CHAPTER V.
COQUETTE'S MUSIC.
What was this great rushing and whistling noise that filled the girl's ears as the light of the morning—entering by a small window which had no sort of blind or shutter—fell on her face and opened her confused eyes to its glare? She had been dreaming of Earlshope. Dreams are but rechauffés of past experiences; and this ghostly Earlshope that she had visited in her sleep was a French Earlshope. The broad blue Loire ran down a valley in front of it. There were hills for a background which had long terraces of vines on them. From the windows she could see the steamers—mere dots with a long serpent trail of smoke behind them—creep into the haven of St. Nazaire; and far over the sea lay the calm summer stillness of a southern sky.
She awoke to find herself in Scotland. The Manse shook in the wind. There was a roaring of rain on the slates and on the window panes; and a hissing outside told of the deluge that was pouring a red stream down the moorland road. Fierce gusts from the south-west flew about the house, and howled in the chimney; great grey masses of cloud, riven by the hurricane, came up from the sea and swept across the moor. The room was cold and damp. When she had partly dressed, she went to the window. Along the horizon there was a thin black line, dull as lead, which was all that was visible of the sea. The mountains of Arran had entirely vanished, and in their place was a wall of grey vapour. Flying before the blast came those huge volumes of smoke-like cloud; and every now and again their lower edges would be torn down by the wind and hurled upon the moor in heavy, slanting torrents of rain; while there was a sound of rushing water everywhere; and the trees and shrubs of the garden bent and shivered in the gleaming wet.
"No Earlshope for ye to-day," said the Whaup, with ill-disguised glee, when she went down-stairs to breakfast.
"I am not sorry. What a dreadful chill country!" said Coquette, who was trembling with cold.
"Would you like a fire?" said the Whaup, eagerly.
"A fire, indeed!" cried Leezibeth, as she entered with the tray. "A fire in the middle o' summer! We have na been brought up to sic luxuries in this pairt o' the country."
"I am not very cold," said Coquette, sitting down in a corner, and trying to keep herself from shivering.
The Whaup walked out of the room. He was too angry to speak. He looked once at Leezibeth on going out, and there was a blaze of wrath in his eyes.
The Minister came in to breakfast, and they all sat down—all but the Whaup.
"Where is Thomas?" said Mr. Cassilis.
The reply was a shrill scream from Leezibeth, who was apparently at the door. At the same moment a wild crackling and sputtering of fire was heard overhead; and as everybody rushed to the passage, it was found that dense volumes of smoke were rolling down, blown by the currents above. Leezibeth had flown up-stairs on first perceiving this smell of burning. There, in Coquette's parlour, she caught sight of the Whaup working like a demon within the pungent clouds that filled the room, blown outwards by the fierce wind coming down the chimney. With another cry of alarm Leezibeth darted into the nearest bedroom, and brought out a ewer of water, which she discharged at the blazing mass of newspapers and lumps of wood that the Whaup had crammed into the small grate.
"Would ye set fire to the house? Would ye set fire to the house?" she cried—and, indeed, it looked as if the house were on fire.
"Yes, I would," shouted the demon in the smoke, "rather than kill anybody wi' cold!"
"Oh, it's that lassie—it's that lassie," cried Leezibeth, "that'll be the ruin o' us a'!"
When assistance came, and the fire was finally subdued, both the Whaup and Leezibeth were spectacles to have awakened the ridicule of gods and men. The effect of the deluge of water had been to send up a cloud of dust and ashes with the smoke; and their respective faces were tattooed so that even Mr. Cassilis—for the first time these many years—burst into a fit of laughter. Even Wattie laughed; seeing which, the Whaup charged at him, caught him by the waist, and carried him bodily down-stairs and out through the rain to the yard, where he made him work the iron handle of the pump. When the Whaup made his appearance at the breakfast table he was clean; but both himself and his brother were rather damp.
Mr. Cassilis severely reprimanded his eldest son; but he ordered Leezibeth to light a fire in Miss Cassilis' room nevertheless. The wind had somewhat abated now, and the clouds had gathered for a steady downpour. Leezibeth went to her appointed task with bitterness of heart, but she comforted herself with texts. As she stuffed the unconsumed remnants of the Whaup's bonfire into the grate, she uttered a denunciation of the luxury and idleness which were appearing for the first time in a godly house.
"But we," she muttered to herself, "who are the poor o' this world, rich in faith, and heirs o' the kingdom, maun bide and suffer. We maun e'en be the servants o' such as this woman that has come amongst us—such as lie upon beds of ivory, and stretch themselves upon their couches, and eat the lambs out of the flock, and the calves out of the midst of the stall; that chant to the sound of the viol, and invent to themselves instruments of music, like David; that drink wine in bowls, and anoint themselves wi' the chief ointments: but they are not grieved for the affliction of Joseph."
Yet even these consolations did not seem quite to allay the irritation of her mind; for a big tom cat that belonged to the house having approached her elbow too confidently, suddenly received a "skelp" that sent him flying across the room and down the stairs as if the spirits of ten thousand legions of dogs were pursuing him.
Airlie Manse was destined that day to be given up to what Leezibeth would have called the noise of viols and godless rejoicings. All thought of getting to Earlshope was abandoned; and shortly after breakfast Coquette invited Mr. Cassilis and the boys to her sitting-room, promising to play something for them. Custom made the Minister hesitate for a moment. Was not dance music very near dancing, which he regarded as a profane and dangerous amusement?
"I wish to play for you—what you call it?—the tune of the church yesterday, as it should be sung. Will you hear it from me?"
No objection of course could be taken to sacred music. The Minister led the way to the room; and the boys sat down silently, looking round with curiosity and awe upon the strange bits of foreign adornment and luxury which Coquette had already placed about her chamber. The fire was burning brightly, the rain battering on the panes outside. Coquette sat down to the piano.
The Minister did not know at first that he was listening to the old and familiar air of "Drumclog." It seemed to him the cry of a great supplication—sad, yearning, and distant, as if it came from a far hill-side half hidden in mist. It sounded like the softened and various voices of a multitude made harmonious and pathetic by distance.
But when she smote firmer chords, and, with a resonant and powerful bass, let the clear treble ring out triumphantly, he recognised "Drumclog." It was a song of victory now—the war cry of a host moved by intense religious enthusiasm—there was a joyous thanksgiving in it, and the clear voices of women and children. It seemed to him to represent a tumult of rejoicing—set in measured and modulated music—that rose like one sweet, strong voice. Then again the chords were softened, and the air changed to a wail. He could almost see the far moor, and the dead lying on it, with women wringing their hands, and yet thanking God for the victory.
"It is wonderful, wonderful," he said, when Coquette had ceased playing, "the power o' a dumb instrument to speak such strange things."
He was surprised to find that this carnal invention of music had awakened such profound emotion within him. He covertly looked to see if the girl herself were affected as she had affected him; but Coquette turned round and said, lightly, "It is a good air, but your church people they do not sing it. They groan, groan, groan all the same air—no singing in parts, no music."
"But you would make any tune, however bad, sound well," said the Whaup, warmly. "To every one note you give four or five other notes, all in harmony. No wonder it sounds well. It is no test. Play us some of your foreign music, that we may compare it."
The boys looked at the Whaup with astonishment: he was becoming an orator.
So she played them the Cujus animam, and for the first time in its history the Manse of Airlie was flooded with that sonorous music that has entranced the hearts of multitudes. She played them the mystic melodies of the Hochzeitmarsch, and they thought that these also were the expression of a sublime devotional exaltation. Indeed, the boys regarded those pieces with something of awe and fear. There was an unholy smack of organ playing and Romanism about Coquette's performances. Had she not transformed the decent and sober tune of "Drumclog" into a mass, or chant, or some such vague portion of Catholic ordinances? Wattie was in possession of an ingenious little book on "Various Forms of Idolatry;" and—the first plate representing the burning at the stake of a "Popish witch"—he had pointed out to his brothers that the black and profuse hair of the young woman in the flames very much resembled the hair of Coquette. It was but a suggestion; yet Rabbie, another of the brothers, expressed the belief that there were witches in these days also, that they were emissaries of the "deevil," and that it behoved every one who wished to save his soul to guard against such fiends in disguise, and, above all, never to repeat any charm after them towards twelve of the night.
Coquette rose from the piano.
"Who is going to play for me now?" she said, looking at the boys.
A loud guffaw ran down the line of them—the notion of a boy being able to play on the piano was irresistibly ludicrous.
"Have you not learned at the school?" she asked. "You must know some pieces to play."
"Frenchmen may learn to play the piano," said the Whaup, with an air of calm superiority, "but men in this country have something else to do."
"What is it you do?" said Coquette, simply, having quite misunderstood the remark. "You play not the piano: is it the violin—the—the flute—one learns here at the school?"
"We dinna learn music at the schule, ye gowk," said one of the boys.
"No, nor manners either," said the Whaup, firing up at the last word.
At this juncture the Minister gravely thanked Coquette for the pleasure her music had given him, and left the room. No sooner had he gone than the Whaup ordered his brothers to follow. They seemed inclined to show a spirit of insubordination.
"Out every one o' ye!" he cried, "or I'll leather ye in a lump!"
This somewhat dictatorial proceeding left him master of the field. So he turned to Coquette, and said—
"Ye wanted to hear some music. There is but one musician in Airlie forbye the Precentor. I mean Neil the Pensioner. He's a famous player on the fiddle—an out-and-out player, ye may take my word for't. Will I go and bring him to ye?"
"Perhaps he will not come."
"Oh, I'll bring him," said the Whaup, confidently.
"But it rains much," said Coquette, looking out on the disconsolate grey landscape, the dripping trees, and the lowering sky.
The Whaup laughed aloud, as his long legs carried him down the soft red road over the moor towards the village. He was no timid French creature, brought up under fair skies, that he should dread a temporary wetting. When he arrived at Neil Lamont's cottage, the rain was running down his face, and he only blew it from his mouth and flung it from his fingers as he burst into the astonished Pensioner's presence, and bade him bundle up his fiddle and come along.
The Pensioner, as he was called, was a tall, spare old Highlandman, somewhat bent now, with scanty grey hair, and dazed, mild grey eyes, who had been at Waterloo. He represented at once the martial and musical aspects of Airlie. His narrative of the events of Waterloo had gradually, during many years, become more and more full of personal detail, until the old man at last firmly believed that he himself, in his own proper person, had witnessed the whole of the battle, and been one of the chief heroes of the hour. Napoleon, whom he had never seen, he described minutely; and the inhabitants of Airlie had learned to picture the rage and mortification visible on the face of the great commander when he saw Neil rushing on to victory over the dead bodies of six French grenadiers, whom the hardy Highlander had overcome. Waterloo had grown to be a great panorama for him; and he would unroll it at any moment, and name you every object and person in the picture.
He was the village musician, too, and was in much request at balls, marriages, and other celebrations. The old man was singularly sensitive to music, and the wicked boys of the village used to practise on his weakness. When they saw the Pensioner out walking, they would begin to whistle some military march—"The Campbells are coming," "The Girl I left behind me," or "What's a' the steer, kimmer"—and you could see the Pensioner draw himself up, and go on with a military swagger, with his head erect. As for his own musical efforts, was there anybody in the west of Scotland who could play "The East Neuk o' Fife" with such tremendous "spunk?"
When the Pensioner was told that he had to play to a young French lady, he was a proud man.
"Ye will na sink," he observed to the Whaup in his curious jumble of Lowland and Highland pronunciation, "sat I will hurt sa leddy's feelins. No. Our prave regiments sent sa French fleein' at Waterloo; but I will speak jist nae word apoot it. I sweer till't—she will not even pe sinkin I wass at Waterloo."
Coquette received him graciously; the old Highlander was respectful, and yet dignified, in return. He gently declined to show her his medal—fearful that the word "Waterloo" would pain her. He would not say a word about his soldiering—was it good manners to insult a beaten foe?
But he would play for her. He took his fiddle from its case, and sat down, and played her all manner of reels and strathspeys—but no military music.
"Wha will ken," he whispered significantly to the Whaup, "put sat she will have heard o' our victorious tunes? Na, na. Neil Lamont kens how to pehave himsel' to a leddy."
And, in return, Coquette sat down to the piano. There was one Scotch air—"Wha'll be King but Charlie"—which her father was particularly fond of. When she struck into that bold and stirring piece of music, with all the agencies of harmonious chords, the old Highlander sat at first apparently stupefied. He had never known the majesty and the power that, could be lent to the tune which boys played on penny whistles. But as he became familiar with the rich and splendid sounds, he became more and more excited. He beat time with his foot; he slapped his thigh with his hand; he kept his head erect, and looked defiance. Suddenly he seemed to forget the presence of the Whaup, who was seated in a corner; he started to his feet, and began pacing up and down the room, waving the bow of his violin as if it were a sword. And all at once Coquette heard behind her the shrill and quavering notes of an old man's voice—
"Come ower sa heather! come a' tagether!
Come Ronald, an' Tonald, an' a' tagether!"
and, when she turned round, the old Highlandman, as one possessed, was marching up and down the chamber, with his head high in the air, and tears running down his withered grey cheeks.
"Aw, Dyeea!" he cried, as he sank shamefacedly into a chair. "I have never heard sa like o' sat not since sa day I will pe porn!"
CHAPTER VI.
EARLSHOPE.
How fair, and fresh, and green looked the grounds of Earlshope on the next day, when Mr. Cassilis and Coquette drew near. The warm sun had come out again, and the air was sweet with the scent of the wet trees. Masses of white cloud still came up from the south, sweeping over the dark, clear blue of the sky; and the peaks of Arran, set far amid the sea, were pale and faint in a haze of silver light.
Coquette was merry-hearted. The sunshine seemed to please her as it pleased the butterflies and the bees that were again abroad. As she went down the moorland path, she laughed and chatted with the Minister, and was constantly, out of pure lightness of spirit, breaking into exclamations in her native tongue—on which she would suddenly recall herself with a pout of impatience and resume her odd and quaint English talk.
The Whaup had been ill-tempered on setting forth; but the sunlight and the bright life around him thawed his sulkiness, and he became merely mischievous. His brothers perceived his mood, and kept out of his way. He was in the humour for rough practical jokes; and no one of them wished to be tripped up and sent into the red-coloured "burn" that still ran down between the moor and the road to the little stream in the hollow.
When they had passed the keeper's lodge, and gone under a winding avenue of trees, they came in sight of the big stone building and the bright green lawn in front of it. They also saw their host seated beside a stone lion, smoking a cigar, and watching the operations of a lad who, mounted on the pedestal of a statue of Venus, was busily engaged in giving that modest but scantily clad young woman a coating of white paint.
"Did you ever see anything so curious?" he said, when he had bade them welcome. "Look at the rude indifference with which he comes over her nose, and gives her a slap on the cheek, and tickles her neck with his brush! I have been wondering what she would do if she were to come alive—whether she would scream and run away, or rise up in indignant silence, or give him a sound box on the ears."
"If she were to come alive," said Coquette, "he would be made blind with fear, and she would fly up into the heavens."
"Et procul in tenuem ex oculis evanuit auram," said the Minister, graciously, with a smile. He had not aired so much Latin for years.
They had a walk round the grounds, skirting the not very extensive park, before they turned into the garden. Here everything was heavy with perfume in the sweet, warm air. They went into the hothouses and vineries; and Lord Earlshope found a bunch of muscatel grapes ripe enough to be cut for Coquette. No sooner had she placed one between her lips than she cried out—
"Oh, how like to the vine! I have not tasted——"
She looked at the Minister, and hastily stopped her speech.
"You have not tasted muscatel grapes in this country," said Lord Earlshope, coming to her relief; and he looked at her with a peculiar smile, as much as to say "I know you meant wine."
The boys preferring to remain in the garden (the Whaup walked off by himself into the park, under pretence of seeking a peculiar species of Potentilla, Lord Earlshope led his two principal guests back to the house, and proceeded to show them its curiosities in the way of pictures, old armour, old furniture, and the like. Coquette got so familiarised to his voice and look that she forgot he was but a distant acquaintance. She did not know that she stared at him while he was talking, or that she spoke to him with a pleasant carelessness which was oddly out of keeping with the Minister's grave and formal courtesy. She was not even aware that she was taking note of his appearance; and that, after they had left, she would be able to recall every lineament in his face as well as every tone of his voice.
Lord Earlshope was a fair-haired, gentlemanly-looking young man of some twenty-six or twenty-eight years of age. He was rather over the middle height, slimly built, and inclined to lounge carelessly. The expression of his eyes, which were large, grey, and clear, varied singularly—at one time being full of a critical and somewhat cold scrutiny, and at other times pensive and distant. He said he had no politics and no prejudices—unless a very definite belief in "blood" could be considered a prejudice.
"It is no superstition with me," he said, with apparent carelessness, to the Minister, as the latter was examining a strange old family tree hung up in the library. "I merely think it imprudent for a man of good family to marry out of his own class. I have seen the experiment made by some of my own acquaintances; and, as a rule, the result has been disastrous.... Disastrous, yes," he went on slowly, with a curious look coming over his face. "Yes, indeed, a disaster——"
But at this moment Coquette came back from the bookshelves, with a large thin quarto in her hands.
"Look what I have found," she said. "A volume of old chants."
"It is treasure-trove," said Lord Earlshope, with his face lightening at her approach. "I had no idea there was such a book in the place. Shall we go and try some of them? You know you promised to give me your opinion of the organ I have had fitted up."
"I did not promise it, but I will do it," said Coquette.
He led the way down-stairs to the drawing-room, which they had not yet visited. The tall chamber-organ, a handsome and richly decorated instrument, stood in a recess, and therefore did not seem so cumbrous as it might otherwise have done.
"The defect of the organ," said Lord Earlshope, as he placed the music for her, "is that the operation of blowing the bellows is performed in sight of the public. You see, I must fix in this handle, and work it while you are playing."
"You must get a screen," she said, "and put a servant there."
"While you are playing," he said, "I could not let anybody else assist you even in so rude a fashion."
Coquette laughed and sat down. Presently, the solemn tones of the organ were pealing out a rich and beautiful chant—full of the quaint and impressive harmonies which the monks of old pondered over and elaborated. If Mr. Cassilis was troubled by a suspicion that this noble music was of distinctly Roman Catholic or idolatrous origin, that doubt became a certainty when, at the end of the chant, there came a long and wailing "Amen!" rolled out by the organ's deep voice.
"You play excellently—you must be familiar with organ playing," said Lord Earlshope. "It is not every one who knows the piano who can perform on an organ."
"At home the old curé used to let me play in the church," she said—with her eyes grown suddenly distant and sad. She had remembered that her home no longer lay away down there in the south, where life seemed so pleasant.
"Come," said Lord Earlshope, "I hear Sandy about to ring the bell for luncheon. Shall we go into the room at once, or wait for the boys?"?
"They will have their luncheon off your fruit trees, I am afraid," said Mr. Cassilis.
Nevertheless, the boys were sent for, and arrived, looking rather afraid. The Whaup was not with them; no one knew whither he had gone.
Lord Earlshope's household was far from being an extensive one; and Mr. Cassilis' boys found themselves waited on by two maid-servants who were well known to them as having been made the subject of many tricks; while Sandy, his lordship's valet, butler, courier, and general factotum—a tall and redheaded Scotchman, who, by reason of his foreign travels, had acquired a profound contempt for everything in his own country—approach Miss Cassilis with a lofty air, and, standing behind her at some little distance from the table, extended a bottle of Chablis so as to reach her glass.
"Miss Cassilis," said Lord Earlshope, "what wine will remind you most of the Loire?"?
It had been her own thought, and she looked up with a quick and grateful smile.
"My father left me a fair assortment of Bordeaux wines——" he said.
"But no vin ordinaire?" she interposed, with another bright glance.
"I must go myself to get you that," he answered, laughing, "Sandy does not know how to manufacture it."
Before she could protest he had left the room, and in a few minutes he had returned with a bottle in his hand, and with the air of a conjuror on his face. He himself filled her glass, and Coquette drank a little of it.
"Ah!" she cried, clasping her hands, "I think I can hear old Nannette talking outside, and the river running underneath us; it is like being at home—as if I were at home again!"
She fondled the glass as if it were a magical talisman that had transported her over the sea, and would have to bring her back.
"I must taste some of that wizard wine," said the Minister, with a humorous smile—and the boys stared with wonder to hear their father talking about drinking wine.
"Pray don't, Mr. Cassilis," said their host, with a laugh. "It is merely some new and rough claret to which I added a little water—the nearest approximation to vin ordinaire I could think of. Since your niece is so pleased with the Earlshope vintage, I think I must ask you to let me send her a supply to the Manse. It is quite impossible you can get it elsewhere, as I keep the recipe in my own hands."
"And this is French bread!" said Coquette, startled out of her good manners by perceiving before her a long, narrow, brown loaf.
"Have I been so fortunate as to create another surprise?" said Lord Earlshope. "I telegraphed for that bread to Glasgow, if I must tell you all my housekeeping secrets."
It soon became clear that the indolent young man, having nothing better to do, had laid his plans to get a thoroughly French repast prepared for Coquette. Every little dish that was offered her—the red mullet, the bit of fowl, the dry boiled beef and thick sauce, the plate of salad—was another wonder and another reminiscence of the south. Why, it was only a few days since she had arrived in Scotland, and yet it seemed ages since she had sat down to such another pretty French breakfast as this practically was. She sipped her vin ordinaire, and toyed with the various dishes that were offered her—accepting all, and taking a little bit of each for the very pleasure of "thinking back"—with such evident delight that even Mr. Cassilis smiled benignantly. The boys at the Manse—like other boys in Scotland—had been taught that it was extremely ignominious to experience or exhibit any enjoyment in the vulgar delights of eating and drinking; but surely in the pleased surprise with which Coquette regarded the French table around her, there was little of the sensuous satisfaction of the gourmand.
She was altogether delighted with this visit to Earlshope. As they went back to the Manse, she was in the most cheerful of moods, and fairly fascinated the grave Minister with her quaint, broken talk. She never ceased to speak of the place—of its grounds, its gardens, its books, and what not—even to the brightness of the atmosphere around it; until Mr. Cassilis asked her if she thought the sky was blue only over Earlshope.
"But I hope he will not send the wine—it was a—what you call it?—joke, was it not?" she said.
"A joke, of course," said Mr. Cassilis. "We are very proud in this country, and do not take presents from rich people."
"But I am not of your country," she said, with a laugh. "If he sends his stupid vin ordinaire, he sends it to me; and I will not drink it—you shall drink it all. Did he say he is coming over to see you soon?"?
"Well, no," replied the Minister; "but since the ice is broken, nothing is more likely."
The phrase about the ice puzzled Coquette much: when it had been explained to her, they had already reached the Manse. But where was the Whaup? Nobody had seen him.
CHAPTER VII.
THE CRUCIFIX.
"I am going to sea," said the Whaup, suddenly presenting himself before Coquette. She looked up with her soft dark eyes, and said—
"Why you go to sea?"
"Because," said the Whaup—evidently casting about for an excuse—"because the men of this country should be a seafaring race, as their forefathers were. We cannot all be living in big towns, and becoming clerks. I am for a hardier life. I am sick of staying at home. I cannot bear this idling any more. I have been down to the coast; and when I smell the salt air, and see the waves come tumbling in, I hate to turn my face to the land again."
There was a sort of shamefaced enthusiasm in the lad's manner; and Coquette, as she again regarded him, perceived that, although he believed all he had said, that was not the cause of his hasty determination. Yet the boy looked every inch a sailor—the sun-brown hair thrown back from his handsome face, and the clear light shining in his blue eyes.
"There is something else," said the girl. "Why you say nothing of all this before? Why do you wish to become a sailor all at once?"
"And, if I must tell you," said he, with a sudden fierceness, "I will. I don't choose to stay here to see what I know will happen. You are surprised? Perhaps. But you are a mere child. You have been brought up in a French convent, or some such place. You think everybody in the world is like yourself, and you make friends with anybody. You think they are all as good and as kind as yourself; and you are so light-hearted, you never stop to think or to suspect. Enough; you may go on your way, in spite of warning; but I will not remain here to see my family disgraced by your becoming the friend and companion of a man like Lord Earlshope."
He spoke warmly and indignantly; and the girl rather cowed before him, until he uttered the fatal word "disgrace."
"Disgrace!" she repeated, and a quick light sprang to her eyes. "I have disgraced no one, not any time in my life! I will choose my own friends, and I will not be suspicious. You are worse than the woman here: she wants me to believe myself bad and wicked. Perhaps I am—I do not know—but I will not begin to suspect my friends of being bad. If he is so bad, why does your father go to his house?"
"My father is as simple as you are," said the Whaup, contemptuously.
"Then it is only that you are suspicious? I did not think it of you."
She looked hurt and vexed; and a great compunction filled the heart of the Whaup.
"Look here," he said, firmly (and in much better English than was customary with him), "you are my cousin, and it is my business to warn you when you are likely to get into trouble. But don't imagine I am going to persecute you. No. You may do as you please. Perhaps you are quite right. Perhaps it is only that I am suspicious. But, as you are my cousin, I don't wish to stand by and see what is likely to happen; and so I am going away. The sea will suit me better than a college life, or a doctor's shop, or a pulpit."
Coquette rose from her seat, and began to walk up and down the room, in deep distress.
"I must go," she said; "it is I who must go. I bring wretchedness when I come here—my friends are made miserable—it is my fault. I should not have come. In France I was very happy; they used to call me the peace-maker at school; and all the people there were cheerful and kind. Here I am wicked—I do not know how—and the cause of contention and pain. Ah, why you go away because of me!" she suddenly exclaimed, as she took his hand, while tears started to her eyes. "It does not matter to me if I go—I am nobody; I have no home to break up. I can go away, and nobody the worse."
"Perhaps it is the best thing you can do," he said, frankly. "But if you go, I will go with you—to take care of you."
Coquette laughed.
"You are incomprehensible," she said. "Why not take care of me here?"
"Will you give me that duty?" he asked, calmly.
"Yes," she said, with a bright smile, "you shall take care of me as much—as much as you can."
"Mind, it is no joke," said he. "If I resolve to take care of you, I will do it; and anybody interfering——"
He did not finish the sentence.
"You will fight for me?" she said, putting her hand on his arm, and leading him over to the window. "Do you see those clouds away over the sea—how they come on, and on, and go away? These are the moods of a man—his promises—his intentions. But overhead do you see the blue sky?—that is the patience of a woman. Sometimes the clouds are dark—sometimes white—but the sky is always the same: is it not?"
"Hm!" said the Whaup, with a touch of scorn, "that is the romantic stuff they teach you at your French school, is it? It is very pretty, but it isn't true. A man has more patience and more steadfastness than a woman. What you meant was, I suppose, that whatever I might be to you, you would always be the same to me. Perhaps so! We shall see in a few years. But you will never find any difference in me—after any number of years—if you want somebody to take your part. You may remember what I say now afterwards."
"I think I could always trust you," she said, looking rather wistfully at him with those dark eyes that he had almost ceased to regard as foreign and strange. "You have been very good to me since I came here."
"And I have found out something new for you," he said, eagerly—so glad was he to fix and establish those amicable relations. "I hear you were pleased because Lord Earlshope had French things for you to eat and drink?"
"Yes—I was pleased," she said, timidly, and looking down.
"But you don't know that there is a town close by here as like St. Nazaire as it can be: would ye not like to see that?"
"It is impossible!" she said.
"Come and see," he replied.
Coquette very speedily discovered that the Whaup, refusing to accept of Lord Earlshope's invitation, had gone off by himself on a visit to Saltcoats; that he had fallen in with some sailors there; that he had begun talking with them of France and of the French seaports; and that one of the men had delighted him by saying that on one side the very town he was in resembled the old place at the mouth of the Loire. Of course Miss Coquette was in great anxiety to know where this favoured town was situated; and would at once have started off in quest of it.
"Let us go up to your parlour, and I will show it to you," said the Whaup.
So they went up-stairs, and went to the window. It was getting towards the afternoon; and a warm light from the south-west lay over the fair yellow country, with its dark lines of hedge and copse, its ruddy streaks of sand, and the distant glimmer of a river. Seaward there was a lowering which presaged a storm; and the black line of the Saltcoats houses fronted a plain of water which had a peculiar light shining along its surface.
"That is the town," said the Whaup, pointing with a calm air of pride to Saltcoats.
"I see nothing but a line of slates, and a church that seems to stand out in the sea," said Coquette, with some disappointment.
"But you must go down to it to find the old stone wall, and the houses built over it, and the pier and harbour——"
"Ah, is it like that?" cried his companion, clasping her hands. "Is it like St. Nazaire? Are there boats?—and an old church?—and narrow streets? Oh, that we go there now!"
"Would you rather see that than drink Lord Earlshope's vin ordinaire?" said the Whaup, with a cold severity.
"Pah!" she cried, petulantly. "You do give me no peace with your Lord Earlshope! I wish you would fight him, not frighten me with such nonsense. I will believe you are jealous—you stupid boy! But if you will take me to St. Nazaire—to this place—I will forgive you everything, and I will—what can I do for you!—I will kiss you—I will sew a handkerchief for you—anything."
The Whaup blushed very red, but frowned all the same.
"I will take you to Saltcoats," said he; "but we in this country don't like young ladies to be so free with their favours."
Coquette looked rather taken down, and only ventured to say, by way of submissive apology—
"You are my cousin, you know."
They were about to slip out of the house unperceived, when Leezibeth confronted them.
"Beg your pardon, Miss, but I would like to hae a word wi' ye," she said, in a determined tone, as she blocked up their way.
The Whaup began to look fierce.
"It is seventeen years come Michaelmas," said Leezibeth, in set and measured tones, "since I cam' to this house, and a pious and God-fearing house it has been, as naebody will gainsay. We who are but servants have done our pairt, I hope, to preserve its character; though in His sight there are nae servants and nae masters, for he poureth contempt upon princes, and causeth them to wander in the wilderness, and yet setteth the poor on high from affliction, and maketh him families like a flock. I wouldna distinguish between master and servant in the house; but when the master is blind to the things of his household, then it would ill become an honest servant, not afraid to give her testimony——"
"Leezibeth," said the Whaup, "your talk is like a crop o' grass after three months' rain. It's good for neither man nor beast, being but a blash o' water."
"As for ye, sir," retorted Leezibeth, angrily, "it was an ill day for ye that ye turned aside to dangle after an idle woman——"
"As sure as daith, Leezibeth," said the Whaup, in his strongest vernacular, "I'll gar ye gang skelpin' through the air like a splinter if ye dinna keep a civil tongue in your head!"
"But what is it all about?" said Coquette, in deep dismay. "What have I done? Have I done any more wrong? I know not—you must tell me——"
"And is it not true, Miss," said Leezibeth, fixing her keen grey eye on the culprit, "that ye daur to keep a crucifix—the symbol of the woman that sits on seven hills—right aboon your head in your bed; and have introduced this polluting thing into an honest man's house, to work wickedness wi', and set a snare before our feet?"
"I do not know what you mean by seven hills, or a woman," said Coquette, humbly. "I thought the cross was a symbol of all religion. If it annoys you, I will take it down, yes—but my mother gave it to me—I cannot put it away altogether. I will hide it, if it annoys you; but I cannot—surely you will not ask me to part with it altogether——"
"You shall not part with it," said the Whaup, drawing himself up to his full height. "Let me see the man or woman who will touch that crucifix, though it had on it the woman o' Babylon herself!"
Leezibeth looked dazed for a moment. It was almost impossible that such words should have been uttered by the eldest son of the Minister; and for a moment she was inclined to disbelieve the testimony of her ears. Yet there before her stood the lad, tall, proud, handsome, with his eyes burning and his teeth set. And there beside him stood the witch-woman who had wrought this perversion in him—who had come to work destruction in this quiet fold.
"I maun gang to the Minister," said Leezibeth, in despair. "Andrew and I maun settle this maitter, or else set out, in our auld age, for a new resting-place."
"And the sooner the Manse is rid of two cantankerous old idiots the better!" said the Whaup.
Leezibeth bestowed upon him a glance more of wonder and fear than of anger, and then went her way.
"Come!" said the Whaup to his companion. "We maun run for it, or we shall see no St. Nazaire this night."
Then Coquette, feeling very guilty, found herself stealing away from the Manse, led by the Minister's daredevil son.
CHAPTER VIII.
SALTCOATS.
The two fugitives fled from the Manse, and crossed over the moor, and went down to the road leading to Saltcoats, in very diverse moods. The Whaup made light of the affair of the crucifix, and laughed at it as a good joke. Coquette was more thoughtful, and a trifle angry.
"It is too much," she said. "I am not in the habit to make enemies, and I cannot live like this—to be looked at as something very bad. If I do not know the feelings of your country about music, about Sunday, about religion—and it seems even a crime that I shall be cheerful at times—why not tell me instead of to scold? I will do what they want, but I will not be treated like a child. It is too much—this Leesiebess, and her harsh voice, and her scolding. It is too much—it is not bearable—it is a beastly shame!"
"A what?" said the Whaup.
"A beastly shame," she repeated, looking at him rather timidly.
The Whaup burst into a roar of laughter.
"Is it not right?" she said. "Papa did use to say that when he was indignant."
"Oh, it is intelligible enough," said the Whaup, "quite intelligible; but young ladies in this country do not say such things."
"I will remember," said Coquette, obediently.
The Whaup now proceeded to point out to his companion that, after all, there was a good deal to be said on the side of Leezibeth and her husband Andrew. Coquette, he said, had given them some cause to complain. The people of the Manse—whom Coquette took to represent the people of the country—were as kind-hearted as people anywhere else; but they had their customs, their beliefs, their prejudices, to which they clung tenaciously, just like people elsewhere; and, especially, in this matter of the crucifix, she had wounded their feelings by introducing into a Protestant Manse the emblem of a religion which they regarded with horror.
"But why is it that you regard any religion with horror?" said Coquette. "If it is religion, I do think it cannot be much wicked! If you do bring some Protestant emblem into my Catholic church I shall not grumble—I would say, we all believe in the one God—you may have a share of my bench—you may pray just beside me—and we all look to the one Father who is kind to us."
The Whaup shook his head.
"That is a dangerous notion; but I cannot argue with you about it. Everything you say, everything you do, is somehow so natural, and fitting, and easy, that it seems it must be right. It is all a part of yourself, and all so perfect that nobody would have it altered, even if you were wrong."
"You do say that?" said Coquette, with a blush of pleasure.
"That sort of vague religious sentiment you talk of would be contemptible in anybody else, you know," said the Whaup, frankly—"it would show either weakness of reasoning or indifference; but in you it is something that makes people like you. Why, I have watched you again and again in the parlour at the Manse; and whether you let your hand rest on the table, or whether you look out of the window, or whether you come near the fire, you are always easy and graceful. It is a gift you have of making yourself, without knowing it, a picture. When you came out just now, I thought that grey woolly shawl round your shoulders was pretty; and since you have put it round your head, it is quite charming. You can't help it. And so you can't help that light and cheerful way of looking at religion, and of being happy and contented, and of making yourself a pleasure to the people round about you."
Coquette began to laugh; and the Whaup came to an uncomfortable stop in the midst of his rapid enthusiasm.
"When you talk like that," she said, "I think I am again in France, I am so gay-hearted. You approve of me, then?" she added, timorously.
Approve of her! Was it possible that she could care for his approval? And in what language could he express his opinion of her save in the only poetry familiar to Airlie Manse?—"The King's daughter is all glorious within: her clothing is of wrought gold. She shall be brought unto the King in raiment of needlework: the virgins her companions that follow her shall be brought unto thee. With gladness and rejoicing shall they be brought: they shall enter into the King's palace." Only, this King's daughter was without companions—she was all alone—and the Whaup wondered how this pure and strange jewel came to be dropped in the centre of a Scotch moor.
The wind was blowing hard from the south-west—the region of rain. Arran was invisible; and in place of the misty peaks there was a great wall of leaden-grey sky, from the base of which came lines and lines of white waves, roaring in to the shore. Coquette drew her thick plaid more closely around her, and pressed on; for St. Nazaire now lay underneath them—a dark line of houses between the sea and the land.
"What is that woman," said Coquette, looking along the road, "who stands with the flowers in her hand, and her hair flying? Is she mad? Is she Ophelia come to Scotland?"
Mad enough the girl looked; for as they came up to her, they found her a bonnie Scotch lassie of sixteen or seventeen, who sobbed at intervals, and kept casting tearful glances all around her. She carried in one hand her bonnet, in the other a bunch of flowers; and the wind that had scattered the flowers, and left but a remnant in her hand, had also unloosed her nut-brown hair, and blown it in tangled masses about her face and neck. She stood aside, in a shamed way, to let the strangers pass; but the Whaup stopped.
"What is the matter wi' ye, lass?" said he.
"I had my shoon and stockings in my bundle," she said, while the tears welled up in her blue eyes, "and I hae dropped them out; and I canna gang back the road to look for them, for I maun be in Saltcoats afore kye-time."
"What does she say?" asked Coquette.
"She has only lost her shoes and stockings, that's all," said the Whaup.
"But it is bad enough for her, I dare say."
In an instant Coquette had out her purse—a dainty little Parisian thing, in mother-of-pearl, with filagree work round it—and taken therefrom two Napoleons.
"Here," she said, going forward to the girl, "you must not cry more about that. Take my little present, and you will buy more shoes and more stockings for yourself."
The girl eyed the money with some dismay; and probably wondered if this was not a temptress who had suddenly appeared to offer her gold, and who spoke with a strange sound in her voice.
"Dinna be a sumph!" said the Whaup, who could talk broadly enough when occasion demanded. "Take the money the leddy offers ye, and thank her for't."
The girl accepted the foreign-looking coins, and seemed much distressed that—like the peasantry of Scotland in general—she did not know how to express the gratitude she felt. Her thanks were in her eyes, and these spoke eloquently. But, just as her benefactors were moving on, a man came along the road with something dangling from his hands. Great was the joy of the girl on perceiving that he had found her lost property; and, when he had come up and delivered the things to her, she advanced with the money to Coquette.
"Thank ye, mem," said she.
"Won't you keep the money, and buy something for your little brothers and sisters, if you have any?"
This offer was declined, with just an inkling of pride in the girl's manner; and the next instant she was hurrying to Saltcoats as fast as her bare feet could cany her.
Now, this incident had delayed the two runaways much longer than they suspected; and, when they got down to Saltcoats, they were much later than they dreamed. Indeed, they never looked at the town clock in passing, so satisfied were they that they had plenty of time.
"This is not like St. Nazaire," said Coquette, decidedly.
"You have not seen it yet," returned the Whaup, just as confidently.
A few minutes afterwards Coquette and he stood upon the shore. The long bay of Saltcoats, sweeping round from the far promontory of Troon, fronted a heaving, tumbling mass of white-crested waves, that came rolling onward from under a great leaden breadth of sky; and, as they gazed out on this wintry-looking sea, they had on their right hand the grey stone wall of the town, which projected into the water, with here and there a crumbling old house peeping over it. The church spire rose above the tallest of the houses, and aided the perspective—so much so that it was almost possible to imagine that the site of the building had been chosen by one who had studied the picturesque opportunities of the place.
"It is St. Nazaire in winter!" cried Coquette, her voice half lost in the roar of the waves.
"Didn't I tell you?" triumphantly shouted the Whaup, who had never seen St. Nazaire, but only knew that, on this side, Saltcoats looked singularly like a little French walled town. "Now will you come and see the harbour?"
But she would not leave. She stood there, with her shawl fluttering in the fierce wind, and with her slight form scarcely able to withstand the force of the hurricane, looking out on the rushing white crests of the waves, on the black line of the town perched above the rocks, and on the lowering western sky, which seemed to be slowly advancing with its gloom. There was no sign of life near them—not even a sailor on the watch, nor a ship running before the gale—nothing but the long and level shore, and the great wild mass of waves, which had a voice like thunder far out beyond the mere dashing on the beach.
"Imagine what it would be," she said, "to have one you loved out in a fearful storm, and for you to come down here at night to hear the savage message that the waves bring. It would make me mad. You will not go to sea?" she added suddenly, turning to him with an urgent pleading in her face and her voice.
"No—of course not," he said, looking strangely at her.
Was it possible, then, that this vague determination of his had lingered in her mind as a sort of threat? Did she care to have him remain near her?
"Come," said he, "we must hurry, if you mean to look at the harbour and the old ruins at the point. Besides, I want you to rest for a minute or two at an inn here, and you shall see whether there is no vin ordinaire in the country except at Earlshope."
"Earlshope—Earlshope," she said. "Why do you talk always of Earlshope?"
The Whaup would not answer, but led her back through the town, and stopped on their way to the harbour at the Saracen's Head. Here Coquette had a biscuit and a glass of claret; and was further delighted to perceive that the window of the room they were in looked out upon a very French-looking courtyard of stone, surrounded by a high wall which appeared to front the sea.
"It is St. Nazaire in winter," she repeated; "the grey stones, the windy sea, the chill air. Yet how dark it becomes!"
Indeed, when they had resumed their journey, and gone out to the point beyond the little harbour, the gale had waxed much more fierce. They passed through the ruins of what seemed an ancient fortress on to the rocks, and found themselves alone in front of the sea, which had now become of a lurid green. It was, in fact, much lighter in colour than the sombre sky above; and the grey-green waves, tumbling in white, could be seen for an immense distance under this black canopy of cloud. The wind whistled around them, and dashed the spray into their blinded eyes. The wildness of the scene—the roaring of wind and sea around—produced a strange excitement in the girl; and while she clung to the Whaup's arm to steady herself on the rocks, she laughed aloud in defiance of the storm. At this moment a glare of steel-blue light flashed through the driving gloom in front of them; and almost simultaneously there was a rattle of thunder overhead, which reverberated far and long among the Arran hills. Then came the rain; and they could hear the hissing of it on the sea before it reached them.
"Shall we make for the town?" cried the Whaup, "or shelter ourselves in the ruins?"
He had scarcely spoken when another wild glare burst before their eyes, and made them stagger back; while the rattle of the thunder seemed all around their ears.
"Are you hurt?" said Coquette, for her companion did not speak.
"I think not," said the Whaup; "but my arm tingles up to the elbow, and I can scarcely move it. This is close work. We must hide in the ruins, or you will be wet through."
They went inside the old building; and crept down and sat mute and expectant under Coquette's outstretched plaid. All around them was the roaring of the waves, with the howling of the gusts of wind and rain; and ever and anon the rough stone walls before them would be lit up by a flash of blue lightning, which stunned their eyes for several seconds.
"This is a punishment that we ran away," said Coquette.
"Nonsense!" said the Whaup. "This storm will wreck many a boat; and it would be rather hard if a lot of sailors should be drowned merely to give us a drouking."
"What is that?"
"A wetting, such as we are likely to get. Indeed, I don't think there is much use in stopping here; for it will soon be so dark that we shall not be able to get along the rocks to the shore."
This consideration made them rise and leave at once; and sure enough it had grown very dark within the past half-hour. Night was rapidly approaching as they made their way through Saltcoats to gain the road to Airlie. Nor did the storm abate one jot of its fury; and long before they had begun to ascend towards the moorland country, the Whaup was as wet as though he had been lying in a river. Coquette's thick plaid saved her somewhat.
"What shall we do?" she said. "They will be very angry, and this time they have reason."
"I shouldn't care whether they were angry or not," said the Whaup, "if only you were at home and in dry clothes."
"But you are wetter than I am."
"But I don't care," said the Whaup, although his teeth were chattering in his head.
So they struggled on, in the darkness, and wind, and driving rain, until it seemed to Coquette that the way under foot was strangely spongy and wet. She said nothing, however, until the Whaup exclaimed, in a serious voice—
"We are off the road, and on the moor somewhere."
Such was the fact. They had got up to the high land only to find themselves lost in a morass, with no means of securing the slightest guidance. There was nothing for it but to blunder on helplessly through the dark, trusting to find some indication of their whereabouts. At last they came to an enclosure and a footpath; and as they followed this, hoping to reach the Airlie road, they came upon a small house, which had a light in its windows.
"It is Earlshope Lodge," said the Whaup. "And there are the gates."
"Oh, let us go in and beg for some shelter," said Coquette, whose courage had forsaken her the moment she found they had lost their way.
"You may," said a voice from the mass of wet garments beside her, "you may go in, and get dry clothes, if you like; but I will not."
CHAPTER IX.
COQUETTE'S PROMISE.
"Good morning, Miss Cassilis," said Lord Earlshope, as he met Coquette coming over the moorland road. "I hear you had an adventure last night. But why did not you go into the lodge and get dried?"
"Why?" said Coquette—"why, because my cousin Tom and I were as wet as we could be, and it was better to go on straight to the Manse without waiting. Have you seen him this morning?"?
"Your cousin? No."
"I am looking for him. I think he believes he is in disgrace at the Manse, and has gone off for some wild mischief. He has taken all his brothers with him; and I did hear him laughing and singing as he always does when he—how do you call it?—when he breaks out."
"Let me help you to look for him," said Earlshope. "I am sure he ought to be proud of your solicitude, if anything is wanted to make him happier than he is. How thoroughly that handsome lad seems to enjoy the mere routine of living!"
"You talk as if you were an old man," said Coquette, with one of her bright laughs. "Do not you enjoy living?"
"Enjoy it? No. If the days pass easily, without much bother, I am contented; but happiness does not visit a man who looks upon himself as a failure at twenty-seven."
"I do not understand you," said Coquette, with a puzzled air.
"You would provoke me into talking about myself, as if I were a hypochondriac. Yet I have no story—nothing to amuse you with."
"Oh, I do wish you to tell me all about yourself," said Coquette, with a gracious interest. "Why you remain by yourself in this place? Why you have no companions—no occupation? You are mysterious."
"I am not even that," he said, with a smile. "I have not even a mystery. Yet I will tell you all about myself, if you care to hear, as we go along. Stop me when I tire you."
So her companion began and told her all about himself and his friends, his college life, his relations, his acquaintances, his circumstances—a rather lengthy narrative, which need not be repeated here. Coquette learned a great deal during that time, however, and saw for the first time Lord Earlshope in a true light. He was no longer to her a careless and light-hearted young man, who had made her acquaintance out of indolent curiosity, and seemed inclined to flirt with her for mere amusement. He was, in his own words, a failure at twenty-seven—a man whose extremely morbid disposition had set to work years ago to eat into his life. He had had his aspirations and ambitions; and had at length convinced himself that he had not been granted the intellect to accomplish any of his dreams. What remained to him?
"I was not fit to do anything," he said, "with those political, social, and other instruments that are meant to secure the happiness of multitudes. All I could do was to try to secure my own happiness, and help the philanthropists by a single unit."
"Have you done that?" said Coquette.
"No," he rejoined, with a careless shrug, "I think I have failed in that, too. All my life I have been cutting open my bellows to see where the wind came from; and if you were to go over Earlshope, you would discover the remains of twenty different pursuits that I have attempted and thrown aside. Do you know, Miss Cassilis, that I have even ceased to take any interest in the problem of myself—in the spectacle of a man physically as strong as most men, and mentally so vacillating that he has never been able to hold an opinion or get up a prejudice to swear by. Even the dullest men have convictions about politics; but I am a Tory in sympathy and a Radical in theory, so that I am at war with myself on pretty nearly every point. Sometimes I have fancied that there are a good many men in this country more or less in my condition; and then it has occurred to me that an invasion of England would be a good thing."
"Ah, you would have something to believe in then—something to fight for!" said Coquette.
"Perhaps. Yet I don't know. If the invaders should happen to have better educational institutions than England—as is very likely—oughtn't I to fight on their side, and wish them to be successful, and give us a lesson? England, you know, owes everything to successive invasions; for the proper test of the invader's political institutions was whether they could hold their own in the country after he had planted his foot there. But I have really to beg your pardon. I must not teach you the trick of following everything to the vanishing point. You have the greatest of earthly blessings; you enjoy life without asking yourself why."
"But I do not understand," said Coquette, "how I can enjoy more than you. Is it not pleasant to come out in the sunshine like this, after the night's rain, and see the clear sky, and smell the sweet air? You enjoy that——"
"I cannot help wondering what appetite it will give me."
Coquette made an impatient gesture with her hands.
"At least you do enjoy speaking with me here on this pleasant morning?"
"The more we talk," he said, "the more I am puzzled by the mystery of the difference between you and me. Why, the passing of a bright-coloured butterfly is an intense pleasure to you! I have seen you look up to a gleam of blue sky, and clasp your hands, and laugh with delight. Every scent of a flower, every pleasant sound, every breath of sunshine and air, is a new joy to you; and you are quite satisfied with merely being alive. Of course, it is an advantage to be alive; but there are few who make so much of it as you do."
"You think too much about it," said Coquette; "when you marry some day, you will have more practical things to think of, and you will be happier."
At the mention of the word marriage a quick look of annoyance seemed to pass across his face; but she did not notice it, and he replied lightly,
"Marriages are made in heaven, Miss Cassilis; and I am afraid they won't do much for me there."
"Ah! do not you believe in heaven?" she said, and the brown eyes were turned anxiously to his face.
"Do not let us talk about that," said he, indifferently; "I do not wish to alienate from me the only companion I have ever found in this place. Yet I do not disbelieve in what you believe, I know. What were you saying about marriage?" he added, with an apparent effort; "do you believe that marriages are made in heaven?"
"I do not know," replied Coquette; "the people say that sometimes."
"I was only thinking," remarked Lord Earlshope, with an apparently careless laugh, "that if the angels employ their leisure in making marriages, they sometimes turn out a very inferior article. Don't you think so?"
Coquette was not a very observant young person—she was much too occupied with her own round of innocent little enjoyments; but it did strike her that her companion spoke with a touch of bitterness in his tone. However, they did not pursue the subject further, for, much to their surprise, they suddenly stumbled upon the Whaup and his brothers.
The boys were at a small bridge crossing the stream that ran down from Airlie moor; and they were so intent upon their own pursuits that they took no notice of the approach of Coquette and her companion. Lord Earlshope, indeed, at once motioned to Coquette to preserve silence; and, aided by a line of small alder and hazel bushes which grew on the banks of the rivulet, they drew quite near to the Minister's sons without being perceived.
Coquette was right: the Whaup had "broken out." Feeling assured that he would be held responsible for all the crimes of yesterday—the affair of the crucifix, the clandestine excursion to Saltcoats, and the mishaps that accrued therefrom—the Whaup had reflected that it was as well to be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. When Coquette and her companion came in sight of him, he was fulfilling the measure of his iniquities.
What had moved him to vent his malignity on his younger brother Wattie must remain a mystery—unless it was that Wattie was the "best boy" of the Manse, and, further, that he had shown an enmity to Coquette; but at this moment Wattie was depending from the small bridge, his head a short distance from the water, his feet held close to the parapet by the muscular arms of the Whaup, while one of the other boys had been made an accomplice to the extent of holding on to Wattie's trousers.
"Noo, Wattie," said the Whaup, "ye maun say a sweer before ye get up. I'm no jokin', and unless ye be quick, ye'll be in the water."
But would Wattie, the paragon of scholars, the exemplar to his brothers, imperil his soul by uttering a "bad word?" Surely not! Wattie was resolute. He knew what punishment was held in reserve for swearers; and preferred the colder element.
"Wattie," said the Whaup, "say a sweer, or ye'll gang into the burn, as sure as daith!"
No; Wattie would rather be a martyr. Whereupon—the bridge being a very low one—the Whaup and his brothers dipped Wattie a few inches, so that the ripples touched his head. Wattie set up a fearful howl; and his brothers raised him to his former position.
"Now, will ye say it?"
"Devil!" cried Wattie. "Let me up; I hae said a sweer."
The other brothers raised a demoniac shout of triumph over this apostacy; and the Whaup's roars of laughter had nearly the effect of precipitating Wattie into the stream in downright earnest. But this backsliding on the part of their pious brother did not seem to the tempters sufficiently serious.
"Ye maun say a worse sweer, Wattie. 'Deevil' is no bad enough."
"I'll droon first!" said Wattie, whimpering in his distress, "and then ye'll get your paiks, I'm thinking."
Down went Wattie's head into the burn again; and this time he was raised with his mouth sputtering out the contents it had received.
"I'll say what ye like—I'll say what ye like! D—n; is that bad enough?"
With another unholy shout of derision, Wattie was raised and set on the bridge.
"Noo," said the Whaup, standing over him, "let me tell you this, my man. The next time ye gang to my faither, and tell a story about any one o' us, or the next time ye say a word against the French lassie, as ye ca' her, do ye ken what I'll do? I'll take ye back to my faither by the lug, and I'll tell him ye were swearin' like a trooper down by the burn; and every one o' us will testify against ye. Ma certes, my man, I'm thinking it will be your turn to consider paiks. My faither has a bonnie switch, Wattie—a braw switch, Wattie; and what think ye he'll do to his well-behaved son that gangs about the countryside swearin' just like a Kilmarnock carter?"
Coquette held out her hand to her companion.
"Good-bye," she said, "and I do thank you for bringing me here."
Lord Earlshope perceived that he was dismissed, but did not know why. He was not aware that Coquette was trembling lest she should be seen in his forbidden company.
"Shall I see you to-morrow?" he said, as he took her hand.
"When it is fine I do always go out for a walk after breakfast," she said lightly; and so they parted.