have nothing to do with. I have tried to teach you all this—and you will not learn—and you do not know that you have very savage manners."

"Coquette," said he, "if you say another word I will kiss you."

"And I should not be surprised," she answered, with the slightest possible shrug. "I do not think you have any more respect for the public appearances than when you did torment the people at Airlie. You are still a boy—that is true—and I do wonder you will not sing aloud now, 'Come lasses and lads,' or some such folly. You have grown—yes. You wear respectable clothes and a hat,—but it is I who have made you dress like other people instead of the old careless way. You do know something more—but it is all got out of books. What are you different from the tall, big, coarse, rude boy who did break windows, and rob gardens, and frighten people at Airlie?"

"How am I different?" said the Whaup. "Well, I used to be bullied by a schoolmaster; but now I'm bullied by a schoolmistress; and she's the worse of the two. That's all the change I've made."

And sometimes, when they had gone on in this bantering fashion for a while, she would suddenly go up to him—if they were indoors, that is to say—and put her hand on his arm and timidly hope that she had not annoyed him. At first the Whaup laughed at the very notion of his being vexed with her, and dismissed the tender little penitent with a rebuke and a kiss; but by-and-by he grew to dread these evidences of a secret wish to please him and be submissive. He began to see how Coquette had formed some theory of what her duties were, and continually referred to this mental table of obligations rather than to her own spontaneous impulses of the moment. She seemed to consider that such and such things were required of her; and while there was something to him very touching in her mute obedience, and in her timid anticipation of his wishes, he would rather have beheld her the high-spirited Coquette of old, with her arch ways, and her fits of rebellion and independence.

"Coquette," he said, "I will not have you wait upon me like this. It is very kind of you, you know; but it is turning the world upside down. It is my business to wait on you, and see that everything is made nice for you, and have you treated like a queen. And when you go about like that, and bother yourself to serve me, I feel as uncomfortable as the beggars in old times must have felt who had their feet washed by a pious princess. I won't have my Coquette disguised as a waiting-maid."

"You are very good to me," she said.

"Nonsense!" he replied. "Who could help being good to you, Coquette? You seem to have got into your head some notion that you owe kindness and thoughtfulness to the people around you; whereas you are conferring a benefit on everybody by being merely what you are, and showing those around you what a good thing is a good woman. Why should you have this exaggerated humility? Why should you play the part of a penitent?"

Was she playing the part of a penitent? he sometimes asked himself. Had she not forgotten the events of that bygone time which seemed, to him at least, a portion of a former existence? When the Whaup and his young wife returned to Glasgow, he had more leisure to speculate on this matter; and he came to the conclusion that not only had she forgotten nothing, but that a sombre shadow from the past was ever present to her and hung continually over her life.

In no way did she lessen her apparent desire to be dutiful and submissive and attentive to him. The Whaup, who could have fallen at her feet and kissed them in token of the love and admiration he felt for the beautiful young life that was only now revealing to him all its hidden graces of tenderness, and purity, and rectitude, could not bear to have Coquette become his slave.

"And may I not show to you that I am grateful to you for all your kindness ever since I did come to this country?" she said.

"Grateful to me!" he cried. "Coquette, you don't know your own value!"

"But if it pleases me to be your servant?" she said.

"It does not please me," he retorted; "and I won't have it."

"Voyez un peu ce tyran!" said Coquette, and the Whaup laughed and gave in.

It may be supposed that that was not a very unhappy household in which the only ground of quarrel between husband and wife was as to which should be the more kind and attentive to the other. And indeed, to all outward semblance, the Whaup was the luckiest of men; and his friends who did not envy him rejoiced at his good fortune; and bore unanimous testimony to the sweetness and gentleness and courtesy of the small lady who received them at his house. It was noticed, it is true, that she was very quiet and reserved at times; and that occasionally, when she had somehow withdrawn out of the parlour circle, silent and distraite, her husband would follow her with anxious looks, and would even go to her side and endeavour to wean her back into the common talk. As for his affection for her, and pride in her rare beauty and accomplishments, and devotion to her, all were the subject of admiration and encomium among the women of many households. He never sought to conceal his sentiments on that score. On the rare occasions when he visited a friend's house without her, all his talk was of Coquette, and her goodness, and her gentle ways. Then he endeavoured to draw around her as many friends as possible, so that their society might partly supply the void caused by his professional absences; but Coquette did not care for new acquaintances, and declared she had always plenty of occupation for herself while he was away, and did not wish the distraction of visits.

Down in the old Manse of Airlie the Minister heard of his son and of Coquette through various channels; and he was rejoiced beyond measure. Lady Drum was so affected by her own description of the happiness of these two young people, that in the middle of her narration she burst into tears; and a sort of sob at the door might have let the Minister know that Leezibeth had been listening. The Minister, indeed, paid a brief visit to Glasgow some few weeks after Coquette's return, and was quite overwhelmed by the affectionate attentions of his daughter-in-law.

"Surely," he said to Lady Drum, the evening before he set out for home again, "surely the Lord has blessed this house. It has never been my good fortune to dwell under a roof that seemed to look down on so much of kindliness, and charitable thoughts, and well-doing; and it would ill become me not to say how much of this I attribute to her who is now more than ever a daughter to me."

"When I come to speak of her," said Lady Drum, "and of the way she orders the house, and of her kindness to every one around her, and of her conduct towards her husband, I am fair at a loss for words."

The bruit of all these things reached even down to Airlie; and the Schoolmaster was at length induced, being in Glasgow on a certain occasion, to call on the Minister's son. The Whaup received his ancient enemy with royal magnanimity; compelled him to stop the night at his house; gave him as much toddy as was good for an elder; while Coquette, at her husband's request, left her fancy-work and played for them some old Scotch airs. By-and-by she left them to themselves; and, warmed with the whisky, the Schoolmaster imparted a solemn and mysterious secret to his remaining companion.

"You are a young man, sir, and have no knowledge, or, as I may term it, experience, of the great and wonderful power of public opeenion. Nor yet, considering your opportunities, is it likely, or, as one might say, probable, that ye pay sufficient deference to the reputation that your neebors may accord ye. Nevertheless, sir, reputation is a man's public life, as his own breath is his private life. Now, I will not conceal from ye, Mr. Thomas, that evil apprehensions have been entertained, or even, one might say, expressed, in your native place, regarding one who holds an important position as regards your welfare——"

With which the Whaup bounced up from his chair.

"Look here!" said he. "Do you mean my wife, Mr. Gillespie? Don't think I care a rap for the drivelling nonsense that all the old women in Airlie may talk; but if a man mentions anything of the kind to me, by heavens, I'll throw him out of the window!"

"Bless me!" cried the Schoolmaster, also rising, and putting his hands before him as if to defend himself. "What's the use o' such violence? I meant no harm. On the contrary, I was going to say, man, that it would be my bounden duty when I get back to Airlie to set my face against all such reports, and testify to the great pleasure I have experienced in seeing ye mated wi' such a worthy, and amiable, and——"

Here the Schoolmaster's encomium was cut short by the entrance of Coquette herself, who had returned for something she had forgotten; and a more acute observer might have noticed that no sooner was her footfall heard at the door than all the anger fled from the Whaup's face, and he only laughed at Mr. Gillespie's protestations of innocence.

"You must forgive me," said the Whaup, good-naturedly. "You know, I married one of the daughters of Heth; and so I had to expect that the good folks at Airlie would be deeply grieved."

"A daughter of Heth!" said Mr. Gillespie. "Indeed, I remember that grumbling body, Andrew Bogue, makin' use o' some such expression on the very day ye were married; but if the daughters o' Heth were such as she is, Rebekah need not have put herself about, or, in other words, been so apprehensive of her son's future."

And the Schoolmaster was as good as his word; and took down to Airlie such a description of the Whaup and his bride as became a subject of talk in the village for many a day. And so the patience and the gentleness of Coquette bore their natural fruit, and all men began to say all good things of her.

There was one man only who regarded this marriage with doubt, and sometimes with actual fear, who was less sure than all the others that Coquette was happy, and who looked to the future with an anxious dread. That one man was the Whaup himself. With a slow and sad certainty, the truth dawned on him that he had not yet won Coquette's love; that he was powerless to make her forget that she had married him in order to please him; and that, behind all her affectionate and friendly demonstrations towards himself, there lay over her a weight of despair. The discovery caused him no paroxysm of grief, for it was made gradually; but in time it occupied his constant thoughts, and became the dark shadow of his life. For how was he to remove this barrier that stood between himself and Coquette? The great yearning of love he felt towards her was powerless to awaken any response but that mute, animal-like faithfulness and kindliness that dwelt in her eyes whenever she regarded him. And it was for her, rather than for himself, that he was troubled. He had hurried on the marriage, hoping a change of scene and of interest would break in on the monotony of sadness that was evidently beginning to tell on the girl's health. He had hoped, too, that he would soon win her over to himself by cutting her away from those old associations. What was the result? He looked at the pale and calm face, and dared not confess to himself all that he feared.

One evening, entering suddenly, he saw that she tried to avoid him and get out of the room. He playfully intercepted her, and found, to his astonishment, that she had been crying.

"What is the matter, Coquette?" he said.

"Nothing," she answered. "I was sitting by myself—and thinking, that is all."

He took both her hands in his, and said, with an infinite sadness in his look—

"Do you know, Coquette, that for some time back I have been thinking that our marriage has made you miserable."

"Ah, do not say that!" she said, piteously looking up in his face. "I am not miserable if it has made you happy."

"And do you think I can be happy when I see you trying to put a good face on your wretchedness, and yet with your eyes apparently looking on the next world all the time? Coquette, this is driving me mad. What can I do to make you happy? Why are you miserable? Won't you tell me? You know I won't be angry, whatever it is. Is there nothing we can do to bring you back to the old Coquette, that used to be so bright and cheerful? Coquette, to look at you going about from day to day in that sad and resigned way, never complaining, and always pretending to be quite content—I can't bear it, my darling."

"You must not think that I am miserable," she said, very gently, and then she left the room. He looked after her for a moment; then he sank into a chair; and covered his face with his hands.

CHAPTER LV.

THE CHURCHYARD ON THE MOOR.

At last it occurred to him that Coquette ought to be told of Lord Earlshope's death. He would not confess to himself the reason why such a thought arose in his mind; but endeavoured, on the contrary, to persuade himself that there was no further need for holding back that old secret. He and Coquette were at Airlie at the time, on their first visit after their marriage. The Minister was anxious to see his daughter-in-law; and the Whaup, while she stayed there, would take occasional runs down. So Coquette was staying at the Manse.

"I cannot get her to go out as she used to do," said the Minister, the first time the Whaup arrived from Glasgow. "She seems better pleased to sit at the window by herself and look over the moor; and Leezibeth tells me she is in very low spirits, and does not look particularly well. It is a pity she dislikes going out; it is with difficulty I can get her even into the garden; and once or twice she has shown a great repugnance to going anywhere near Earlshope, so you must not propose to go in that direction in asking her to accompany you."

Then the Whaup said, with averted eyes: "You know she is not aware of Lord Earlshope having been drowned, and she may be afraid of meeting him. Suppose we tell her of what happened to the yacht?"

"I am of opinion it would be most advisable," said the Minister.

The Whaup got Coquette to go out and sit in the garden; and there, while they were by themselves, he gently told her of the loss of the Caroline. The girl did not speak nor stir; only she was very pale; and he noticed that her hand was tightly clenched on the arm of the wooden seat. By-and-by she rose and said—

"I should like to walk down to Saltcoats, if you will come."

"To Saltcoats!" said her husband. "You are not strong enough to walk all that way and back, Coquette."

"Very well," she said, submissively.

"But if you very much want to go we could drive, you know," said he.

"Yes, I should like to go," she said.

So the Whaup, late as it was in the afternoon, got out the dog-cart, and drove her away to the old-fashioned little seaport town which they had together visited in bygone years. He put the horse up at the very inn that he and Coquette had visited; and then he asked her if she wished to go for a stroll through the place. Her slightest wish was a command to him. They went out together; and insensibly she led him down to the long bay of brown sand on which a heavy surf was now breaking. She had spoken but little; her eyes were wistful and absent; and she seemed to be listening to the sound of the waves.

"It blows too roughly here, Coquette," said he. "You won't go down on the beach?"

"No," she said. "Here I can see more, and hear more."

For a considerable time she stood and looked far over the heaving plain of water, which was of a dark green colour, under the cloudy evening sky. And then she shuddered slightly, and turned to go away.

"You are not vexed with me for coming?" she said. "And you know why I did come."

"I am not vexed with anything you do, Coquette," he answered her.

"It is his grave," she said, looking once more over the wild waste of waters. "It is a terrible grave; for there are voices in it, and cries, like drowning people; and yet one man out there would go down and down, and you would hear no voice. I am afraid of the sea."

"Coquette," he said, "why do you tremble so? You must come away directly, or you will catch cold—the wind blows so fiercely here."

But on their way back to Airlie, this trembling had increased to violent fits of shuddering; and then all at once Coquette said faintly—

"I do feel that I should wish to be still and go to sleep. Will you put me down by the roadside, and leave me there awhile, and you can go on to Airlie?"

"Why, do you know what you are saying, Coquette? Go on to Airlie, and leave you here?"

She did not answer him; and he urged on the pony with all speed, until at length they reached the Manse.

"Tom," she said, "I think you must carry me in."

He lifted her down from the vehicle, and carried her like a child into the house; and then, when Leezibeth brought a light, he uttered a slight cry on finding that Coquette was insensible. But presently life returned to her, and a quick and flushed colour came to her face. She was rapidly got to bed; and the Minister, who had a vivid recollection of the feverish attack from which she had suffered in the north, proposed that a doctor from Saltcoats should be sent for.

"I will telegraph to Dr. Menzies," said the Whaup, scarcely knowing what he said, only possessed by some wild notion that he would form a league to drive off this subtle enemy that had approached Coquette.

All that followed that memorable evening was a dream to him. He knew, because he was told, and because he himself could see, that the fever was laying a deeper and deeper hold on a system which was dangerously weak. Day after day he went about the house; and, as Coquette got worse, he scarcely realised it. It was to him as though a weight out of the sky were crushing down the world, as if all things were slowly sinking into darkness. He was not excited, nor wild with grief; but he sat and watched Coquette's eyes; and seemed not to know the people who came into the room, or whom he met on the stairs.

The girl, in her delirium, had violent paroxysms of terror and shuddering, in which she seemed to see a storm rising around her, and waves threatening to overwhelm her; and then no one could soothe her like her husband. His mere presence seemed enough; for the old instinct of obedience still remained with her; and she became submissively quiet and silent in answer to his gentle entreaties.

"You are very good to me," she murmured absently to him one evening, half-recognising him although the delirium had not left her, "and I cannot thank you for it, but my mamma will do that when you come up to our house. We shall not stop in this country always?—when mamma is waiting for me in the garden, just over the river, you know.... And she has not seen you, but I will take you up to her, and say you have been very, very kind to me. I wish we could be there soon, for I am tired, and I do think this country is very dark, and the sea is so dreadful round about it—it goes round about it like a snake, that hisses, and raises its fierce head, and it has a white crest on its head and eyes of fire, and you see them glaring in the night-time. But one can get away from it; and hide close and quiet in the churchyard on the moor—yes, yes; and when you come in, Tom, by the small gate, you must listen, and whisper 'Coquette,' you know, just as you used to do when I lay on the sofa, and you wished to see if I were awake; and—and—if I cannot speak to you, it will be very hard, but I shall know you have brought me some flowers. And you will say to yourself, 'My poor Coquette would thank me if she could.'"

He laid his hand on her white fingers. He could not speak.

By-and-by the delirium left, and the fever abated; but the frail system had been shattered, and all around saw that she was slowly sinking. One night she beckoned her husband to come nearer, and he went to her, and took her thin hand in his.

"Am I going to die, Tom?" she asked, in a scarcely audible voice; and when, in answer, he only looked at her sad eyes, she said, "I am not sorry. It will be better for you and for every one. You will forgive me for all that happened at Airlie when you think of me in after-times; and you will not blame me because I could not make your life more happy to you—it was all a misfortune, my coming to this country——"

"Coquette, Coquette!" he said, beside himself with grief, "if you are going to die, I will go with you too—see, I will hold your hand, and when the gates are open, I will not let you go—I will go with you, Coquette!"

Scarce half an hour afterwards, the gates were opened, and she so quietly and silently passed through, that he only of all in the room knew that Coquette had gone away from them and bidden a last farewell to Airlie. They were startled to see him fling his arms in the air; and then as he sank down by the bed a low cry broke from his lips—"So near—so near! and I cannot go with her too!"

One day, in the early spring-time, you might have seen a man in the prime of youth and strength—yet with a strangely worn look on his face—enter the small churchyard on Airlie moor. He walked gently on, as if fearing to disturb the silence of the place; and at last he stood by the side of a grave on which were many spring flowers—snowdrops, and violets, and white crocuses. He, too, had some flowers in his hand; and he put them at the foot of the grave; and there were tears running down his face.

"These are for my Coquette," he said; "but she cannot hear me any more."

For a little while he lingered by the grave, and then he turned. And, lo! all around him was the fair and shining country that she had often looked on; and far away before him lay the sea, as blue and as still as on the morning when he and Coquette were married. How bright and beautiful was the world that thus lay under the clear sunshine, with all its thousand activities busily working, and its men and women joyously thinking of to-morrow, as if to-morrow were to be better than to-day. To him all the light and joy of the universe seemed to be buried in the little grave beside him; there would never come any morrow that could bring him back the wonder of the days that were. He walked to the gate of the churchyard, and, leaning on it, looked wistfully over the azure plain in which the mountains of Arran were mirrored.

"Why have they taken away from us the old dreams?" he said to himself, while his eyes were wet with bitter tears. "If one could only believe, as in the old time, that Heaven was a fair and happy island lying far out in that western sea, how gladly would I go away in a boat, and try to find my Coquette! Only to think that some day I might see the land before me, and Coquette coming down to the shore, with her face grown wonderful and calm, and her gentle eyes full of joy and of welcome. Only to believe that—only to look forward to that—would be enough; and if in the night-time a storm came, and I was sunk in the darkness, what matter, if I had been hoping to the last that I should see my Coquette?"

THE END.

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.