CHAPTER XI.

A MEETING ON THE MOOR.

"I am very miserable," said Coquette, struggling bravely to restrain her tears.

"You miserable?" cried Lord Earlshope, whom she met before she had gone five hundred yards from the Manse. "It is impossible! I do not think you have the capacity to be miserable. But what is the matter? Tell me all about it."

It was a dangerous moment for the exhibition of kindness. She felt herself an exile from the Manse, and receiving comfort and sympathy from a stranger.

She told him her story, rapidly, and in French. To have the burden of a foreign tongue removed was in itself a consolation to her; and she found inexpressible relief in being able to talk fully and freely about all her surroundings at the Manse—about her relations with a number of people so unlike her in temperament and bringing-up—about these present circumstances which seemed to be conspiring to goad her into some desperate act.

Earlshope listened patiently and attentively, deeply interested, and yet inclined to smile sometimes.

"I should laugh at all that," said he, when she had finished, "because I am a man; and men are indifferent to these delicate considerations chiefly because they can avoid them. If a man dislikes the people he is among, he has merely to go away. But a woman is very dependent on the temper and disposition of those around her; and you especially seem almost without resource. You have no other relatives?"

"No," said Coquette.

"No lady-friend with whom you could stay?"

"Many—many with whom I should like to stay," said the girl, "but they are all in France; and I have been sent here. Yet you must not misunderstand what I do say. I do not dislike my relatives. My uncle is a very good man, and very kind to me. My cousin, I do think, is more than kind to me, and ready to incur danger in defending my faults. The other people cannot be angry with me; for I have done them no harm. Yet everything is wrong—I do not know how. At this moment I know myself very guilty in coming to see you; and I should not have come but that Cousin Tom would not speak to me."

"I think Cousin Tom has been quarrelling with you about me," said Earlshope.

He spoke very quietly, and with rather an amused air; but Coquette was startled and a little alarmed. She did not wish her companion to know that he had anything to do with what had occurred.

"Now," said Lord Earlshope, "it would be a great pity if I were the cause of any of your troubles. You see I have no companions here—you have not many. It seemed to me that we might often have a very pleasant chat or walk together; but I must not be selfish. You must not suffer anything on my account; so, if your friends at the Manse are inclined to mistake our brief acquaintanceship, let it cease. I do not like to see you as you are. You are evidently out of sorts, for you have never laughed this morning yet—nor run off the road—nor paid the least attention to the sunlight or the colours of the sea out yonder. I should far prefer looking at you from a distance as an entire stranger—if I could see you, as you usually are, fluttering about like a butterfly, enjoying the warmth, and the colours, and light around you, without a care, and quite unconscious how perfectly happy you are."

As Coquette heard these words, uttered in a cruelly calm and kindly voice, she became afraid. "What was this strange aching sense of disappointment that filled her heart? Why was it that she contemplated with dismay a proposal which he had clearly shown would secure her happiness and peace? She was miserable before; she was ten times more wretched now.

He did not seem to notice any alteration in her expression or manner. They had got to the crest of a hill from which the line of the coast was visible; with a plain of sunlit sea beyond; and Arran lying like a great blue cloud on the horizon. A faint haze of heat filled the south; and the distant Ailsa Craig was of a pearly grey.

Coquette's companion uttered an exclamation.

"Do you see that yacht?" said he, pointing to a vessel which the distance rendered very small—a schooner yacht with her two masts lying rakishly back, and her white sails shining in the sun, as she cut through the green water with a curve of white round her prow.

"It is a stunning little boat," said Coquette simply, returning to the English which she had picked up from her father.

Lord Earlshope did not laugh at her blunder as the Whaup would have laughed. He merely said—

"She has been lying at Greenock to be overhauled and set to rights; and I telegraphed to have the name altered as well. The first time you go down to Ardrossan you will find lying there a yacht bearing the name—COQUETTE."

"Do you know," said Coquette, breaking at last into a smile, "everybody did use to call me that?"

"So I heard from one of your cousins the other day," said her companion.

"And you called the boat for me?" she said, with a look of wonder.

"Yes; I took the liberty of naming it after your pet name—I hope you are not angry with me?"

"No," she said, "I am very well pleased—very much—it is a very kind compliment to do that, is it not? But you have not told me you had a yacht."

"It is one of my abandoned amusements. I wanted to surprise you, though; and I had some wild hope of inveigling Mr. Cassilis, yourself, and your cousin into going for a day or two's cruise up some of the lochs—Loch Fyne, Loch Linnhe, or some of these. It would have been pleasant for you, I think, as you don't know anything of the West Highland lochs and mountains. The scenery is the most varied of any I have ever seen, and more picturesque in the way of colour. You can have no idea of the wildness of the northern sunsets; and of late I have been picturing you sitting on deck with .us in the* twilight—the stillness of the place—the calling of the wild-fowl—the dense and mysterious darkness of the mountains in the glow of cold, clear light. Do you think Mr. Cassilis would have gone?"

"I do not know," said Coquette.

She was becoming hard and obdurate again. He had spoken of his project as a thing of the past. It was no longer possible; but the mere mention of it had filled Coquette with a wistful longing. It would have been pleasant indeed to have gone away on this dream-like exclusion, and wandered round the lonely islands, and up the great stretches of sea-lochs of which her father had many a time spoken to her when she was a child. Nevertheless, since her companion had chosen to give up the proposal, she would not ask him to reconsider his resolve. They were about to become strangers: well and good.

"I must go back now," she said.

He looked at her with some surprise.

"Have I offended you by telling you what I had been dreaming about? After all, it was but a fancy—and I beg your pardon for not saying first of all that I was far from sure that you yourself would go, even had I persuaded Mr. Cassilis."

"No, you have not offended me," said Coquette. "Your thought was very kind. But I am sorry it is all over."

"I see I have not brought you peace of mind yet," he said, gently. "You are not Miss Cassilis—may I say that you are not Coquette?—this morning. What can I do for you? I wish you would talk to me as if I were your elder brother, and tell me if there is anything in which I can help you. Shall I go up to the Manse and hint to Mr. Cassilis that—that—well, to tell you the truth, I should be at a loss to know what to hint."

He smiled; but she was quite grave.

"There is nothing," she said. "They are very good to me—what more? Do not let us talk of it any more. Let us talk of something else. Why do you never go in your yacht?"

"Because I lost interest in it, as I lost interest in a dozen other things. Steeple-chasing was my longest-lived hobby, I think, for I used to be rather successful. Eiding nine stone six, with a five-pound saddle, I had a pretty fair share of luck."

"And now you only read books, and smoke, and fell trees in the cold weather to make you warm. What books? Romances?"

"Yes; and the more improbable the better."

"You get interested?"

"Yes: but not in the story. I read the story and try to look at the brain of the writer all the time. Then you begin to wonder at the various notions of the world these various heads have conceived. If I were a physiologist, I should like to read a novel, and draw a picture of the author gathered from the colouring and sentiments of his book."

"That is all so very morbid," she said. "And in your poetry, too, I suppose you like the—ah, I cannot say what I mean."

"But I understand all the same," he said, laughing; "and I am going to disappoint you, if you have formed a theory. I like old-fashioned poetry, and especially the lyrics of the old dramatists. Then poetry was as wide as life itself, and included everything that could interest a man. A writer was not afraid to talk of everyday experiences, and was gay, or patriotic, or sarcastic, just as the moment suited. But don't you think the poetry of the present time is only the expression of one mood—that it is permeated all through with sadness and religious melancholia? What do you say, Mr. Cassilis?"

The abrupt question was addressed to the Minister. Coquette had been walking carelessly onward, with her eyes bent on the ground; and had not perceived the approach of her uncle. When she heard the sudden termination of Earlshope's disquisition on poetry, she looked up with a start, and turned pale. The Minister's eyes she found fixed upon her, and she dared not return that earnest look.

"I beg your pardon, Lord Earlshope?" said Mr. Cassilis, looking calmly at both of them.

"I was victimising your niece, whom I had the good fortune to meet, with a sermon on modern poetry," said Lord Earlshope, lightly; "and, as she seemed to pay no attention to me, I appealed to you. However, the subject is not an enticing one—as Miss Cassilis apparently discovered. Which way are you walking? Shall we join you?"

The deep-set eyes of the Minister, under the shaggy eyebrows, were closely regarding the speaker during the utterance of these words. Mr. Cassilis was satisfied—so far as Lord Earlshope was concerned. No actor could have been so obviously and wholly at ease—the fact being that the young man did not even suspect that he had become an object of suspicion. He had not inveigled the Minister's niece into a secret interview; on the contrary, he had, mainly by chance, met a pleasant and pretty neighbour out for her morning walk, and why should he not speak to her?

But when the Minister turned to Coquette he found a different story written on her face—a story that caused him some concern. She appeared at once embarrassed and distressed. She said nothing, and looked at neither of them; but there was in her eyes (bent on a bit of heather she was pulling to pieces) an expression of constraint and disquiet, which was plainly visible to him, if not to Lord Earlshope.

"If you will relieve me from the duties of escort," said the latter to Mr. Cassilis, "I think I shall bid you both good morning, as I have to walk over to Altyre Farm and back before luncheon."

So he parted from them, Coquette not daring to look up as he shook hands with her. She and the Minister were left alone.

For a minute or two they walked on in silence; and it seemed to Coquette that the hour of her deepest tribulation had come. So bright and happy had been the life of this young creature that with her to be downcast was to be miserable: to be suspected was equivalent to being guilty. Suspicion she could not bear; secrecy seemed to suffocate her; and she had now but one despairing notion in her head—to escape and fly from this lonely northern region into which she had been sent—to get away from a combination of circumstances that appeared likely to overwhelm her.

"Uncle," she said, "may I go back to France?"

"My child!" said Mr. Cassilis, in amazement, "what is the matter? Surely you do not mean that your short stay with us has been disagreeable to you? I have noticed, it is true, that you have of late been rather out o' sorts, but judged it was but some temporary indisposition. Has anything annoyed you—have you any cause of complaint?"

"Complaint?" she said; "when you have been so kind to me! No, no complaint. But I do think I am not good enough for this place—I am sorry I cannot satisfy, although I put away all my pictures, and books, and the crucifix, so that no one can see. But I am suspected—I do hear them talk of me as dangerous. It is natural—it is right, perhaps—but not pleasant to me. Just now," she added, desperately, "you think I did promise to meet Lord Earlshope, and you did come to take me home."

"Had you not promised?" said the Minister, looking steadily and yet affectionately at her.

For a second the girl's lip trembled; but the next moment she was saying rapidly, with something of wildness in her tone and manner—

"I did not promise; no. But I did expect to see him—I did hope to see him when I came out; and is it wrong? Is it wrong for me to speak to a stranger, when I do see him kind to me, in a place where there are not many amiable people? If it is wrong, it is because Lord Earlshope is not suspicious, and hard, and ill-judging, like the others. That is why they do say ill of him; that is why they persuade me to think ill of him. I do not; I will not. Since I left France I did meet no one so courteous—so friendly—as he has been. Why can I talk to him so easily? He does not think me wicked because I have a crucifix that my mother gave me—that is why we are friends; and he does not suspect me. But it is all over. We are not to be friends again; we may see each other to-morrow; we shall not speak. Shall I tell Leesiebess?—perhaps it will please her!"

She spoke with an angry and bitter vehemence, that was strangely out of consonance with her ordinary serenity of demeanour. The Minister took her hand gently in his, saying nothing at all, and led her back to the Manse.

CHAPTER XII.

COQUETTE'S CONQUESTS.

There ensued a long period of rain—day after day breaking sullen and cold, with a perpetual drizzle falling from a grey and cheerless sky. There were none of the sharp and heavy showers which a south-west gale brings, with dashes of blue between; but a slow, fine, wetting rain, that rendered everything humid and limp, and hid the far-off line of the sea and the mountains of Arran behind a curtain of mist.

Perhaps it was the forced imprisonment caused by the rain that made Coquette look ill; but, at all events, she grew so pale and listless that even the boys noticed it. All her former spirits were gone. She was no longer interested in their sports; and taught them no more new games. She kept much to her own room, and read at a window. She read those books which she had brought with her from the sunny region of the Loire; and when she turned from the open page to look out upon the wet and misty landscape all around, she came back again with a sigh to the volume on her knee.

Lord Earlshope never came near the Manse; perhaps, she thought, he had left the country. The only communication she had with him was on the day following their last meeting. She then sent him a note consisting of but one line, which was—"Please do not call your boat Coquette." This missive she had entrusted to her cousin Wattie, who delivered it, and returned with the answer that Lord Earlshope had merely said "All right." Wattie, however, broke the confidence reposed in him; and told his brothers that he had been sent with a message to Earlshope. The Whaup profited by this intelligence; but punished Wattie all the same; for on that night, Coquette heard murmurings and complainings underneath her window. She looked out. There was some starlight; and she could indistinctly see a figure in white moving in the garden underneath that building, the upper storey of which, originally a hay-loft, had been transformed into a dormitory for the boys. The cause of the disturbance soon became apparent. After the boys had undressed, the Whaup had wheedled or compelled Wattie into making a rush to the garden for some fruit. He had then taken advantage of his position to pull the ladder into the loft, by which mean device his brother was left standing below in his night-shirt. In vain Wattie petitioned to be let up to his bed. With his teeth chattering in his head, he entreated that at least his trousers might be flung down to him; but he was not relieved from punishment until the Whaup had administered a severe lecture to him on the shabbiness of betraying a lady's confidence.

"I'll never do't again, as sure's I'm here!" said Wattie, who was feebly endeavouring to mitigate his sufferings by balancing himself on his toes—a feat in which he naturally failed.

"Since it is no likely to rain," said the Whaup, looking spitefully at the clear star-lit sky, "there is little use in keeping ye there, so ye may hae the ladder—ye sneak!"

The Whaup never spoke to Coquette about that letter; but it was the occasion of his prolonging the estrangement which he had sternly decided upon. He deliberately ignored her presence. He would not complain of her keeping up what he imagined to be a clandestine correspondence; neither would he take any steps to put an end to it. He contented himself with thinking that if ever there should be necessity for confronting Earlshope personally, and altering matters that way, there would be one person in the Manse ready to adventure something for the sake of Coquette.

Nevertheless, it was at this time, and it was through the Whaup's instrumentality, that Coquette achieved her first great victory in Airlie—a success which was but the beginning of a strange series of successes, and fraught with important consequences to her. It all fell about in this way. First, the Whaup relented. When the rain began, and he saw his French cousin mope and pine indoors—when he saw how she was growing languid and listless, and still strove to be cheerful and amiable to those around her, his resolve broke down. By insensible degrees he tried to re-establish their old relations. He showed her little attentions, and performed towards her small acts of thoughtfulness and kindness, which she was not slow to acknowledge. He was not impudently and patronisingly good to her as he had been; there was a certain restraint over his approaches; but she met them all with that simplicity of gratitude which the dark eyes and the sweet face could so readily and effectually express when her imperfect English failed her. And the Whaup no longer corrected her blunders with his old scornful impatience.

One morning there was a temporary cessation of the rain.

"Why don't you go down and return the Pensioner's visit?" said the Whaup to Coquette.

"If you please, I will go."

For the first time for many a day these two went out of the Manse together. It was like a revival of old times—though the Whaup would not have believed you had you told him how short a space Coquette had actually lived in Airlie. The cold and damp wind brought a tinge of colour to the girl's cheeks; the Whaup thought he had never seen her look so pleasant and charming.

While Coquette lingered in the small garden of the cottage, the Whaup went up to the door and told the Pensioner who had come to see him.

"Cot pless me!" he hastily exclaimed, looking down at his legs. "Keep her in sa garden till I change my breeks."

"What for?" said the Whaup.

"Dinna ye see sey are tartan!" cried Neil, in an excited whisper, "and sa French canna stand sa tartan."

"Nonsense!" said the Whaup. "She won't look at your trousers."

"It is no nonsense, but very good sense whatever," said the Highlandman; "it wass two friends o' mine, and they went over to France sa very last year, and one o' them, sey took his bags and his luggage, and sey pulled sis way and sat way, and sey will sweer at him in French—but he will not know what it wass said to him—and sey will take many things from him, mirover, and he will not know why. But, said I to him, 'Tonald, will you have on your tartan plaid round your shoulders?" And says he, 'I had.' And said I to him, 'Did you will no ken how sa French canna stand sa tartan ever since Waterloo?'"

The Pensioner ran inside, and speedily re-appeared in plain grey. Then he came out, and bade Coquette welcome with a dignified courtesy that surprised her.

"You would not come to see me, so I have come to see you," she said to the old man.

"It wassna for the likes o' me to visit a letty," said Neil.

He dusted a chair with his sleeve, and asked her to sit down. Then he put three glasses on the table, and brought out a black bottle. He filled one of the glasses and offered it to Coquette.

"She canna drink whisky!" said the Whaup, with a rude laugh.

"It is sa rale Lagavulin," said Neil, indignantly, "and wouldna harm a flee."

Coquette put the glass to her lips, and then placed it on the table.

"Ye may drink it up, mem," said Neil. "Do ye ken that ye can drink sa goot whisky until ye stagger, and it will do ye no harm in sa morning? I do pelieve it is sa finest sing in the world's universe—a gran' good stagger as ye will go home in sa night."

"You have been in battle?" said Coquette, by way of changing the conversation.

"Oh, yes, mem," said Neil, looking desperately uncomfortable. "It wass—it wass—it wass in a war."

"Have you been in more than one war?" she asked.

"No, mem—yes, mem," stammered Neil, in great embarrassment, as he glanced to see that his tartan trousers were well shoved under the bed; "but it is of no matter how many wars. It will pe all over pefore you were porn—never mind about sa wars."

"I hear you were at Waterloo?" said Coquette, innocently.

The Pensioner jumped to his feet.

"Who wass it tellt you of Waterloo?" said he, in great indignation. "I never heard sa like! It wass a shame—and I would not take a hundred pounds and forget mysel' like sat. And you will be blaming us Hielanders for what we did—and we did a goot teal there—but there wass others too. There wass English there too. And the French—sey fought well, as every one o' us will tell ye; and I wouldna sink too much o't; for maype it isna true sat Napoleon died on sa island. Didna he come pack pefore?"

Having offered Coquette this grain of comfort, Neil hastily escaped from the subject by getting his violin and beginning to screw up the strings.

"I have been learning a lot of your Scotch airs," said Coquette, "and I have become very fond of some of them—the sad ones especially. But I suppose you prefer the lively ones for the violin."

"I can play sem all every one together," said Neil, proudly. "I do not play sem well, but I know all our music—every one."

"You play a great deal?"

"No," said Neil, fondling his violin affectionately, "I do not play sa fiddle much, but I like to be aye playing."

There was a touch of pathos in the reply which did not escape the delicate perception of his guest. She looked at the old man, at his scanty grey hair and dazed eyes, and was glad that he had this constant companion to amuse and interest him. He did not like to play much—to make a labour of this recreation; but he liked to have the whine of the tight strings always present to his ear.

He played her a selection of his best airs, with many an apology. He chatted about the tunes too, and told tales concerning them, until he was as familiar with the young lady as though he had known her a lifetime; and she was laughing at his odd stories more than she had laughed for many a day. At last she said—

"That 'Flowers of the Forest' is a beautiful air, but you want it harmonised. Will you come up to the Manse now, and I will play it for you? I have been trying it much lately."

So the Pensioner walked up to the Manse with them; and soon found himself in Coquette's parlour. His hostess remembered how she had been received, and went into the room adjoining for a second or two. When she returned there was a small bottle in her hand.

"This is some French brandy which my old nurse gave me when I left, in case I should be ill at sea; you see I have not even opened the bottle."

The Whaup got a corkscrew and a glass, and soon had half a tumblerful of the brandy to offer to Neil. The Pensioner looked at it, smelt it, said "Slainte!" and—to the horror of Coquette—gulped it down. The next moment his face was a mass of moving muscles—twisting and screwing into every expression of agony, while he gasped and choked, and could only say, "Water!—water!" But when the Whaup quickly poured him out a glass of water he regarded it at arm's length for a second, and then put it away.

"No," he said, with his face still screwed up to agony pitch, "I can thole."

Coquette did not understand what had happened; but when her cousin, with unbecoming frankness, explained to her that the Pensioner would rather "thole" (or suffer) the delicious torture in his throat than spoil it with water, she was nearly joining in the Whaup's impudent mirth.

But the brandy had no perceptible effect on Neil. He sat and listened sedately to the music she played; and it was only when his enthusiasm was touched that he broke out with some exclamation of delight. At length the old man left—the Whaup also going away to those exceptional studies which had been recently imposed on him as a condition of his remaining at Airlie.

Coquette sat alone at the piano. The grey day was darkening to the afternoon; and the rain had begun again its wearisome patter on the pane. She had French music before her—bright and laughing songs of the bygone and happy time—but she could not sing them. Almost unconsciously to herself, she followed the wanderings of her fancy in the dreamland of that old and plaintive music that she had recently discovered. Now it was "The Lowlands o' Holland"; again it was "Helen of Kirkconnell"; again it was "Logan Braes" that filled the room with its sadness; until she came back to "The Flowers of the Forest." She sang a verse of it—merely out of caprice, to see if she could master the pronunciation—and just as she had finished the door was opened, and Leezibeth stood there.

Coquette turned from the piano with a sigh: doubtless Leezibeth had appeared to prefer some complaint.

The woman came up to her and said—with the most painful shamefacedness clouding her look—

"Will ye sing that again, Miss, if it is no much trouble to ye? Maybe ye'll no ken that me and Andrew had a boy—a bit laddie that dee'd when he was but seven years auld—and—and he used to sing the 'Flowers o' the Forest' afore a' the ither songs, and ye sing it that fine that if it didna mak a body amaist like to greet——"

She never ended the sentence; but the girl sang the rest of the song; and the woman stood silent, with her eyes turned to the grey evening outside. And from that day Leezibeth was the slave of Coquette.

CHAPTER XIII.

A HOROSCOPE.

Events were marching on at Airlie. Leezibeth came to Coquette, and said—

"Sir Peter and Lady Drum came back frae Edinburgh last night."

Coquette remained silent, and Leezibeth was astonished. Was it possible the girl had never heard of Sir Peter and Lady Drum?

"And I saw my lady this morning, and she is coming to see you this very afternoon," said Leezibeth, certain she had now effected a surprise.

"Who are they?" said Coquette. "Are they Scotch? I do not wish to see any more Scotch."

"Ma certes!" said Leezibeth, firing up suddenly; but presently she said, in a voice more gentle than Coquette had ever heard her use—"Ye'll maybe like the Scotch folk yet, Miss, when ye hae time to understand them; and Lady Drum is a grand woman—just an extraordinar' woman; and I told her a' about ye, Miss, and she was greatly interested, as I could see; and I made bold, Miss, to say that ye were a bit out o' sorts the now, and if my lady would but ask ye ower to Castle Cawmil, and let ye hae some company mair fitted to ye than us bodies about the Manse, it might cheer ye up a bit, and bring some colour to your cheek."

Coquette was really surprised now. Could it be Leezibeth, her enemy, who was speaking in this timidly solicitous fashion?

"It is very good of you——"

"Oh, we are no so bad as ye think us," said Leezibeth, plucking up courage. "And there is Scotch blood in your ain veins, Miss, as anybody can see—for the way ye sing they Scotch songs is just past believin'!"

From Coquette's sitting-room Leezibeth went straight to the Minister's study.

"I have come to speak to ye, sir, about Miss Cassilis."

"Dear me!" said the Minister impatiently, "I wish ye would let my niece alone, Leezibeth!"

But the Minister was no less astonished than Coquette had been when Leezibeth unfolded her tale, and made it apparent that she had come to intercede for the young French girl. Leezibeth stood at the door, and announced it as her decision that the Minister was bound to see to his niece's health and comfort more effectually than he had done. She spoke, indeed, as if she dared the Minister to refuse.

"And Sir Peter and my lady are coming here," continued Leezibeth, "for I met them as they were going over to Earlshope, and my lady spoke to me about Miss Cassilis, and will doubtless ask her to visit her. Not only maun she visit Castle Cawmil, but she maun stay there, sir, until the change has done the lassie good."

"What is the meaning of all this, Leezibeth?" said the Minister. "Has she bewitched you? Yesterday you would have said of her, 'She is a Samaritan, and hath a devil.' Now she has become your Benjamin, as it were. What will Andrew say?"

"Let the body mind his peas and his pittawties, and no interfere wi' me," said Leezibeth, with a touch of vigorous contempt.

Nevertheless, Leezibeth had a conversation with her husband very shortly after, and was a good deal more cautious in her speech than was customary with her. When Andrew came into the kitchen to have his dinner, she said—

"Andrew, my man, I'm thinkin' we dinna understand they Romans. Could ye but see the gude books that that lassie has wi' her, and see her read a bit o' one o' them every night and every mornin'—indeed, I'm thinkin', Andrew, the Romans maun be a kind o' religious folk, after a'."

Andrew said "Hm!" and went on with his broth.

"I wonder," continued Leezibeth, regarding her husband with some apprehension, "whether there is ony harm in the bit pictures she has. It's my opeenion she doesna worship them—as if they were a graven eemage—but has them, maybe, to jog her memory. Ye ken, Andrew, that there was a gran' difference atween the gowden calf that the children o' Israel made and the brazen serpent that the Lord commanded Moses to lift up in the wilderness."

"Whatever is the woman at?" muttered Andrew to himself, over his plate.

"The serpent was only a sign and a symbol, the for-shadowin' o' what was to come; and surely Moses kenned what he was doin' and didna transgress. Now, Andrew, if the Romans—children o' wrath as they are—have a bit cross or a crucifix only as a sort o' remembrance, there is maybe no so muckle harm in it."

Andrew dropped his spoon into the broth, and sat bolt upright in his chair.

"Am I listenin' or dreamin', woman? What evil spirit is it that has put these things into your mouth, and linked ye wi' them whaus feet are set in hell? Are ye clean dannert, woman, that ye should come as an apologist for such folk, and tread the blood o' the covenant under foot? Nae wonder they have their crucifixes and their picture—for it is a judgment upon them that they maun look upon Him whom they have pierced, and mourn their lost condition. And it is this lassie that has done it a', as I said frae the first. 'Twas a sad day for us that she came to Airlie; the Manse has never been itsel' since then. Yet never did I think to hear such words from a woman well brought up as ye have been; and it fears me to think what will be the end o't."

"Bless me!" said Leezibeth, testily, "I only asked for your opeenion."

"And my opeenion is," said Andrew, "that the time is coming when ye will see this woman in her true colours, and she will no longer be a snare to the feet o' them that would walk decently and uprightly. Ye hae been lead awa' by the tempter, Leezibeth, and the fair things o' the world hae been set before ye, and the kingdoms thereof, and your eyes are blinded. But there will come a day—and that soon—when this Manse will see a change, and her that has entered it will be driven forth to seek another people. Dinna be beguiled in the meantime, Leezibeth. The end is comin', and her pictures and her crucifixes will not save her then."

"What do ye mean, Andrew?" said his wife, who was nearly in tears. "I am sure the lassie has done no wrong. I declare my heart feels for her when I see her sittin' by the window, a' by herself, looking out at naething, and a fair wecht o' weariness and patience on her face. If she had a mother, now, to look after her and speak to her——"

"And how long is it," said Andrew, "since ye hae taen this interest in her? How did she cast her wiles ower ye?"

Leezibeth did not answer. She was thinking of the vague and dreadful future which Andrew had been prophesying.

"Let her alone—leave her to hersel'," said Andrew. "I warn ye against this woman, Leezibeth, as I hae warned the Minister, though he would tak nae heed, and leaves her wi' a' her idolatrous implements free to work destruction in the midst o' a decent and God-fearing house. Yet in time this will be changed; and we will have to cast out the serpent. 'I will hedge up thy way with thorns, and make a wall, that she shall not find her paths. And she shall follow after her lovers, but she shall not overtake them, and she shall seek them, but shall not find them.'"

"Who is that you are talking about? Is it my cousin?" said the Whaup, haughtily, as he suddenly stood before them. He had come into the kitchen in order to get some glue for a "dragon" which he was making for a younger brother, and had heard the latter end of Andrew's bitter forecast.

As for Leezibeth, she had turned aside in deep distress. Her newly awakened sympathy for the girl was rudely troubled by these sinister anticipations of her husband; and she did not know what to think of them. But Andrew, who had for the moment forgotten his broth, was looking up when he saw the Whaup unexpectedly appear. The old man's face, which was severe enough as he spoke, assumed a deep frown on his seeing his enemy; he was evidently annoyed at being "caught," and yet determined to brave it out.

"Why, you can't eat your dinner without stopping to talk spite and scandal!" said the Whaup, with a curl of his lip. "Can't you leave that to women? And a pretty Daniel you are, with your prophecies, and your judgments, and your warnings!—but if you will be a Daniel, by Jingo! I'll make this house worse to you than any den of lions ever you were in in your life!"

The Whaup went out and summoned a secret conclave of his brothers. The Vehmgericht met in the hay-loft.

CHAPTER XIV.

SIR PETER AND LADY DRUM.

Coquette, sitting quietly in the general parlour, the Minister being busy with his reading, heard voices in the hall, and one of them startled her. Indeed, she suddenly put her hand to her heart, having felt a quick flutter, as of pain; and a tinge of colour came to her pale face. The next moment Leezibeth announced Sir Peter and Lady Drum, and Lord Earlshope; and these three entered the room.

Sir Peter was a short, stout, rosy-cheeked, and fair-haired man, who wore a suit of light grey, and had a big diamond ring on his finger. There was a pleasant expression in his face; a frolicsome look in his eyes; and his talk, which was as often as not a monologue addressed to himself, was interrupted by his humming snatches of gay airs, addressed to the window, or the fireplace, or the picture at which he chanced to be looking. On this occasion, however, he had duties to perform; he went briskly forward to shake hands with the Minister; he was introduced to Coquette; and then, and with some merry little remark, he led forward his wife to the young girl.

Coquette found herself confronted by a most striking-looking woman—one who might have sat for a picture of a great lady of the last century. Lady Drum was a tall, elderly, upright person, with a keen face which was yet kindly in the severity of its features, and with a fine head of grey hair, elaborately arranged. Lady Drum was widely known in the neighbourhood for her inflexible judgments on people's conduct, her generous but scrupulously calculated aid to all who were in heed, and her skill in medicine, which she loved to practise; and it was a popular mystery how this stately and imposing lady could have married the gay little gentleman who was now her husband. Yet they agreed remarkably well, and seemed to have a mutual esteem for each other. She bore with great equanimity his perpetual jokes, his ceaseless and rambling talk, his irrelevant tunes and airs; while he was fond to address her as his "jewel," and declare that she had saved his life twenty times with her physic. Of all the families in the county the Drums were the only people whom Lord Earlshope was ever known to visit; and his regard and liking for the grave and noble-looking lady of Castle Cawmil had even led him to permit himself to be dosed and doctored upon occasions. Sometimes they corresponded; and the contents of Lady Drum's letters chiefly consisted in motherly advice about the use of flannel in spring time, and the great virtues of some new herb she had discovered. As for Sir Peter, Earlshope seldom saw him when he visited Castle Cawmil. Sir Peter was anywhere—everywhere—but in his own house. He flitted about the country, enjoying himself wherever he went; for the number of his friends was legion; while Lady Drum attended to her poultry-yard and her patients at home.

Coquette found fixed upon her a pair of severe and scrutinising eyes; but there was something in the appearance of the tall, grey-haired woman which she could not help admiring and even liking. When she spoke—which she did in a grave and deliberate fashion, with a considerably marked Scotch accent—her voice had all the softness which her features lacked.

"I hope you will find Airlie a pleasant place," said Lady Drum, still retaining Coquette's hand.

"Dull—dull—dull," said Sir Peter, looking out of the window, and humming to himself. "Very dull—very dull—very dull. Ha, ha! Hm, hm! Ha, ha!"

"And we shall hope to see you often at Castle Cawmil," continued Lady Drum.

"I thank you," said Coquette, simply, but making no promise.

Lady Drum at once turned to the Minister.

"Your housekeeper has been telling me that your niece is very much in want of a change. I can see it. The wet weather has kept her indoors. She wants to be sent out into the air, with companions and amusement; and I would even recommend a little tansy or, perhaps, gentian root. If she were with me for a week or two I might try the Caribbean cinchona, which has proved an excellent tonic within my own experience; but as for horse-chestnut bark, which some prefer to use, I do not hold wi' that in any case. Lord Earlshope will tell ye, Mr. Cassilis, that the Caribbean cinchona——"

"Did me a world of good," said Lord Earlshope. "Indeed I was quite ashamed to get well so rapidly, and deprive my amiable physician of the chance of watching the effects of her cure. In fact, I got so ridiculously well that I had no occasion to drink any of the coltsfoot wine that Lady Drum was good enough to send me. Shall I transfer it to you, Miss Cassilis, when you become one of Lady Drum's patients?"

"I will take it—if it is nice," said Coquette.

Lady Drum did not like this way of treating the subject, especially as her husband was moving about the room from place to place, and humming a series of reflections on physic generally, which interfered with the dignity of the situation.

"Fine thing, physic—grand thing, physic—hm! hm!—old woman comes and gets her physic, and sixpence—hm, ha!—drinks the sixpence, and flings away the physic—with a 'God bless all doctors—if possible.' Hm, hm! hm, hm! ha, ha! Capital garden that of yours, Mr. Cassilis—capital—too much like a wilderness, perhaps. Got the old pony in the stables yet—old Bess with the swallow-tail? Remember how the Hielandman thought the flicht o' a swallow was like a squint lum?"

"What is that?" said Earlshope.

"Untranslatable—untranslatable," carolled Sir Peter. "'Bekass it wass a crookit flue.' More untranslatable still, isn't it? We must be going, my lady."

But my lady had got into a very confidential chat with Coquette, and had even aired a few French phrases to show that she had been used to polite accomplishments in her youth. She had been to Paris, also; had seen the Place de la Bastille; and considered herself profound in the history of the capital. Their talk, nevertheless, was chiefly of Airlie, and of Coquette's experiences there.

"I did like the place better when I came here," said the girl. "Much better. Yet, it is pretty, you know—when there is sun, and it is not cold. It is always the same thing at Airlie—the same place, the same people, the same things to do each day. That is tiresome when one is indoors in the rain—when one is out in good days there is variety. If you will let me visit you, I shall be joyous—joyful—no, I mean I shall be glad to visit you and see you. And will you come to Airlie often? I have no lady-friend in this country, you know—only my uncle and the boys—and if you will be so kind to come and see me, it will be a great pleasure to me."

"But I am an old woman," said Lady Drum. "I should be a poor companion for you."

"But I have always lived with old people," said Coquette, somewhat too bluntly; "I do like old people better than young."

Lady Drum was puzzled. Why did this young creature talk so sadly, and show none of the liveliness and hope natural to her age? Surely, with her graceful and well-formed figure, her clear dark eyes, and the healthy red of her lips that were obviously meant to laugh, she ought to have plenty of spirit and life? Lady Drum had never seen the true Coquette—the Coquette to whom every day was a holiday, and every incident in it a glad experience; but she half divined that the pale, pretty, dark-eyed girl who sat beside her, and who had an ease of manner which was the perfection of simplicity, was not strung up to her natural pitch of health and enjoyment. Lady Drum had never heard Coquette laugh in the open air, or sing to herself in the garden; but she had a suspicion that the beauty of the girl's face was paler than it ought to be.

"Quassia!" said Lady Drum suddenly, and Coquette looked startled; but presently the other said—"No. We must try something else first. Castle Cawmil would be tiresome just now, with an old woman like me in it. By and by, my lassie, you must come and see me when I have got together some young folks; and we shall have half the gentlemen in Ayrshire fighting for the first quadrille."

"Is there dancing at your house?" said Coquette, with interest.

"Dancing! Yes, as much dancing as young lassocks like you should have—wha will not be persuaded to take any other sort o' exercise."

"I was told it was evil here," said Coquette, remembering certain of Leezibeth's orations.

"Evil! evil!" said Lady Drum. "If there was much evil in it, it wouldna set its foot within my doors. But then, ye see, Miss Cassilis, this is a minister's house, and a minister must be discreet—no to give offence, as it were."

She turned to Lord Earlshope, who had been conversing with the Minister. "Lord Earlshope, do ye mind that you pressed me to make use of your yacht when occasion suited?"

"Certainly I do," said Earlshope. "She is quite at your service—always; and just at present she is in capital cruising order. Do you propose to take Miss Cassilis for a run up some of the lochs?"

"Indeed, it was the very thing I was thinking of," said Lady Drum.

"Then you have only to drive to Ardrossan any day you choose, and give Maxwell his sailing orders. He is a steady old fellow, and will take every care of you."

Coquette listened mutely, with her eyes fixed on the ground. Lord Earlshope, then, proposed that she and Lady Drum should go by themselves?—she did not think it very civil.

"I had some notion of asking Mr. Cassilis to form a party and go for a short cruise, but I dismissed it as chimerical. Perhaps you will be more successful if you try."

"Now tell me," said Lady Drum, with a business-like air, "how many you can take on board."

"Why, half the population of Airlie, or thereabouts. But there is one very grand state-room which you ladies could share between you; and as for your gentlemen friends, you might ask as many as had been accustomed to the exigencies of yachts—myself among the number, I hope. As for Sir Peter——"

"No, no, no!" cried Sir Peter, gaily. "No yachting for me—sleeping in a hole—washing out of a tea-cup—wet to the skin all day—ha, ha! hm, hm! ha, ha! No yachting for me—off to Peebles on Tuesday—then back to Edinburgh the week after—my lady may go if she likes."

"Mr. Cassilis, may we reckon on you?" said Lady Drum, severely ignoring her husband's volatility. "Your niece demands some change of the kind; and I have entered into a contract long ago with Lord Earlshope about the yacht."

"You need not be frightened by what Sir Peter says," observed Lord Earlshope, with a smile. "On board a sixty-ton yacht you are not put to such dreadful inconveniences. Shall I add my entreaties to those of Lady Drum? If you could get away from your duties for a week or two, it would be a pleasant holiday at this season; and, if you like, I will go with you for a few days, to see you all comfortably settled."

There was positively a blush on the pale grey face of the Minister. The notion of taking a holiday for the mere purpose of pleasure was quite startling to him—had, in fact, something uncanny about it. If the proposal, indeed, had not been made in the first instance by Lady Drum—whose decision as to matters of propriety was law throughout the district—he would not even have considered it for a moment.

"I cannot give an answer out-of-hand," he said, gravely, and yet with some hesitation. "Doubtless it is a tempting and a kind offer; but there are other obligations binding on us than our own wishes——"

"Now, Mr. Cassilis," said Lady Drum, "have you not mentioned to me that you greatly hoped for some opportunity of giving young Mr. M'Alister your pulpit for the day—an honour that he has fairly set his heart on?"

"But I should like to be present to witness his trial," said the Minister, fighting against himself.

"Ye may trust him—ye may trust him," said Lady Drum, decisively. "He is as safe as an auld horse with blinders on. No fear o' him alarming the congregation wi' new doctrine—he hasna spunk enough to be dangerous."

This somewhat doubtful testimony to the intellectual qualifications of the young man carried some weight, evidently, and Mr. Cassilis then turned to his niece.

"Catherine," said he, solemnly, "you have heard Lady Drum's proposal—would it please you to go?"

"Oh, very much," said Coquette, "if—if my cousin could also go."

The Minister stared: how had the Whaup come to be of such consequence?

"Do you mean my friend Tom?" said Lord Earlshope. "Why, of course he can go. There is nothing to hinder him."

Coquette was very grateful; and though she did not put her gratitude into words, there was a brighter look on her face than had been there for many a day. The Minister said he would consider the matter; and—if he saw that his duties to his parishioners would not suffer—he hoped to be able to take his niece on this voyage of health.

When the visitors had gone, Coquette went outside to look for the Whaup. She found him in the garden—inclined to resume his attitude of hostility on account of this appearance of Earlshope at the Manse.

"Tom," she said, "I do wish to speak to you—to ask why you avoid me—when you were my good companion for a long time. Why should we quarrel?"

"Quarrel!" said the Whaup—as if he scorned the idea of his bothering himself to quarrel with anybody—"I haven't quarrelled; I haven't time to quarrel. But I suppose you are come to be penitent and all that; and probably you will cry. I don't like to see you cry; so I'll make friends at once if you like."

"Is that how you do make friends in Scotland?" said Coquette, with a laugh in her eyes,—"standing a yard off—looking fierce—and speaking harsh."

"Oh, I will kiss you, if you like," said the Whaup, bluntly, and he advanced for that purpose.

"No," said Coquette, with the least change of manner—and yet that delicate alteration in her tone and look protected her as though with a wall of iron. "I did not ask you. But I have something to say of very much importance—oh! such great importance! And I wish you to be kind as you once were—but I am afraid on this day. It is too cold—too dull. On a clear day you would say yes."

"Don't talk so much, but tell me what it is," said the Whaup. He was warding off, rudely, the insidious attacks of his too pretty cousin.

"It is proposed we all go with Lord Earlshope's yacht on a long voyage round the Islands—your papa and Lady Drum, and me, too; and it depends if you will go that I will go."

"I go!" said the Whaup, with a burst of laughter. "In Earlshope's yacht! You must be mad!"

"If you do not go, I will not go," said Coquette, simply.

"Perhaps it is better you shouldn't go," said the Whaup.

"Perhaps it is," said Coquette, turning away towards the house.

The Whaup looked after her for a moment; then he followed her.

"Look here—what do you want to go for?" he asked.

"I thought it would be pleasurable—the amusement, the going away from this place a few days—the whole of us together. But I am not anxious—I can stay at home."

"Why can't you go without me?" said he.

"I wanted you for a companion," said Coquette, looking down. "There will be nobody but your papa and Lady Drum—Lord Earlshope only comes for a day or two, to see us off."

He looked at her downcast face in a scrutinising way—he was not sure about her.

"You know, I don't believe in you as I did at one time. People who deceive you once will deceive you again," he said.

She looked up with an angry glance; and bitter tears sprang to her eyes.

"How can you say that?" she said, indignantly. "You are too hard—you have no mercy—you expect everyone to be as rude as yourself. If you do not believe me, it is no matter to me; I can believe myself—that is enough."

With these words, she was again turning proudly away, when he caught her by the hand and stopped her.

"You are a very peculiar young woman," he said. "You are always firing off somehow or other—always very delighted or else very miserable. Why don't you take things coolly, as I do? I don't say you're very bad because you went in for little trifling useless bits of deceit. I suppose every woman does that—it's their nature, and it's no use grumbling. If you had any sense, you'd dry your eyes, get something on your head, and come and see us dig up a bees' nest that I have found."