The Whaup got clear away from the people coming out of church by striking boldly across the moor. His back was turned to the sea; his face to the east; he was on his way to Glasgow. Briskly and lightly he strode over the crisp, dry snow, feeling but little discomfort, except from some premonitory qualms of hunger; and at length he got into the broad highway which follows the channel of the Ayrshire lochs from Dairy on by the valley of the Black Cart towards Paisley.
It was a bright, clear day, and he was in the best of spirits. Had he not talked for a brief while with Coquette, and seen for himself that there was a glimpse of the old tenderness, and sauciness, and liveliness in her soft black eye? He had satisfied himself that she was really getting better; and that, on some distant day of the springtime, when a breath of the new sweet air would come in to stir the branches of the trees in the West-End Park, he would have the honour and delight of escorting his foreign cousin towards that not very romantic neighbourhood, and pointing out to her the spot on the horizon under which Airlie was supposed to lie.
When would the springtime come?—he thought, as he began to munch a biscuit. Was it possible that his imaginative picture would come true? Would Coquette actually be seen in Glasgow streets—crossing over in front of the Exchange—walking down Buchanan Street—and perhaps up on the little circle around the flag in the South-Side Park? Would Coquette really and truly walk into that gloomy square inside the old College, and look at the griffins, and perhaps shyly steal a glance at the red-coated young students lounging round? Glasgow began to appear less dull to him. A glamour fell over the grey thoroughfares; and even the dinginess of the High Street became picturesque.
"Why, all the sparrows in the street will know that Coquette has come; and the young men in the shops will brighten themselves up; and Lady Drum will take her to the theatre, in spite of my father; and all the bailies will be asking Sir Peter for an introduction. And Coquette will go about like a young princess, having nothing in the world to do but to look pleased!"
So he struck again with his stick at the snow on the hedge, and quickened his pace, as though Glasgow were now a happy end to his journey. And he lifted up his voice, and sang aloud, in his joy, the somewhat desolating tune of "Coleshill"—even as the Germans, when at their gayest, invariably begin to sing—
"Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten
Dass ich so traurig bin."
The Whaup had not the most delicately modulated voice, but, such as it was, he had plenty of it.
Presently, however, he stopped, for right in front of him there appeared a solitary horseman. There was something in the rider's figure familiar to him. Who was this that dared to invade the quiet of these peaceful districts by appearing on horseback on a Sunday morning? As he drew near, the Whaup suddenly remembered that not a word had been said by Coquette of Lord Earlshope.
The sunlight faded utterly out of the landscape. All the joyous dreams he had been dreaming of Coquette coming to Glasgow grew faint, and vanished. He had quite forgotten Lord Earlshope; and now, it became evident, here he was, riding along the main road in the direction of Airlie.
As Earlshope came near, he drew up his horse. He was clad, the Whaup observed, in a large Russian-looking overcoat, which had plenty of warm fur round the neck of it. He looked, indeed, more like a foreigner than a country gentleman riding along an Ayrshire road towards his own estates.
No less surprised was Lord Earlshope to meet his boon companion of old.
"Why," he said, "I thought you had left Airlie."
"I thought the same of you," said Mr. Tom.
Earlshope laughed.
"I am obeying a mere whim," he said, "in riding down to Earlshope. I shall probably not stay an hour. How are all the people in Airlie?"
"I don't know," answered the Whaup, "I have myself been there for about an hour, and no more."
"At least you know how your cousin, Miss Cassilis, is?" said he, in a grave tone of voice.
"Yes," said the Whaup, "she is still an invalid, you know, but she is on the fair way to a complete recovery."
"I am glad of that," said Earlshope, hastily. "I am glad of that, for I may not be able to call to see how she is. In fact, I am rather pressed for time this morning. You are sure she is getting well?"
"Yes, I hope so," said the Whaup.
"And will soon be about again?"
"Yes, I hope so," repeated the Whaup, regarding with some curiosity the engrossed and absent way in which the other put his rapid questions.
Earlshope turned round his horse.
"Look here," he said, "I don't wish to be seen about this place, and I don't think I shall go on to Airlie. I only wanted to make some inquiries about your cousin. What you tell me has satisfied me that she is not so ill as I had feared. Where are you going?"
"I am walking to Glasgow," said the Whaup.
"To Glasgow?" said the other. "You won't be there before night!"
"That is not of much consequence."
"I will go to Glasgow with you, if you like. We can take the horse alternately."
"The horse would think you were mad if you were to walk him all the way up to Glasgow in this snow," said the Whaup.
"True, true," said Lord Earlshope, absently. "I shall strike across country for Largs, and put up there. You saw your cousin to-day?"
"Yes."
"And she is not very much of an invalid?"
"Well, I hope she is getting better," said the Whaup.
"Thank you—thank you," said Lord Earlshope. "You need not say you have seen me. Good day to you!"
So he turned his horse once more, and rode on, with an obviously preoccupied air.
"There goes a man," said the Whaup, watching him disappear, "as mad as a March hare, and madder."
Yet, as he walked on, he found that this brief interview had strangely disquieted him. What business had Earlshope to be asking so particularly about Coquette? Why was he riding down on this Sunday morning for the professed purpose of making inquiries about her? Nay, why should he wish not to be seen? It was evident that in Airlie, where no one had seen his lordship for many a day, there was no expectation of him. The more Tom Cassilis considered the matter, the more profound became his annoyance over the whole affair.
It now seemed to him—looking back over the brief time that he had spent with Coquette—that the most grateful feature of the interview was the fact that Lord Earlshope had not been mentioned. He had been quite forgotten, indeed. There might have been no Lord Earlshope in the world, so thoroughly had he been ignored in that quiet and confidential chat which took place in the Minister's parlour. Yet here he was, riding down by himself within a few miles of Airlie, and with his professed object the wish to see or hear something of Coquette.
The rest of that long walk was not pleasant to the young man. The whole day seemed to have become sombre and gloomy. Why was he compelled to return like a slave to the labour and the loneliness of a strange town, when others had the free country before them, to choose their place of rest as they liked? It seemed to him that he was turning his back now on all that was beautiful and pleasant in the world, and that Lord Earlshope had been left there with such intentions in his heart as were still a mystery. The Whaup began to forget that he had fraternised with Lord Earlshope on board the Caroline. He remembered no longer that he had satisfied himself of that gentleman's being a far more agreeable and honest person than the popular voice of the district would admit. Earlshope's kindness to them all, and his excessive and almost distant courtesy to Coquette and her uncle, were effaced from his recollection; and he knew only that before him lay the long and winding and dreary road to Glasgow, while behind him were the pleasant places about Airlie, and Coquette, and the comfort of the Manse, towards which Lord Earlshope was perhaps now riding.
It was late at night when the Whaup, footsore and tired, reached his lodgings in George Street, Glasgow. His landlady had not returned from evening service; the solitary domestic of the house was also absent; there was no one in the gaunt and dismal house, which he entered by means of a latch-key. He set to work to kindle a fire; but the fire went out; and in the middle of his labours he dropped into a chair and fell fast asleep. The fatigues of the day caused him to sleep on in the darkness and the cold; and the other people of the house, coming in later on, knew nothing of his being in his room.
In the middle of the night he awoke. He was stiff with cold. He sought for matches, and could not find them; so he tumbled into bed in the dark, with his whole frame numbed and his heart wretched. Nor did he forget his miseries in sleep; there was no sleep for him. He lay through the night and tossed about; and if for a moment he fell into a sort of doze, it was to start up again with a great fear that something had happened at Airlie. In these periods of half-forgetfulness, and during the interval when he lay broadly awake, the nightmare that haunted him was the figure of the solitary rider he had met on the Dairy Road. What was the meaning of those anxious inquiries that Earlshope had then made? Why was he disinclined to go on to his own place, and be seen of the people of Airlie? Why go to Largs? Largs—as the Whaup lay and remembered—was not more than fifteen miles from Airlie. Would Earlshope loiter about there in the hope of seeing Coquette by stealth? And why should he wish to see her? So the weary hours of the night passed, and the grey and wintry dawn began to tell upon the window of his room. The questions, with all their anxieties and doubts, remained unanswered; and there had come another gloomy day, demanding its quota of work.
It became noised abroad that the devil had been seen in Airlie. The Minister's sons not only took up the story which had been told them by their brother Wattie, but added to it and embellished it until it assumed quite dramatic proportions, and was picturesquely minute in detail. The rumour that grew and widened in the village was that, on the Sabbath forenoon, a black Something had been seen wandering about in the snow round the Manse. The boys, on returning from church, had heard mysterious voices in the deep silence of the small garden. Then Wattie, drawing near to the back-door, had suddenly been blinded by a rush of wind; flames darted out from the house and surrounded him; the current of air drove him into a snowdrift; and the awful Something, with a shriek of fiendish laughter, had fled past him and disappeared, and there was a low rumble, as of distant thunder echoing along the hollow stillness of the sky.
That was the rumour of Sunday night and the following morning; but during the day of Monday there were bruited round some strange stories of mysterious footprints which had been perceived in the snow. A track had been observed leading over the moor towards the garden-wall, and suddenly stopping there. Now, not only was it impossible for any being of mortal shape and limbs to leap that high wall, but there was this further peculiarity remarked, that the footprints formed but one line. A slight fall of snow, it is true, during the morning had somewhat blurred the outline of these marks; but it was confidently asserted that they were not such as had ever been made by the impress of a human foot.
Towards nightfall Mr. Gillespie, having finished off some parochial business, deemed it his duty to go up to the Manse to communicate these disturbing stories to the Minister. The Schoolmaster had a visitor that evening—Mr. Cruikshanks, the Tailor—who sometimes dropped in to have a glass of toddy and a chat over public affairs. The Tailor was a small, thin, black-a-vised man, of highly nervous temperament, who was suspected of having been a Chartist, and who had been known at a public meeting in Saltcoats—for he was a great orator—to express views which were of a wild and revolutionary nature. Nevertheless, up here in Airlie he conducted himself in a fitting manner; went regularly to church; observed the Communion; never failed to have the mended pair of breeks or the new coat home in good time; and, if he did sympathise with the French republicans, said little about it. Indeed, it was not to be controverted that the Pensioner knew far more about France and the French than the excitable little Tailor; for the former had driven whole regiments of prisoners before him like sheep, and could tell you how the contemptible and weakly things asked for water and bread, using language of their own for want of a better education.
Mr. Cruikshanks had also heard the ugly rumours current in the village, and quite agreed that the Schoolmaster should go up to the Manse.
"Not," said he, with an oratorical gesture, "because ye believe in them, sir; but because the Minister maun be warned to set his face against the superstitions o' the vulgar. The dawn o' leeberty, Mr. Gillespie, though oft delayed, is never won; and the triumph o' the great principles o' rationalism that is progressin' faur and wide——"
"Rationalism! rationalism!" said the Schoolmaster, in dismay. "Do ye ken what ye're sayin', man?"
"Which is not the rationalism o' the vulgar, sir," observed the Tailor, calmly. "'Tis of another complexion and pale cast of thought. It has naething to do wi' releegion. It is the new spirit—the blawin' up o' the auld fossils and formations—the light that never was in poet's dream. But I will gang wi' ye, sir, to the Minister's, if ye are so minded."
The two went out together. By the help of the yellow light from the small windows, they picked their way through the muddy and half melted snow of the village street. When they had got clear of the small houses, they found the snow lying thick and crisp and dry on the highway; and it needed all their watchfulness to decipher, by the aid of the starlight, the line of the moorland road. There was no one abroad at that hour. The villagers had been glad to get into their warm homes out of the cold and bitter wind that blew along the white uplands. From over the broad moor there came not the least sound; and the only living thing visible seemed the countless myriads of stars, which shone coldly and clearly through the frosty atmosphere. The Schoolmaster and his companion spoke but little as they went; they were too much engaged in finding the path through the snow.
Suddenly the Tailor stopped and involuntarily laid his hand on his neighbour's arm.
"What is it?" said the Schoolmaster, with a start.
But he had scarcely uttered the words when he saw what had caused his companion to stand still, with his face looking over the moor. Before them—a dark mass in the starlight—stood Airlie Church; and at one end of it—that farthest from the door—the windows seemed to be lighted up with a dull red glow.
"Wha can be in the kirk at this time o' nicht?" said the Schoolmaster, quite forgetting to choose proper English phrases.
The Tailor said nothing. He was thinking of Alloway Kirk and the wild revels that had been celebrated there. His talk about the superstitions of the vulgar had gone from his memory; he only saw before him, over a waste of snow and under a starlit sky, a church which could, for no possible reason, be occupied, but which had its windows touched from the inside with a glow of light.
"Man and boy," said the Schoolmaster, "I have lived in Airlie these twenty years, and never saw such a thing. It is a fearsome licht that. It would be our duty to go and see what it means——"
"There I dinna agree wi' ye!" said the Tailor, angrily. "What business is it o' ours? Folks dinna sweeten their ain yill by meddlin' wi' other folk's barrels. I am for lettin' the kirk alane. Doubtless it is lichted up for some purpose. Why, dinna ye ken that the Minister's niece was brought up as a Roman; and that the Catholics like to hae a' mainner o' mysterious services in the dead o' nicht?"
This explanation seemed to afford the Tailor very great relief. He insisted upon it even to the point of losing his temper. What right had the Schoolmaster to interfere with other people's religion? Why didn't he do as he would be done by?
"But we ought to see what it is," said the Schoolmaster.
"Ye may gang if ye like," said the Tailor, firmly. "Deil the bit o' me 'll steer!"
The Schoolmaster drew back. He was not going to cross the moor alone—especially with those rumours of mysterious footprints about.
"Perhaps ye are right, Mr. Cruikshanks," he said. "But we maun gang on and tell the Minister."
"Surely, surely," said the Tailor, with eagerness. "We hae a sacred duty to perform. We maun get a lamp to see our way, and the keys o' the kirk, and the Minister and Andrew Bogue will come wi' us. The notion o' its being witches—ha! ha!—it is quite rideeklous. Such superstitions, sir, have power wi' the vulgar, but wi' men like you and me, Mr. Gillespie, wha have studied such things, and appeal to the licht o' reason, it is not for us to give way to idle fears. No; we will go up to the door o' the kirk, and we will have the maitter explained on rationalistic principles——"
"I wish, Mr. Cruikshanks," said the Schoolmaster, with a sort of nervous anxiety and anger, "ye wouldna talk and talk about your rationalism and your rationalistic principles. I declare, to hear ye, ane would think there wasna a heeven above us."
But the Tailor continued his discourse on the sublime powers of reason, and waxed more and more buoyant and eloquent, until, the two having reached the gate of the Manse, the Tailor turned upon his companion, and with scorn hinted that he, the Schoolmaster, had succumbed to childish fears on seeing the kirk windows lit up.
"What more simple," said the Tailor, in his grandest manner, "than to have walked up to the door, gone in, and demanded to know what was the reason o' the licht? That is what common sense and reason would dictate; but when fears and superstitions rise and dethrone the monarch from his state, the lord of all is but a trumpery vassal—a trumpery vassal, Mr. Gillespie!"
The Schoolmaster was too indignant—and perhaps too much relieved on finding himself within the shelter of the Manse wall—to reply. The two neighbours walked up to the door of the Manse—looking rather suspiciously at the gloomy corners around them, and the black shadows of the trees—and knocked. The door was opened half an inch.
"Who's there?" said Leezibeth.
"Me," said the Schoolmaster.
"Who's me?" said the voice from within—the door being still kept on the point of shutting.
"Bless my life and body!" cried the Schoolmaster, provoked out of all patience. "Is this a night to keep a human being starving in the snaw? Let us in, woman!"
With which he drove the door before him and entered the passage, confronting the terrified Leezibeth, who dropped her candle there and then, and left the place in darkness.
The Minister opened the parlour door, and the light streamed out on the strangers. Without being asked, the Schoolmaster and the Tailor stumbled into the room, and stood, with dazed eyes, looking alternately at the Minister and at Coquette, who lay on the sofa with an open book beside her.
"What is the matter? What is the matter?" said the Minister; for both the men seemed speechless with fear.
"Has she no been at the kirk the nicht?" said the Tailor.
"Who?" said the Minister, beginning to think that both of his visitors must be drunk.
"Her," said the Tailor—"your niece, sir—Miss Cassilis."
"At the kirk? She has not been out of the house for months."
"But—but—but there is somebody in the kirk at this present meenute," said the Tailor, breathlessly.
"Nonsense!" said the Minister, with some impatience. "What do you mean?"
"As sure as daith, sir, the kirk's in a lowe!" blurted out the Tailor again, though he still kept his eyes glaring in a fascinated way on Coquette.
To tell the truth, Coquette began to laugh. The appearance and talk of the two strangers—whether the result of drink or of fright—were altogether so abnormal and ludicrous that, for the life of her, she could not keep from smiling. Unfortunately, this conduct on her part, occurring at such a moment, seemed to confirm the suspicions of the two men. They regarded her as if she were a witch who had been playing pranks with them on the moor, had whipped herself home, and was now mocking them. Vague recollections of "Tam o' Shanter" filled their minds with forebodings. Who knew but that she was connected with these mysterious things of which the village had been talking? Why should the stories have centred upon the Manse? Was she not a Roman, and a foreigner—a creature whose dark eyes were full of concealed meaning—of malicious mischief—of unholy laughter? No wonder there were strange footprints about, or that the kirk was "in a lowe" at midnight.
The Minister abruptly recalled them from their dazed and nervous speculations by demanding to know what they had seen. Together they managed to produce the story in full; and the Minister said he would himself at once go over the moor to the kirk.
"Micht not Andrew Bogue come wi' a lantern?" said the Tailor; and the Minister at once assented.
With that, the spirits of the two heroes rose. They would inquire into this matter. They would have no devilish cantrips going on in the parish, if they could help it. And so they once more sallied out into the cold night air; and, with much loud talking and confident suggestion, struck across the snow of the moor.
As they drew near to the small church the talking died down. The red light was clearly seen in the windows. Andrew Bogue, who had been a few steps ahead of the party, in order to show them the way, suggested that he should fall behind, so that the light would shine more clearly around their feet. Against this both the Schoolmaster and the Tailor strongly protested; and the discussion ended by the Minister impatiently taking the lamp into his own hand and going forward. The posse comitatus followed close, and in deep silence. Indeed, there was not a sound heard, save the soft yielding of the crisp snow; and in the awful stillness—under the great canopy of sparkling stars—the red windows of the small and dark building glimmered in front of them.
The Minister walked up to the door, the others keeping close behind him. He endeavoured to open it; it was locked.
"The keys, Andrew," he said.
"I—I—I didna bring any keys," said Andrew, testily. He was angry with his tongue for stammering, and with his throat for choking.
"And how did ye expect us to get in?" asked the Minister.
"Why, I thocht—I thocht that if there was anybody in the kirk, the door would be open," answered Andrew, querulously.
"Go back to the Manse and get them," said the Minister perhaps with concealed irony.
"By mysel'?" quoth Andrew. "Across the moor by mysel'? What for does any human being want to get into the kirk? Doubtless there are some bits o' wanderin' bodies inside; would ye turn them out in the cauld? If ye do want to look into the kirk, there is a ladder 'at ye can pit against the wa'."
Andrew was ordered to bring the ladder; but he professed his inability to carry it. The Schoolmaster and the Tailor went with him to a nook behind some back-door; and presently reappeared—walking stealthily and conversing in whispers—with the ladder, which they placed against the wall. The Schoolmaster, with a splendid assumption of bravery, clambered up the steps, and paused when the tip of his nose received the light from the panes. The others breathlessly awaited his report.
"I canna see any thing," he whispered, coming down rather rapidly.
But where the Schoolmaster had gone, the Tailor would go. Mr. Cruikshanks went, bravely up the ladder, and peered in at the window. What could be the meaning of this ghastly stillness, and the yellow light burning somewhere in the church? He had heard of awful scenes, in which corpse-lights had come forth all over a churchyard, with vague forms flitting about, in the midst of peals of demoniac laughter. But here was no sound—no movement—only the still glare of a ruddy light, coming from whence he knew not.
But what was this that suddenly echoed along the empty church? The Tailor grasped the top rung of the ladder. He would have given worlds to have got down; but if he had let go, his trembling legs would have thrown him backward. Something was moving in the dim and solitary building—his breath came and went—his head swam round—the ladder trembled within his grip. And at the same moment there was a startling cry, a smothered shriek from the Schoolmaster, as he turned to find in the darkness a figure approaching him. Andrew fell back from the foot of the ladder; and therewithal down came the ladder and the Tailor together with a crash upon Andrew and his lamp, burying the one in the snow, and smashing the other to pieces. A succession of piteous cries from the Tailor broke the silence of the moor; until the Minister, dragging him out of the snow, bade him cease his howling. The Schoolmaster had abruptly retreated; and now the group of explorers, partly on the ground and partly upright, was approached by this dusky figure.
"What is that?" said the Schoolmaster, in an agonised whisper. "Oh, what is't?—what is't? What can it be, sir? Speak till't!"
The Minister having put the Tailor on his legs—though they were scarcely able to support him—turned to the newcomer, and said—
"Well, who are you?"
"Me, sir? Me?" said a deep bass voice, in rather an injured tone, "I'm Tammas Kilpaitrick."
"What! Kilpaitrick the joiner?" said the Schoolmaster.
"Well, I hope sae," said the man; "and I dinna ken what for ye should run away frae a body as though he was a warlock."
"But how came ye in the kirk at this time o' night?" said the Minister.
"Deed, ye may well ask," said the worthy joiner; "for it's little my maister allows me for overtime; and if he will put me to jobs like this after my day's work is done, I hope he'll gie me some fire and better company than a wheen rats and mice. Will Mr. Bogue take hame the keys that my maister got frae his wife this afternoon?"
But Mr. Bogue was still in the snow, groaning. When they picked him up they found that the lantern had severely cut his nose, which was bleeding freely. Whereupon the Sehoolmaster waxed valiant, and vouchsafed to the joiner an explanation of the panic, which, he said, was the work "o' that poor body, the Tailor. And, mark me, Mr. Kilpaitrick," he added, "it is not every man that would have insisted on seeing to the bottom o' this maitter, as I did this night. It was our duty to investigate—or, as I might say, to examine—into what might have raised superstitious fears in Airlie, especially as regards the stories that have been about. It shames me that, as we were proceeding in a lawful—or, I might say, legitimate—manner, to inquire, that poor body, the Tailor, should have set up an eldritch screech, as if he was possessed. He is a poor body, that Tailor, and subject to the fears of the vulgar. If ye hear the neighbours talk o' this night's doings, ye will be able, Mr. Kilpaitrick, to say who behaved themselves like men; and I'm thinking that we will be glad o' your company across the moor, and ye will then come in and hae a glass o' toddy wi' us, Mr. Kilpaitrick. As for the Tailor there, the poor craytur has scarcely come to his senses yet; but we maun take him safe hame."
Why was there no mention of Lord Earlshope in the letters from Airlie which reached the Whaup in his Glasgow lodgings? The Whaup was too proud to ask; but he many a time wondered whether Earlshope was now paying visits to the Manse, as in the bygone time, and watching the progress of Coquette's restoration to health. Indeed, the letters that came up from the moorland village were filled with nothing but Coquette, and Coquette, and Coquette. The boys now openly called her by this familiar name; and her sayings and doings, the presents she made them, and the presents she promised to give them when she should go to Glasgow, occupied their correspondence almost to the exclusion of stories of snow-battles with the lads of the neighbourhood.
At last the Whaup wrote and asked what Lord Earlshope was doing.
The reply came that he had not been in Airlie since the previous autumn.
"Why, he must be mad!" said the Whaup to himself. "Not go on to his own house, when he was within two or three miles of it! These French novels have turned his head; we shall have him presently figuring as the hero of a fine bigamy case, or poisoning himself with charcoal fumes, or doing something equally French. Perhaps he has done something desperate in his youth, and now reads French novels to see what they have to say on the subject."
Among other intelligence sent him by his correspondents during the winter was that on the morning of New Year's Day (Coquette had been astonished to find that Christmas was held of no account in Airlie) there had arrived at the Manse, directed to that young lady, a large and magnificent volume of water-colour sketches of the Loire. The grandeur of this book—its binding and its contents—was all a marvel at the Manse; and the youngest of the Whaup's brothers expressed his admiration in these terms:
"It is most wonderful. The boards is made of tortis-shell, with white saytin and wreaths of silk roses and flowers in different colours all round it. There is a back of scaurlet marrocca leather, with gilt. And she put it on the table, and when she began to turn it over she laughed, and clapped her hands thegither, and was fair daft with looking at it; but, as she went on, she stopped, and we all saw that she was greetin'. I suppose it was some place she kenned."
No one knew definitely who had sent this gorgeous book—not even Coquette herself; but the popular opinion of the Manse determined that it must have been Lady Drum. There were only two people, widely apart, who had another suspicion in the matter; and these two were Coquette and the Whaup. Meanwhile, if the book had come from Lord Earlshope, it was accompanied by no sign or token from him; and, indeed, his name was now scarcely ever mentioned in the Manse.
And so the long and hard winter passed away: and there came at last a new light into the air, and soft and thawing winds from over the sea. The spring had arrived, with its warm and sweet breezes; and all over the countryside there began to peep out tiny buds of brown and green, with here and there, in many a secret nook and corner, the wonder of a flower. And at last, too, Coquette got out of the house, and began to drink in new life from the mild odours and the clear blue-white air. Her eyes were perhaps a trifle wistful or even sad when she first got abroad again; for the springtime revives many memories, and is not always a glad season; but in a little while the stirring of new health and blood in Coquette's pale cheeks began to recall her to her usual spirits. The morning was her principal time for going out; and, as the boys were then at Mr. Gillespie's school, she learned to wander about alone, discovering all manner of secret dells about the woods where the wild flowers were sure to be found. Many and many a day she came home laden with hyacinths, and violets, and anemones, and the white stars of the stitch wort; and she brought home, too, a far more valuable and beautiful flower in the bloom which everyone saw gathering on her cheek. Sometimes she prevailed on her uncle to accompany her; and she would take the old man's arm and lead him into strange woodland places of which he had but little knowledge. Leezibeth was so delighted to see the girl become her former self, that she was more than ordinarily pugnacious towards Andrew, as if that worthy but sour-tempered person had been harbouring dark projects against the girl's health. Leezibeth, indeed, had wholly gone over to the enemy; and Andrew sadly shook his head and comforted himself with prophecies of evil and lamentation.
One day Coquette had wandered down to the very wood in which the Whaup had caught Neil Lamont poaching. She had been exceptionally lucky in her quest for new flowers; and had got up a quite respectable bouquet for the study mantel-piece. Then she had that morning received from France a little song of Gounod's, which was abundantly popular there at the time. So, out of mere lightness of heart, she came walking through the wood, and sang to herself carelessly as she went—
La voile ouvre son aile
La brise va souffler—er—er—er—
when suddenly her voice died down. Who was that going along the road in the direction of Airlie? A faintness came over her—she caught hold of a branch of a fir—and then with a half instinctive fear she drew back within the shelter of a few tall stems. It was Lord Earlshope who was passing along the road—walking slowly and idly—and apparently taking no notice of the objects around him.
Her heart beat quickly, and her whole frame trembled, as she remained cowering until even the sound of his footsteps had died away. Then she stole out of the wood, and hurriedly followed a circuitous route which landed her breathless, and yet thankful, within the safety of the Manse. He had not observed her.
But he was in the neighbourhood. He had returned from abroad. Perhaps he would go away again without even seeing her and speaking to her for a moment—unless, indeed, she happened to be out the next morning and so might chance to meet him!
"You must not fall back into any of your dull moods, Catherine," said the Minister, in a cheerful way, to her that evening, as he happened to perceive her unwonted silence, and the pensive look of her eyes.
Coquette's sleep that night was full of dreams of a meeting with Lord Earlshope; and in the morning she awoke with a confused sense of having been wandering with him in a strange land, which had a threatening sky over it, and all around it the moaning of the sea. She seemed to have a notion that the place was familiar to her; and gradually out of her memory she was able to recall the features of a certain gloomy loch, overshadowed by sombre mountains.
"I will remember no more of it," she said to herself. "That island—is it always coming back?"
Yet those dreams left a troubled impression behind them; and she began to think with some foreboding of a possible encounter with Lord Earlshope if she went out for her accustomed walk. Dared she meet him? Or what if he were here only for a brief time, and went away without a word? As she lay calculating anxiously these probabilities, and trying to decide whether she should go or not, a great dash of rain smote on the windows of the Manse, a glimmer of morning sunlight also struck the panes, and a blustering April wind blew about the chimneys.
"Rain!" she cried, as though she was glad of anything to resolve her anxious doubts. "Then I do not go!"
Nevertheless she rose and dressed quickly. There were no blinds needed for the small windows that looked across the moor. During the progress of her toilette she could see the wild glare of the spring sunshine that chased the rapid and riven clouds which the wind was blowing over the sea. On they came in thunderous masses and filmy streaks—here dark and rainy, there struck into silver; while from time to time there was a period of menacing gloom, followed by the heavy rattle of a shower on roof and windows; then the sudden yellow light again shining out on the dripping trees, on the wet moor, and on the far blue sea-plain that lay around Arran.
"You are in much better spirits this morning," said the Minister at breakfast, after Coquette had been lecturing the boys in a very grand and mock-heroic fashion.
"Yes, in spite of your abominating weather," she replied. "Last night, still and clear—this morning a hurricane! Why is your weather so wild, and your Scotch people so quiet? They are not stormy—no bad temper—no fits of passion—all smooth, and serious, and solemn, as if they did go to a churchyard."
"And that is where we all of us are going, whether in Scotland or France," said the Minister, with a serious smile.
"Yet why always think of it?" said Coquette, lightly. "Why you make the road to the churchyard a churchyard also? No—it is not reasonable. We should have a little gaiety, and amuse ourselves in the meantime. Ah I now do look at the faces of all those boys; do they think me wicked?"
Indeed, the row of solemn and awe-struck faces which listened to Coquette's Sadduceeism provoked her into a fit of laughter, which Leezibeth checked by coming into the room and asking abruptly if more tea were wanted.
Coquette had apparently forgotten that she had been troubled that morning about Lord Earlshope. The boisterous weather had prevented her going out, so that no choice remained to her. But when after the boys had been despatched to school, she was left to herself and her solitary employment at the piano, her vivacity died away. Without any intention she wandered into melancholy strains, and played half-forgotten ballad-airs which she had heard among the peasantry of Morbihan. She began to cast wistful glances towards the changeable landscape outside. At last she gave up the piano, and went to one of the windows, and took a seat there. The intervals of sunlight were growing longer. The clouds seemed more light and fleecy. There was a grey mist of rain down in the south, over Ayr; but all around her the wet landscape was shining in its young spring greens; while the gusty west-wind, that blew a warm and moist fragrance about the garden, could not quite drown the music of the thrushes and blackbirds. The sky cleared more and more. Even in the south, the rain-mist lifted, and the sunlight shone on the far promontory. Finally, the wind moderated; and eventually over all the land there seemed to prevail the fresh clear brightness and sweetness of an April morning.
Coquette put on her small hat (with its dash of sea-bird plumage) and a warm grey woollen shawl, and went out. Her light foot was not heard leaving the house; and in a few minutes she was on the moorland road—all around her the shining beauty of the spring day, and the glistening of the recent rain. At another time she would have rejoiced in the clear light and the genial warmth of the western breezes: to-day she seemed thoughtful and apprehensive, and dared scarcely look over the moor. She wandered on—her head somewhat downcast; and when she paused, it was merely to pick up some tiny flower from amongst the wet grass. It was only by a sort of instinct that she avoided the red pools which the rain had left in the road; she seemed to walk on—in the opposite direction from Airlie—as if she were in a dream.
She became aware that there was some one crossing over the moor on her right; still she did not look up. Indeed, before she could collect herself to consider how she should speak to Lord Earlshope, supposing he were to meet her, the stranger had overtaken her, and pronounced her name.
She turned—a trifle pale, perhaps, but quite self-possessed and regarded him for one brief second. Then she stepped forward and offered him her hand. During that instant he, too, regarded her, in a somewhat strange way, before meeting her advances; and then he said—
"Have you really forgiven me?"
"That is all over," she said, in a low but quite distinct voice—"all over and forgotten. It does do no good to bring it back. You—have you been well?"
He looked at her again, with something of wonder in the admiration visible in his eyes.
"How very good you are! I have been wandering all over Europe, feeling as though I had the brand of Cain on my forehead. I come back to hear that you have been dangerously ill, without my having had any knowledge of it. I hang about, trying to get a word of explanation said to you personally before calling at the Manse; and now you come forward, in your old straightforward way, as if nothing had happened, and you offer me your hand just as if I were your friend."
"Are you not my friend?"
"I do not deserve to be anybody's friend."
"That is nonsense," said Coquette. "Your talk of Cain—your going away—your fears—I do not understand it at all."
"No," said he. "Nor would you ever understand how much I have to claim forgiveness for without a series of explanations which I shall make to you some day. I have not the courage to do it now. I should run the risk of forfeiting the right ever to speak another word to you."
Coquette drew back, and regarded him steadfastly.
"There," said he, "did I not tell you what would happen? You are becoming afraid of me. You have no reason."
"Yes, perhaps," she said; "but I do not understand why all this secrecy—all this mystery. It is very strange to me—all your actions; and you should be more frank, and trust that I will not make bad interpretation. You wish to be my friend? I am well pleased of that—but why you make so many secrets?"
"I cannot tell you now," he said, hurriedly. "I am too anxious to believe that you have forgiven me for what happened on that hideous night. I was mad—I was beside myself—I don't know what possession I laboured under to make a proposal——"
"Ah, why bring it all back?" said Coquette. "Is it not better to forget it? Let us be as we were before we went away in the yacht. You shall meet me. I shall speak to you as usual. We shall forget these old misfortunes. You will come to the Manse sometimes—as you did before. You must believe me, it will be very simple and natural if you do try; and you shall find yourself able to be very good friends with all of us, and no more brands of Cain on your forehead."
He saw in her soft eyes that she faithfully meant what she said; and then, with a sort of effort, he said—
"Come, let us walk along, and I will talk to you as you go. There is a path along here by which you can cross the moor, and get back to the Manse by Hechton Mains."
How glad she was to walk by his side in the old fashion! It was so pleasant to hear his voice, and to have the grave kindliness of his eyes sometimes meeting hers, that she did not stop to ask whether it was merely as friends they were walking together. Nor did she notice, so glad was she, how constrained was his talk; how he was sometimes, in moments of deep silence, regarding her face with a look which had the blackness of despair in it. She chatted on, pleased and happy; breaking imperiously away from all mention of what had happened in the north whenever that became imminent. She did not even perceive whither she was going; she submitted to be led; and even lost sight of the familiar features of the landscape surrounding her own home.
"I wonder if there was ever a woman as unselfish as you are," he said, abruptly and morosely. "I know that you are pretending to be glad only to make our meeting pleasant and spare me the pain of self-accusation."
"How can you think such morbid things on such a beautiful morning?" she asked. "Is it not a pleasure to be in the open air? Is it not a pleasure to meet an old friend? And yet you stop to pull it all to pieces, and ask why, and what, and how. You—who have been abroad—are not thankful for this bit of sunshine—perhaps that is the reason."
"There is something almost angelic—if we knew anything about angels—in the way you have of forgetting yourself in order to make other people feel at ease."
"And if you are not cheerful this morning, you have not forgotten how to pay compliments," she said, with a smile.
Presently he said—
"I am afraid you must consider me a very discontented fellow. You see, I don't wish just at present to interrupt our new friendliness by explaining why I am not cheerful—why I owe you more contrition than you can understand—why your kindness almost makes me suspicious of your good faith. You don't know——"
"I know enough," she said, with a pretty gesture of impatience. "I wish not to have any more whys, and whys, and whys. Explanations, they never do good between friends. I am satisfied of it if you come to the Manse, and become as you were once. That is all—that is sufficient. But just now—when you have the pleasant morning before you—it is not good to torment yourself by doubts, and suspicions, and questions."
"Ah, well," he said, "I suppose I must suffer you to consider me discontented without cause. It will be of little consequence a hundred years hence."
Coquette laughed.
"Even in your resignation you are gloomy. Why you say that about a hundred years? I do not care what happens in a hundred years: but just now, while we are alive, we ought to make life pleasant to each other, and be as cheerful as we can."
So they wandered on, Coquette not paying particular heed to the direction of their walk. Her companion was not very talkative; but she was grateful for the new interest that had been lent to her life by his arrival at Airlie, and was in very good spirits. All her fears of the morning had vanished. It seemed a comparatively easy thing for her to meet him; there could apparently be no recurrence of the terrible scene which was now as a sort of dream to her. Suddenly, however, her companion paused; and she, looking up, saw that they were now at the corner of the Earlshope grounds, where these joined the moor. There was a small gate in the wall fronting them.
"Will you come into the grounds?" he said, producing a small key. "You need not go up to the house. There is a sort of grotto, or cavern, which I had constructed when I was a lad, at this end of the copse. Will you go in and see it?"
Coquette hesitated only for a moment, and then she said—"Yes." He opened the small gate; they both passed through; and Coquette found herself at the extremity of a small path leading through a belt of larches.
She now recollected that long ago the Whaup had told her of some mysterious place which Lord Earlshope had built within his grounds; and when her companion, begging her to excuse him for a few minutes, passed into what was apparently a cleft in a solid mass of earth or rock, and when she heard the striking of a match, she concluded that he was lighting up the small theatrical scene for her benefit. Nor was she mistaken; for presently he came out and asked her to return with him through this narrow aperture. He led the way; she followed. If the cavern into which they entered were of artificial construction, considerable pains had been taken to make it look natural. At first the cleft was open to the sky, and the sides of the passage were covered with ferns and weeds growing in considerable profusion; but by-and-by she came in front of a large recess, apparently dug out of the solid rock, and involuntarily a cry of wonder escaped her. The walls of this tolerably spacious cave were studded here and there by curiously shaped and pendent lamps of various hues; and right at the back was a Chinese stove, on the polished surface of which the coloured lights threw faint reflections. Down one side of the cave a stream trickled; dropping over bits of rock, and wetting the masses of fern which grew in their clefts. The space in front of the stove was perfectly dry; and there stood two cane easy-chairs, fitted with small reading-desks, and candles. The whole place looked like a bit cut out of a pantomime; and Coquette, suddenly finding herself in this strange place, with its dusky corners and its coloured lamps, wholly forgot that outside there reigned the brightness of a spring day.
"What do you think of my boyish notions of the marvellous?" he said, with a smile.
"It is wonderful," said Coquette, who fancied she had been transferred to a fairy palace.
"There are incongruities in it," said he; "for I changed my hobbies then as rapidly as now. It was begun in imitation of a cavern I had read of in a novel; it was continued as a mandarin's palace; and finally finished up in imitation of the Arabian Nights. But you can imagine it to be what you like, once you have taken off your boots, which must be damp, and put on that pair of Russian slippers which you will find in front of the stove. I shall leave you to complete your toilette, while I go up to the house for some biscuits and wine."
With which he left, before Coquette could utter a word of protest. She now found herself alone in this extraordinary place. Had he brought her there intentionally? She had looked at the slippers—they were lady's slippers, and new. He had evidently, then, anticipated that he would meet her, walk with her, and bring her thither? She knew not what to do. Yet the slippers were very pretty—curiously wrought with coloured beads, and deeply furred all round. They were seductively warm, too, from having been lying before the stove. So, with a curtain defiant air, she sat down, pulled off her tiny boots, and placed them before the stove; and presently her small feet were encased in the warm and furred slippers, which had apparently been left for her by the genii of the cave.
Then she sat down in one of the easy-chairs; took off her gloves; and extended just so much of the slippers that she could admire their rose-coloured tips. All this conduct on her part she knew to be dreadfully and desperately wrong; but she was very comfortable, and the place was very pretty. As for the slippers, they were simply not to be refused. Indeed, the whole thing hovered in her mind as half a dream and half a joke; and when, at length, Lord Earlshope appeared with his stock of provisions, the adventure looked remarkably like one of those house-keeping games familiar to children. As for any apprehension of her indiscreet behaviour being a subject of after annoyance, she felt none whatever. Had not Lord Earlshope and herself quite got back to their old friendly terms; and what harm was there in her joining in this piece of amusement? If she had any doubts or misgivings, they were swallowed up in the sensation of warmth lent by the Russian slippers.
Coquette ate one or two of the small biscuits, and drank half a glass of the yellow-white wine, which Earlshope poured out for her. Then she said—
"I do not know how you can go away from this place. I should live here always. Why did you go away?"
"I am going away again," he said. She looked up with some surprise—perhaps with a shadow of disappointment, too, on her face.
"How can I stay here?" he said, suddenly. "I should be meeting you constantly. I have no right to meet you. I am satisfied, now that I know you are well, and that you have forgiven me; and I do not wish to repeat a bygone error. You—who are always so pleased with everything around you—I see you have forgotten that witchery that seemed to have fallen over us both last summer. You are again yourself—calm, satisfied with yourself—on excellent terms with everybody and everything. But I have not been cured by my few months' absence. Now that I see you again—— Bah! what is the use of annoying you by such talk? Tell me, how is your cousin in Glasgow?"
Coquette remained quite silent and thoughtful, however, with her eyes fixed on the stove before her. After a little while, she said—
"I have not forgotten—I can never forget. I have been so pleased to see you this morning that perhaps I have appeared light—fickle—what you call it?—in your eyes, and not mindful of your trouble. It is not so. I do remember all that happened; it is only I think it better not to bring it back. Why you should go away? If you remain, we shall learn to meet as friends, as we are now, are we not?"
"Do you think that is possible?" he asked, gravely looking at her.
Coquette dropped her eyes; and said, in a low voice—
"It may be difficult just a little while; yet it is possible. And it seems hard that if we do enjoy the meeting with each other, we must not meet—that I drive you away from your own home."
"It is odd—is it not?" he said, in rather an absent way. "You have made me an exile, or, rather, my own folly has done that. No, Coquette; I am afraid there is no compromise possible—for me, at least—until after a few years; and then I may come back to talk to you in quite an off-hand fashion, and treat you as if you were my own sister. For I am a good deal older than you, you know——"
At this moment there was a sound of footsteps outside; and Coquette hurriedly sprang to her feet. Earlshope immediately went out to the entrance of the place; and Coquette heard some one approach from the outside. She hastily abandoned her small furred slippers, and drew on her damp boots; then she stood, with a beating heart, listening.
"I am sorry to have alarmed you," said Earlshope, returning. "It was only a servant with some letters that have arrived."
But the sound of those footsteps had suddenly awakened Coquette to a sense of the imprudence, and even danger, of her present position, and she declined to resume her comfortable seat before the fire.
"I must go now," she said.
"Let me show you the way then, if you must," said he; and so he led her along the winding path, and through the shrubbery to the small gate that opened out to the moor. She had reached the limit of Earlshope; in front of her stretched the undulating plain leading up to Airlie; she was free to go when she pleased.
"I dare not see you home," he said, "or the good people who may have noticed us an hour ago would have a story to tell.'
"I shall find my way without trouble,'' said Coquette, and she held out her hand.
"Is it to be good-bye, then?" he said, looking wistfully at her.
"Not unless you please," Coquette answered, simply, although she bent her eyes on the ground. "I should like you to remain here, and be friends with us as in long ago; it is not much to ask; it would be a pleasure to me, and I should be sorry and angry with myself if I thought you had again gone away because of me. It is surely no reason you should go; for I should think of you far away, and think that it is I who ought to go away, not you; for I am a stranger come to Airlie, and sometimes I think I have come only to do harm to all my friends——"
"My darling!" he said, with a strange and inexpressibly sad look on his face, as he caught her to him, and gazed down into the clear, frightened eyes. "You shall not accuse yourself like this! If there is blame in my staying I will bear it; I will stay, whatever happens; and we shall meet, Coquette, shall we not, even as now, in this stillness, with no one to interrupt our talk? Why do you look frightened, Coquette? Are you afraid of me? See, you are free to go!"
His arms released their hold; and for an instant she stood, with downcast eyes, alone and trembling. But she did not move; and so once again he drew her towards him; and then, ere she knew, his arms were around her, and she was close to his breast, and kisses were being showered on her forehead and on her lips. It was all so sudden, so wild and strange, that she did not stir; nor was she but half-conscious of the fetters of iron which these few swift seconds were fastening down on her life. It was very terrible, this crisis; but she vaguely felt that there was the sweetness of despair and utter abandonment possessing her; that the die had been cast for good or evil, and the old days of doubt and anxiety were over.
"Let me go—let me go!" she pleaded, piteously. "Oh, what have we done?"
"We have sealed our fate," said he, with a haggard look which she did not sec. "I have fought against this for many a day—how bitterly and anxiously no one knows, Coquette. But now, Coquette, but now—won't you look up and let me see that love is written in your eyes? Won't you look up, and give me one kiss before we part?—only one, Coquette?"
But her downcast face was pale and deathlike; and for a moment or two she seemed to tremble. Finally she said—
"I cannot speak to you now. To-morrow or next day—perhaps we shall meet. Adieu!—you must leave me to go alone."
And so she went away over the moor; and he stood looking after her for some time, with eyes that had now lost all their wild joy and triumph, and were wistful and sad.
"She does not know what has happened to her to-day," he said to himself, "and I—I have foreseen it, and striven to guard against it—in vain."
"At last—at last—at last!" The words rang in her ears as she hurried across the moor—seeing nothing—heeding nothing—her face turned away from the clear blue-white of the spring sky. She was only anxious to get within the shelter of her own home, to resolve those wild doubts and fears which were pressing upon her. In many and many a story of her youth—in many a ballad and song she had sung long ago in the garden overlooking the Loire—she had heard tell of happy lovers and their joy; and, with the careless fancies of a girl, she had looked forward to the time when she, too, might awake to find her life crowned by those sweet experiences that fall to the lot of young men and maidens. And was this love that had come to her at last—not in the guise of an angel, with a halo around his head and mildness in his face, but in the guise of a sorcerer, who had the power to turn the very sunlight into blackness?
Yet, when she had reached the solitude of her own chamber, she asked herself the reason of this sudden dread. What made her heart beat and her cheek grow pale as she looked back to that phantasmal evening in Loch Scavaig? Was not that all over and gone—forgotten and buried in the past? Indeed, she began to reason with herself over the injustice of recalling it. Had not Lord Earlshope sufficiently endeavoured to atone for—what?
That was the mystery which was confronting her with a terrible pertinacity. She had been oppressed with an unnameable dread during that memorable evening; but what had Lord Earlshope done, beyond talk wildly and almost fiercely for a few minutes? She had almost forgotten the substance of what he had then said. And now that he had expressed his penitence for that strange appeal to her—since he had even punished himself with six months' exile on account of it—why should the memory of it interfere between them as a gloomy phantom, voiceless, but yet holding up a warning finger?
"I do not understand it," she murmured to herself in French. "There is something he will not tell me; and yet why should he be afraid? Does he fear that I shall be unjust or merciless—to him who has never a hard word or a suspicion for any one? Why should he not tell me?—it cannot be anything wrong of himself—or I should see it in his eyes. And whatever it is, it separates us; and I have given my life to a man who seems to stand on the other side of a river from me; and I can only hold out my hands to him; and wish that the river were the river of death, so that I could cross over, and fall at his feet, and kiss them."
She took out a little book of devotions which had been given her by one of her companions on leaving France, and sat down at the small window-table, and placed it before her. A few moments thereafter, Lady Drum, coming into the room, found the girl's head resting on the table covered by her hands.
"Asleep in the middle o' the day!" said the visitor, who had unceremoniously come up-stairs.
Coquette hastily rose, and would have hidden her face by turning aside and going into her bed-room, but that Lady Drum stopped her, and took hold of her.
"What! No rosier than that? And fast asleep in the middle o' such a beautiful day! Dear me, lassie!" she added, looking more narrowly at her, "what are your een so big, and wild, and wet for?"
Lady Drum walked to the table, and took up the small book. She turned over its pages, and the contempt visible on her face grew fast and fierce.
"Saints—crosses—mealy-faced women wi' circles round their heads—men in blue gowns wi' a lamp by their side—is this the trash ye spend your days over, when ye should be in the open air?"
Lady Drum clasped the book again; put it in the drawer of the table; and shut the drawer with somewhat unnecessary vehemence.
"Phew! I have no patience wi' the folk that would make every young lass a nun. Come here, my young princess wi' the pale face: are you no a staunch, earnest, indomitable Presbyterian?"
"I am what you please," said Coquette, timidly.
"Are you, or are you not, a Presbyterian?"
"Perhaps I am," said Coquette. "I do not know what it is—this Presby—I do not know what you say. But I do keep my books that belonged to me in France. That is a good book—it can do no harm to any one——"
"My certes! here is a pretty convert! It can do no harm to any one?—and I find ye in the middle o' the day, greetin' ower its palaverins, and with a face that would suit a saint better than a brisk young creature o' your age. Ayrshire is no the place for saints—the air is over healthy. Come here, and I will show ye the book that ye must read."
She led Coquette to the window, and began to expatiate on the enjoyments of being out walking on such a day—with the spring winds stirring the young corn, and ruffling the distant blue of the sea. Alas! all that Coquette saw was the beginning of the line of trees that led down to Earlshope.
"Listen now," said Lady Drum, "I have come here on an errand. Ye have never seen Glasgow. I am going up to-morrow morning; can you come wi' me—stay two or three weeks—and cheer your cousin's exile a bit?"
Coquette's conscience smote her hard; and it was with a quick feeling of pain and remorse that she thought of the Whaup. She had almost forgotten him. Far away in the great city of which she knew so little, he was working hard, buoyed up by some foolish and fond notion that he was pleasing her. All at once her heart turned towards him with a great affection and yearning. She would make amends for the wrong which he had unwittingly suffered. She would go at once to Glasgow: and would shower upon him every token of solicitude and kindness that she could devise.
"Oh, yes, Lady Drum!" she said, with evident eagerness in her face. "I will go with you as soon as you please. Have you seen my cousin? Is he well? Is he tired of his hard work? Does he speak of us sometimes? He does not think we have forgotten him?"
"Hoity toity! Twenty questions in a breath! Let me tell you this, my young lady, that your cousin, though he says nothing, is doing wonders; and that Dr. Menzies, to whom the Minister confided him, is fair delighted wi' him, and has him at dinner or supper twice or thrice a week; and your cousin is just petted beyond measure by the young leddies o' the house; and bonnier lasses there are none in Glasgow."
Coquette clasped her hands.
"Perhaps he will marry one of them!" she exclaimed, with a wonderful gladness in her eyes.
Lady Drum looked at her.
"Marry one o' them? Would ye like to see him marry one o' them? Has that daft picture-book turned your head and made ye determined to go into a nunnery?"
"It is not necessary he marries me," said Coquette in a tone of protest. "A young man must choose his own wife—it is not pleasant for him to be made to marry by his friends."
"Ah, well!" said Lady Drum, with a sigh. "Young folks are young folks; and they will pretend that the marmalade they would like to steal is nothing but down-right medicine to them. Ye had better begin to think about packing up for to-morrow morning."
"To-morrow morning!" said Coquette, with a sudden tremor of apprehension.
"Yes."
"Oh, I cannot go to-morrow—I cannot go to-morrow: will not the next day do, Lady Drum? May I not have one day more?"
Astonished by the sudden alteration in the girl's manner—from delight at the prospect of going to an almost agonising entreaty to be left alone for another day—Lady Drum did not reply for a second.
"What have you to do to-morrow?" said the elderly lady, at last, regarding the girl.
"It is nothing—it is not much," stammered Coquette, with her eyes bent on the ground. "Only I do wish to remain at Airlie to-morrow. It is only one day longer, Lady Drum."
"Why, you plead as if I were to take ye out for execution the day after. If it will serve ye, I will wait for another day; and on Friday morning, at ten meenutes to ten, ye must be at the station, wi' a' your trunks and things in good order."
"But I have not asked my uncle yet," said Coquette.
"I have, though," said Lady Drum, "and I'm thinking he'll no miss ye except at breakfast. Since he began to get up that Concordance o' the Psalms, he seems to have withdrawn himself from the world round aboot him, and he's just as it were dead to his friends."
"It is very kind of you to ask me to go with you," said Coquette, suddenly remembering that she had not thanked Lady Drum for her offer.
"Na, na," said her elderly friend, "what would a big house be without a young leddy in it to bring visitors about? And this time, I must tell ye, a friend o' Sir Peter's has given us the loan o' his house until he comes back from Italy; and it is a big house overlooking the West End Park; and I'm thinking we'll find it more comfortable than a hotel. And we will have some company; and it will no be amiss if ye bring wi' ye such French ornaments or dresses as might be rather out o' place in the Manse o' Airlie. And I am sure ye will be quite surprised to see your cousin—looking a fine, strapping, well-set-up young gentleman, instead o' a lang-leggit laddie; and it is just possible Lord Earlshope may pay us a visit some evening."
Did Lady Drum throw out this hint as a vague feeler? She had never penetrated the mystery which had seemed to surround the relations between Coquette and Lord Earlshope during their voyage in the Highlands. She had, indeed, destroyed the scrap of writing handed to her by Coquette when the girl was delirious, unwilling to bother herself with a secret which did not concern her. Still, Lady Drum was just a trifle curious. There was something very peculiar and interesting in the odd notions which this young French creature appeared to have acquired about love and marriage. Lady Drum had never met with any one who held but the ordinary and accepted theories on that attractive subject. Yet here was a young lady who calmly contemplated the possibility of loving some one whom circumstances might prevent her marrying; and at the same time seemed in no wise disinclined to accept the recommendations of her relatives and friends as to her choice of a husband. Were these French notions of the duty of daughters to their parents? Or had they been picked up in idle speculation, and not yet driven away—as Lady Drum felt certain they would be driven away by a real love affair? At all events, the mention of Earlshope's name at once arrested Coquette's attention.
"Does Lord Earlshope ever go to Glasgow?" she asked.
"What for no?"
"And is he likely to meet my cousin at your house?"
"Assuredly. Why not? Why not?"
"I did merely ask a question," said Coquette, with thoughtful eyes.
Then Lady Drum bade her come down-stairs. The Minister was brought out of his study; and they had a little talk over Coquette's projected trip. At length, Lady Drum sent to see if her coachman was ready; and, finally, with a pleasant "au revaur, ma fee! au revaur!" the old lady walked in her grand and stately fashion across the small garden, got into her carriage, and was driven away from Airlie Manse.
There remained to Coquette but one day on which she had the chance of seeing Lord Earlshope; and how was she to bring about a meeting which she half feared, yet could not wholly forego?