CHAPTER XXXVII.

COQUETTE IN TOWN.

As Coquette and Lady Drum drew near to Glasgow the impatience of the girl increased. Her thoughts flew on more swiftly than the train; and they were all directed towards the Whaup, whom she was now about to see.

"Will he be at the station? Does he know we are coming? Or shall we see him as we go along the streets?" she asked.

"Dear me!" said Lady Drum. "Ye seem to think that Glasgow is no bigger than Saltcoats. Meet him in the streets? We should scarce see him in the streets if he were dressed in scaurlet."

It was growing towards dusk when the two ladies arrived. Lady Drum's carriage was waiting at the station; and presently Coquette found herself in the midst of the roar and turmoil of the great city. The lamps on the bridges were burning yellow in the grey coldness of the twilight; and she caught a glimpse of the masses of shipping down in the dusky bed of the river. Then up through the busy streets—where the windows were growing bright with gas, and dense crowds of people were hurrying to and fro, and the carts, and waggons, and carriages were raising a din that was strange and bewildering to ears grown accustomed to the stillness of Airlie.

"Alas!" said Coquette, "I cannot see him in this crowd—it is impossible."

Lady Drum laughed, and said nothing. And so they drove on—the high, old-fashioned chariot, which ought to have been kept for state purposes down at Castle Cawmil, swinging gently on its big springs—up to the north-western districts of the city. When Coquette was finally set down in front of a range of tall houses, the rooms of which were shining ruddily through crimson curtains, she got up the steps, and turned to take a look at her new place of abode. Behold! in front of her there was no more city; but a great gulf of pale blue mist, with here and there an orange lamp burning in the distance. There were no more streets, nor crowds, nor great waggons; and she even became aware that there were trees in front of her, down there in the mysterious hollow.

"Where am I?" she said. "It is not a town—are we in the country again? And where is my cousin?"

At this moment the hall door was thrown open by a servant; and out of the blaze of light came a dapper and fat little gentleman, who, with some brief exclamation of welcome, darted down the steps and gave his arm to Coquette.

"Charmed to see you, Miss Cassilis," cried Sir Peter; "hope you will have many a pleasant evening—many, and many, and many a pleasant evening. Yes, yes, yes, indeed!"

Then he was about to hand her over in his airy fashion to the young person who had been told off as her maid; but Miss Coquette was rebellious.

"No," she said. "I do wish to go and see my cousin before anything; he does not know I am in this town; it will be good-natured of you, Sir Peter, to come with me."

"Oh, certainly! certainly! Roberts, hold on for a minute! My lady, keep dinner to half-past eight. Come along, my dear. H'm! Ha! Ha-ha-ha!"

Lady Drum stood at the open door, amazed. Indeed, she was so astounded by this mad project on the part of her husband—within an hour of dinner-time—that she had not a word to say; and in blank astonishment she beheld the carriage drive off. Once more Coquette found herself getting into a labyrinth of streets; and the farther they drove the more noisy and dingy they seemed to become. She began to wonder if it was in this place that the Whaup had been living for so long a time, and how the thought of Airlie and the wild moorland and the sea had not broken his heart.

It happens to most lads who go to college that they attach themselves to some friend and companion considerably older than themselves, who proceeds to act as their counsellor, teacher, and ally. Nothing of the kind was possible to the Whaup. His individuality was too strong to admit of any such submission. No sooner had he thrown himself into the midst of college life than his exuberant spirits, along with a touch of his old love of devilment, attracted round him a considerable circle of associates, of whom he was the heart and soul. It is to be feared that the Whaup and his friends did not form the most studious coterie to be found in the old High Street building. Plenty of study there was; and the Whaup worked as hard as any of them; but the wild evenings which these young gentlemen spent in their respective lodgings—the stories told of their daredevil pranks—and the very free-and-easy manners of more than one mother's son among them—gained for this band a dangerous reputation. They were held to be rather wild by the more discreet and methodical of their fellow-collegians. The Whaup himself was known to stick at nothing. His splendid physique gave him many advantages; and after having let daylight come in upon their rambling and hotheaded disquisitions on poetry or "metapheesics," on their too copious beer-drinking, and smoking of lengthy clays, many were chagrined to meet the Whaup in the forenoon as fresh and pink as a daisy, having just completed his morning classes, and setting out for a long swinging walk round by the Botanic Gardens and the Kelvin.

"What a powerful young fellow your cousin is," said Sir Peter, as they drove along George Street. "Did you hear of his adventure at the theatre? No? Good story; very good story; ho! ho! excellent story. He takes three young ladies to the theatre—cabman insults him—he hands the young ladies into the theatre, comes back, hauls the cabman down from his box and gives him a thorough thrashing in about a minute. Up comes another cabman, squares up, is sent flying into the arms of a policeman; the policeman admires pluck, and says it serves them both right. Your cousin goes into the theatre, sits down, nobody knows. Ho, ho! Ha, ha! Ha, ha!"

"But, pray, who were the young ladies?" asked Coquette, with a touch of proud asperity.

"Young ladies—young ladies—young ladies—who can remember the names of young ladies?" said, or rather hummed, Sir Peter, keeping time by tapping on the carriage window. "Why, I remember! Those charming girls that sing—what's the song?—why, the doctor's daughters, you know, Kate, and Mary, and Bess—all of them Menzies, Menzies, Menzies!"

"I think my cousin ought to attend to his studies, rather than go about with young ladies," said Coquette.

"So, ho!" cried Sir Peter. "Must a young man have no amusement? Suppose he caps his studies by marrying one of the doctor's daughters!"

"There are plenty to choose from," said Coquette, with an air of disdain.

Indeed, the mention of those three young ladies rendered Coquette silent for the rest of the drive; and Sir Peter was left to talk and hum to himself. Yet it was but a little time before that Coquette had clapped her hands with joy on hearing that the Whaup had made those acquaintances, and that she had eagerly asked Lady Drum if it was probable he might marry one of them. Why should she suddenly feel jealous now, and refuse to speak to this poor Sir Peter, who was risking his dinner to do her a service?

Her face lightened considerably when the carriage was pulled up; and she got out to look with some curiosity on the gaunt and grey house in George Street, which bore a number she had often written on her letters. Many a time she had thought of this house, and mentally drawn a picture of it. But the picture she had drawn was of a small building with a porch, and green casements, and a big square in front, with trees in it—in short, she had thought of a quiet thoroughfare in an old-fashioned French town. She was more grieved than disappointed with the ugliness of this house.

Sir Peter led her along the entry, and up the stone stairs to the first landing. It was her first introduction to the Scotch system of building houses. But her attention was suddenly withdrawn from this matter by a considerable noise within; and over the noise there broke the music of a song, which was plentifully accompanied by rappings on a table or on the floor.

"Ah, c'est lui!" she suddenly cried. "I do know it is he."

The Whaup, to tell the truth, had not a very beautiful voice; but it was strong enough; and both Sir Peter and Coquette could hear him carelessly shouting the words of an old English ballad—

Come lasses and lads, away from your dads,
    And away to the maypole hie,
For every fair has a sweetheart there,
    And the fiddlers standing by!
            For Willy shall dance with Jane,
            And Johnny has got his Joan,
To trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it up and down

—while there was a measured beating of hands and feet. Sir Peter had to knock twice before any one answered; and when the door was opened, lo! it was the Whaup himself who appeared—there being no one else in the house to perform this office.

"What! is it you, Coquette!" he cried, seizing both her hands.

"Oh, you bad boy!" she cried. "How you do smell of tobacco!"

And, indeed, there came from the apartment he had just left—the door of which was also wide open—rolling volumes of smoke, which nearly took Sir Peter's breath away.

"But what am I to do with you?" he said. "Mine is the only room in the house that isn't in confusion just now——"

"We will go in and see your friends, if you do not object, and if the gentlemen will permit us," said Coquette, at once. Perhaps she was desirous of knowing what company he kept.

You should have seen how swiftly those young men put away their pipes; and how anxious they were to get Coquette a chair; and how they strove to look very mild and good. You would have fancied they had been holding a prayer meeting; but their manner changed perceptibly when Coquette hoped she had not interrupted their smoking, and graciously asked that the gentleman who had been singing should continue—at which there was much laughter, for the Whaup looked confused. It was in the midst of this reawakening of voices that Sir Peter (who was beginning to feel uncomfortable about his dinner) explained the object of his visit, and asked the Whaup if he could come along later in the evening. Of course, his friends counselled him to go at once; but he was not so lost to all notions of hospitality.

"No," said he; "I will come and see you to-morrow night."

Coquette seemed hurt.

"Well," said her cousin to her, with a dash of his old impertinence, "you can stay here if you like, and let Sir Peter go home with an excuse for you."

The young men appeared as if they would have liked to second that invitation, but dared not. Indeed, they regarded Coquette—whose foreign accent they had noticed—in rather an awe-stricken way. Perhaps she was a French princess who had come on a visit to Sir Peter; and she looked like a princess, and had the calm graciousness and self-possession of a princess. That was no blushing country girl who sat there—the small lady with the delicate and pale features and the large, quiet, dark eyes, who had such a wonderful air of ease and refinement. The rough students felt their gaze fall when she looked at them. What would they not have given to have spoken with her for a whole evening, and looked at the wonders of her costume and the splendour of her dark hair?

"What do you say, Coquette?" said the Whaup; and they all pricked up their ears to hear her called by this strange name.

Coquette laughed. Doubtless she considered the proposal as a piece of her cousin's raillery; but any one at all conversant with the secret likings of the young lady—as the Whaup was—must have known that she was perhaps not so averse to spending an evening with a lot of young students as she ought to have been.

"Perhaps I should like it," she said, frankly, "if you did all sing to me—and tell stories—and make me one of your companions. But I am very hungry—I have had no dinner."

"Bravely and sensibly spoken!" cried Sir Peter, who had become alarmed by this outrageous suggestion put forward by the Whaup. "Come along, my dear Miss Cassilis; your cousin will call and see you to-morrow night."

"Good-bye, Tom," said Coquette. "I am pleased you enjoy yourself in Glasgow. It is not all study and books—no? And now I understand why you did write to me such very short letters."

"Look here, Coquette," said he, as they were about to go. "What are you going to do to-morrow morning? I suppose you'll be driving about, and visiting grand people, and you won't have a word for me."

"Ah, you wicked boy, to say that!" she said, reproachfully. "You will come for me to-morrow when you choose—nine, ten, eleven—and we will go for a walk just where you please; and I will speak to nobody but you; and you shall show me all the things worth seeing in Glasgow and round about."

"Why, Coquette, it is all like a dream come true!" he cried. "And to think that you are in Glasgow at last!"

With that, Sir Peter offered the young lady his arm, and hurried her down stairs. He was becoming more and more anxious about his dinner.

The Whaup returned to his companions, and instantly perceived that they were treating him with unusual respect. They would talk, also, about the young lady; and whether she was to remain long in Glasgow; and where the Whaup had seen her first; and whether she would likely be up at his rooms any other evening. Master Tom was not very communicative; but at last one ventured to say—

"Tell us, now, Cassilis, is she likely to be married soon?"

"She is," said the Whaup.

"To whom?"

"To me," said the Whaup.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

ALL ABOUT KELVIN-SIDE.

Talk of Glasgow being a sombre grey city! When the Whaup got up next morning at half-past six, and looked out, it seemed to him that the empty pavements were made of gold; that the fronts of the houses were shining with a happy light; and the air full of a delicious tingling. For did not the great city hold in it the beating heart of Coquette; and were not all its thoroughfares aware of the consecration that had fallen on them by her arrival? Away he sped to his classes; and his boots, as they rang in the street, clattered "Coquette!" and "Coquette!" and "Coquette!" If the Professor had known that Coquette was in Glasgow, would he have looked so dull, and been so miserably slow? What was the use of this gabble about ancient languages, when Coquette had brought her pretty French idioms with her, and was even now getting up to look out on the greenness of Hillhead and down on the winding waters of the Kelvin. Alas! why were the half-hours so full of minutes; and might not the sunshine be altogether faded out of the sky before he could get westward to welcome Coquette?

He dashed home from college to his lodgings; and there arrayed himself in his tidiest garments; and freshened himself up, singing the while some snatches of "Sally in our Alley." The tall and smart young man who now issued into George Street, and made his way westward as fast as his long legs could carry him, bore but little resemblance to the devil-may-care lad who had lounged about Airlie and tormented his father's neighbours. Yet he was singing one of his boyish songs as he strode along the thoroughfares; and ever and anon he looked up at the sky to make sure that it was going to be kindly to Coquette. Why, the light mist of the morning was now clearing away, and a blaze of sunshine was striking here and there along the northern side of Sauchiehall Street. 'Tis a pleasant street—under certain circumstances. Shops are its landmarks; but they grow poetic in the eyes of youth. It seemed to the Whaup that the boots in the windows looked unusually elegant; that never before had he seen such taste in the arrangement of Normandy pippins; that even the odour of a bakery had something in it that touched sweet memories. For, indeed, the shops and the windows, and the people, and Sauchiehall Street itself, were to him on that morning but phantasms; and all around him, the air, and the sky, and the sunshine, were full of Coquette, and nothing but Coquette. He fell in love with Sauchiehall Street on that morning; and he has never quite forgotten his old affection.

He walked up to the front of the great house overlooking the Park, which Sir Peter had borrowed; and was glad that the door was opened by a girl instead of by a man-servant—a creature whom he half feared and half disliked. The young person had scarcely shown him into the spacious drawing-room when he heard a quick flutter of a dress, and Coquette herself came rushing in, overwhelming him with her questions, and her exclamations, and her looks. For she could not understand what had altered him so much until she perceived that his moustache, which had been almost invisible on their last meeting, had now assumed quite formidable proportions; and it was only a significant threat on his part that caused her to cease her grave and ironical compliments.

And where should they go on this bright summer morning?

"Lady Drum, she has gone into the town to order flowers for the grand dinner of Friday," said Coquette; "to which you are invited, Mr. Whaup, by a card which I did address for you this morning. And I would not go with her; for I said—my cousin comes for me, and he would be angry if I were not here, and he is very disagreeable when he is angry. Enfin, let us go, and you will amuse me by all that is to be seen."

Now when Coquette had got herself ready, and they went out, the Whaup took a very strange road to the city by going down to Kelvin Bridge. The farther they went—over by Hillhead and still westward—the less appearance there was of streets and shops; until the Whaup had to confess that he had led her, of set purpose, directly away from the town. And so they went into the country.

He took her into all the haunts and nooks that he had explored by himself—down to the Pear-tree Well—back again, and along the Kelvin, and then up by the cross road which leads to Maryhill. Here they paused in their wanderings to look over the great extent of country which lay before them; and the Whaup told her, that far away on the left, if she had a wonderful telescope, she might see the lonely uplands about Airlie, and catch a glimpse of the long sweep of the sea.

"I used to come up here," he said, "all by myself, and wonder what you were doing away down there. And when the sun came out, I thought—'Ah, Coquette is happy now.'"

"All that is very pretty," said Coquette; "and I should be sorry for you, perhaps. But I do find you have still some amusement. What is it you sing—'Come, lasses and lads, away from your dads'? What is dads?"

"Never mind, Coquette. It is only a song to keep up one's heart, you know—not to be talked about on a morning like this, between us two. I want to say something very nice to you, and friendly, and even sentimental; but I don't know how. What shall I say?"

"It is not for me to tell you," remarked Coquette, with some air of disdain.

And yet, as they stood there, and looked over the far country towards Airlie and the sea, they somehow forgot to talk. Indeed, as Coquette, leaning on the low stone wall, gazed away westward, a shadow seemed to cross her face. Was she thinking of all that had happened there, and of her present position—mayhap working grievous wrong by this thoughtless kindness to her cousin? Was she right in trying to atone for previous neglect by an excess of goodness which might be cruel to him in after-life? Her companion saw that a sudden silence and pensiveness had fallen over her, and he drew her gently away, and began their homeward walk.

On their way back, they again went down to the Kelvin; and he proposed that they should rest for a little while in the bit of meadow opposite the Pear-tree Well. They sat down amid the long grass; and when any one crossed the small wooden bridge, which was but seldom, Coquette hid her face under her sunshade, and was unseen.

"Are you tired?" said the Whaup.

"Tired? No. I do walk about all day sometimes at Airlie."

"Then why have you grown so silent?"

"I have been thinking."

"Of what?"

"Of many things—I do not know."

"Coquette," he said suddenly, "do you know that the well over there used to be a trysting place for lovers; and that they used to meet there and join their hands over the well, and swear that they would marry each other some day? I suppose some did marry and some didn't; but wasn't it very pleasant in the meantime to look forward? Coquette, if you would only give me your hand now! I will wait any time—I have waited already, Coquette; but if you will only say now that I may look forward to some day, far away, that I can come and remind you of your promise—think what it would be to have that to carry about with one. You will be going back to Airlie, Coquette—I may not see you for ever so long."

He paused; for she seemed strangely disturbed. She looked up at him with eyes which were wild and alarmed.

"Ah, do not say any more," she said. "I will do anything for you, but not that—not that."

And then she said, a moment afterwards, in a voice which was very low and full of sadness—

"Or see; I will promise to marry you, if you like, after many, many years—only not now—not within a few years—afterwards I will do what you like."

"But have I offended you? Why do you cry, Coquette? Look here, I'd cut my fingers off before I would ask anything of you that pained you. What is the matter, Coquette? Does it grieve you to think of what I ask?"

"No—no!" she said, hurriedly, with tears stealing down her face. "It is right of you to ask it—and I—I must say yes. My uncle does expect it, does he not? And you yourself, Tom, you have been very good to me, and if only this will make you happy, I will be your wife."

"You will?" said he, with his handsome face burning with joy.

"But—but—" said Coquette, with the dark eyes still wet, and her head bent down, "not until after many years. And all that time, Tom, I shall pray that you may get a better wife than I—and a wife who could be to you all that you deserve—and in this long time you may meet some one, and your heart will say, 'She is better for me than Coquette'——"

"Better than you, Coquette!" he cried. "Is there anybody in all the world better than you?"

"Ah, you do not think—you do not remember. You do not know anything of me yet—I am a stranger to you—and I have been brought up differently from you. And did not Leesiebess say I had come to do mischief among you—and that my French bringing-up was dangerous?——"

"But you know, Coquette, that your goodness even turned the heart of that horrible old idiot towards you; and you must not say another word against yourself, for I will not believe it. And if you only know how proud and happy you have made me!" he added, taking her hand affectionately and gratefully.

"I am glad of that," said Coquette, in a low voice. "You deserve to be very happy. But it is a great many years off, and in that time I will tell you more of myself than I have told you yet. I cannot just now, my poor boy, for your eyes ae so full of gladness; but some day you will believe it fortunate for you if you can marry some one else—and I will rejoice at that too."

"Why," said he, with some good-natured surprise in his voice, "you talk as if there was some one you wanted to marry!"

"No," said Coquette, with a sigh, "there is no one."

"And now, then," said the Whaup gaily, as he assisted her to rise, "I call upon all the leaves of the trees, and all the drops in the river, and all the light in the air, to bear witness that I have won Coquette for my wife; and I ask the sky always to have sunshine for her; and I ask the winds to take care of her and be gentle to her; for isn't she my Coquette?"

"Ah, you foolish boy!" she said, with sad and tearful eyes. "You have given me a dangerous name. But no matter. If it pleases you to-day to think I shall be your wife, I am glad."

Of course, in lover's fashion, he laughed at her fears, and strove to lend her a leaven of his own high-hearted confidence. And in this wise they returned to Glasgow, as lovers have done before them, as lovers will do after them again and again, so long as youth hungers for bright eyes, and laughs to scorn all the perils the future may enfold. And if the Whaup thought well of Glasgow on that morning when he set out, you may guess what he thought of the city as he now returned to it, and of the strange transfiguration undergone by the distant clouds of smoke, and the tall chimneys, and the long and monotonous streets. Romance had bathed the old grey town in the hues of the sunset; and for him henceforth Glasgow was no longer a somewhat commonplace and matter-of-fact mass of houses, but a realm of mystery and dreams which love had lit up with the coloured limelight of wonder and hope.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

LADY DRUM'S DINNER-PARTY.

So Coquette had engaged herself to marry her cousin. She knew not why, but there were strange forebodings crowding her mind as she contemplated that as yet distant prospect. It seemed to her that life would be a pleasant and enjoyable thing, if all the people around her were satisfied to leave it as they found it, and to continue those amicable relations which were quieter, safer, more comfortable than the wild and strange perplexities which appeared to follow in the train of love. Love had become a fearful thing to her. She looked forward to meeting Lord Earlshope with something like alarm; and yet his absence was a source of vague unrest and anxiety. She longed to see him; and yet dreaded a repetition of those bizarre and terrible scenes which had marked the opening days of their intimacy. And the more she looked at her own position—the longer she dwelt on the possibilities that lay before her in the future—the less could she unravel the toils that seemed gathering around her and binding her with iron chains.

Was this, then, the happy phase of life into which she had seen, with something of envy, her old companions and playmates enter? Was this the delight of being in love? Were these the joyous experiences which were sung in many a ballad, and described in many a merry theatre-piece, and dwelt tenderly upon in many a story?

"I am eighteen," she said to herself, in these solitary musings. "It is the time for young people to be in love; and yet I hate it and fear it; and I wish that I did never come to this country. Alas! it is too late to go away now."

And again she asked herself if she had brought those perils—now looming distinctly in the future—upon herself by her own fault. Wherein had she erred? Surely not through selfishness. She loved Lord Earlshope, and was content to be loved by him, without even dreaming that he was thereby bound to her in any shape whatever. Indeed she seemed to think that by way of reparation it was her duty to marry her cousin; and she had consented only because she thought she would make him happy. In neither direction was there the least regard for herself, but only a desire to please her friends all round; and yet it appeared as if those very efforts of hers were doomed to plunge her deeper and deeper into the sea of troubles in which she found herself sinking. Was there no hand to save her? She knew not how it had all come about; but she did know that, in the odd moments in which a consciousness of her situation flashed upon her, a vague terror took possession of her, and she looked forward with dismay to the coming years.

These moments, fortunately, occurred at considerable intervals. The temperament of the girl was naturally light and cheerful. She was glad to enjoy the quiet pleasures of everyday life, and forget those gloomy anxieties which lay in the future. And this visit to Glasgow was full of all manner of new experiences, delights, excitements, which drove her forebodings out of her head, and led the Whaup to believe that she was proud to have become his affianced wife. Why had she cried, he asked himself, when he urged his suit in that bit of meadow on the banks of the Kelvin? It did not matter. The Whaup was not himself inclined to morbid speculation. Doubtless, girls were strange creatures. They cried when they were most pleased. They turned pale, or fainted, or achieved some other extraordinary feat, on the smallest emotional provocation. It was enough for him to hear Coquette's merry laugh to convince him that she was not very sorry for what she had done; and everybody, from Lady Drum downwards, bore testimony to the fact that the visit to Glasgow had wonderfully improved the girl's health and spirits. You had only to look at the new and faint colour in her pale cheeks, and at the glad brightness of her eyes.

Then there was the grand dinner coming off, which was to introduce Coquette to Lady Drum's Glasgow friends. The Whaup, of course, was invited; and, as there never had been occasion for his wearing evening dress down in Airlie, his slender store of money was deeply dipped into by his preparations. But when his name was announced, and he walked into the drawing-room, where Lady Drum was receiving her guests, the appearance of the tall and handsome young man attracted a good many eyes; and Coquette—who had gone quickly forward to meet him—was quite overcome by wonder and delight over his transformation from a raw country lad into an elegant young gentleman, and could not refrain from saying as much to him in a whisper. The Whaup—who had looked round for her on his entrance into the room—laughed, and blushed a little, and then drew her away into a corner, and said—

"It is all the white tie, Coquette, isn't it? Don't you think I've managed it well? But I am awfully afraid that a sneeze would send everything flying, and fill the air with bits of cambric. And it was very good of you, Coquette, to send me those studs—don't they look pretty?—and I'll kiss you for sending me them whenever I get the chance."

With which Coquette drew herself up, and said—

"You do talk of kissing me as if it were every day. Yet you have not kissed me, nor are likely to do that, until you are a great deal better-behaved, and less vain of yourself. You do talk of not being able to sneeze, merely that I look at the negligent way you have made your necktie and your collar—to open your throat, you foolish boy, and give yourself a cold."

At this moment Sir Peter bustled up to get hold of Coquette, and introduce to her certain civic dignitaries; and the Whaup, with some chagrin, saw her disappear in a crowd of people. He himself was speedily recalled to his duty, for the remainder of the guests were arriving rapidly, and among them were some whom he knew. He soon found himself being teased by the daughters of his friend, Dr. Menzies—three tall, light-haired, merry-hearted girls—who rather made a pet of him. And all at once one of them said to him—

"Why, is that your cousin there—the girl in white, with the heap of tea-roses? It is? How handsome she is; and how well she knows the proper sort of flower for her dark hair! Did you say she was an Italian?"

"No—a Mongolian," said the Whaup emphatically; for he did not like to have Coquette spoken of by anybody in tint cool and critical fashion.

"Does she sing?"

"I should think so," he said, curtly.

At this very moment Coquette came towards him; and then—seeing that he was talking to three young ladies—suddenly turned, and looked for Sir Peter, whom she had just left. The Whaup was at her side in a moment.

"What is it, Coquette?" he said.

"Nothing," she said, coldly.

"You know you were coming to speak to me."

"But I did find you engaged," she said, with a slight touch of hauteur in her tone. "Who are these young ladies? Are they your friends whose father is the doctor? Why do you leave them?"

"Coquette, if you are unreasonable I will go away and not return the whole evening. What did you come to tell me?"

"I did come to say," replied Coquette, speaking with a studied and calm carelessness, "that Lady Drum has asked Bailie Maclaren (I do think that is the name) to take me in to dinner, and I do not like it, for I would rather have sat by you, but it is of no consequence since you are occupied with your friends."

"Ho, ho!" said the Whaup confidently; "Lady Drum asked me to take in that old woman with the feathers, Mrs. Colquhoun; but don't you imagine I am such a fool, Coquette—oh, no!"

"What will you do?" said Coquette, with her face brightening up.

The Whaup said nothing for a second or two, but just then, a motion towards pairing having taken place, he darted up to Bailie Maclaren—a venerable person in spectacles, who was looking out for his appointed partner—and said in a hurried whisper—

"I beg your pardon, sir, but Lady Drum bids me tell you she would be much obliged if you would kindly take in Mrs. Colquhoun—the old lady near the piano—do you see her?"

The Whaup did not wait for any reply from the bewildered old gentleman, but instantly returned to Coquette, caught her hand, placed it on his arm, and hurried her into the dining-room in defiance of all order and the laws of precedence. Not for some time did Lady Drum notice what had occurred. It was not until the soup had been served that she caught a glimpse of Coquette and the Whaup sitting comfortably together at a portion of the table where neither ought to have been; and the face of the young lady, who wore tea-rosebuds twisted in the loose masses of her dark hair, was particularly bright and happy; for her companion was telling her wonderful stories of his college life—lies, doubtless, for the most part, or nearly approaching thereunto.

"It was rather shabby of you, Coquette," he said, "to run away like that when I wanted to introduce you to Dr. Menzies' girls."

"I was introduced to too many people—I cannot remember all such names. Besides, I do not like girls with straw-coloured hair."

"Oh, for shame, Coquette! You know it isn't straw-colour but golden, and very pretty. Well, I would have introduced you to those two young ladies who sit near Sir Peter, and who have hair as dark and as handsome as your own."

"Who are they?" said Coquette submissively; for she was bound to be consistent.

"They live in Regent's Park Terrace," said the Whaup—which did not afford his companion much information—"and they have the most beautiful contralto voices. You should hear the younger one sing the 'Ash Grove.'"

"I do think you know too many young ladies," said Coquette, with a pout,—which was so obviously assumed, that he laughed at her; and then she was offended; and then he had humbly to apologise; and then they were friends again.

So the dinner went on, and these two young people were very happy; for it was the first time that the Whaup had appeared in society along with Coquette, and he felt a right of property in her, and was proud of her. She had given him to understand that their marriage was a thing so distant and vague that it was scarcely to be thought of as yet; but in the meantime he regarded her as virtually his wife, and no longer considered himself a solitary unit lost in this crowd of married people. He was very attentive to Coquette. He was particular as to the dainties which she ate; he assumed authority over her in the matter of wine. Why, it was as if they were children playing at being husband and wife—in a fantastic grotto of their own creation; while the serious interests of the world were allowed to pass outside unheeded, and they cared not to think of any future, so busy were they in wreathing flowers.

"Coquette," said he, "if you are good, I will sing you a song when we go into the drawing-room."

"I do know," said Coquette, with the least trace of contempt. "It is always 'Come lasses and lads—Come lasses and lads'—that is your song always. Now, if you did sing some proper song, I would play an accompaniment for you. But perhaps some of your young lady friends down there—can they play the accompaniment for you?"

"Oh, yes," said the Whaup lightly. "But, of course, none of them can play or sing like you, you know. Now if you only saw yourself at this moment, Coquette—how your white dress, and the glare from the table, and the strong lights, make your hair and your eyes look so dark as to be almost wild—and those pretty yellow rosebuds——"

"Have I not told you," said Coquette, with some asperity, "that it is very, very bad manners to mention one's appearance or dress? I did tell you often—you must not do it; and if people do hear you call me Coquette, what will they say of me?"

"Go on," said the Whaup, mockingly; "let us have all the lecture at once!"

"Ah," said Coquette, more sadly than she had as yet spoken, "there is another thing I would say—and yet of what use? I would wish you to give up thinking me so good and so perfect. Why do you think I can play, or sing, or talk to you better than any one else? It is not true—it is a great misfortune that you think it true. And if it was anybody but you, I would say it was compliments only—it was flattery; but I do see in your eyes what you think, although you may not say it. Do you know that you deceive yourself about me—and that it is a pain to me? If I could give you my eyes for a moment, I would take you round the table, and show you who is much prettier than I am—who does sing better—who has more knowledge—more sense—more nobleness. Alas! you can see nobody but me; and it is a misfortune."

"What do you mean by that, Coquette?" he said, with vague alarm. "Why do you want me to look at people with different eyes?"

"Because," she said, in a low voice, but very distinctly, "you do risk all your happiness on a future so uncertain. When I look forward to a few years, I am afraid—not for myself, but for you. If I could give you my eyes, I would lead you to some one of your friends and bid you admire her, and teach you what a charming character she has, and ask you to pledge her to go with you all through the time that is to come. As for me—I am not sure of myself. Why did they call me Coquette? When I do think of all that you risk in giving your happiness to me to keep for a great many years—I—I—I despair!"

But the Whaup was not to be cast down by these idle forebodings.

"Why, Coquette," said he, "you are become as morbid as Lord Earlshope, and you talk nonsense besides, which he never does. You want me to believe that anybody else, in this room or any other room, is to be compared with you. That is not giving me new eyes—it is blinding me with a pair of spectacles. And I won't have your eyes, Coquette—pretty as they are—but yourself, eyes included. Why, what a small idiot you must be to imagine that the world holds more than one Coquette!"

His companion smiled—perhaps rather sadly.

"It is a great change from your first belief of me—when you did think me dangerous and wicked. But perhaps they do still think that of me in Airlie. What would Leesiebess's husband answer to those pretty things you say of me—and are you so sure that all the people there are wrong, and you are right?"

Sure that Coquette was not a wicked and dangerous person?—the Whaup had not a word to say.

CHAPTER XL.

THE ROSEBUD.

When the ladies had gone from the room, and the men had settled down to port-wine and after-dinner talk, the Whaup sat by himself, silent and gloomy. A glass of claret remained on the table before him untasted. He stared at it as if it were some distant object; and the hum of the voices around him sounded like the murmur of the wind, as he had listened to it at night up on Airlie moor.

What did Coquette mean? Why did she put away into the future, as if it were something to be dreaded, the happy time which ought to have been welcomed by a young girl? As the Whaup puzzled over these things, he asked himself what hindered his going to her now, in the royal fashion of Lochinvar, and marrying her out-of-hand before she had time to say no?

Alas! Lochinvar belonged to the upper classes. He could support the bride whom he stole away in that romantic manner; and his merry black eye, in bewitching the girl, and making her ready to ride with him over the Border, was not troubled by any consideration as to how the two should be able to live. The Whaup looked up the table. There were rich men there. There were men there who could confidently place fabulous figures on cheques; and yet they did not seem to know what a magic power they possessed. They only talked feeble platitudes about foreign affairs; and paid further attention to that god which, enshrined in the capacious temple underneath their waistbelt, they had worshipped for many years. Had they ever been young? the Whaup asked himself. Had they known some fair creature who resembled, in some inferior fashion, Coquette? Was there at that remote period anybody in the world, in the likeness of Coquette, on whom their wealth could shower little delicate attentions? Had they been able to marry when they chose? Or were they poor in their youth—when alone money is of value to any one—only to become rich in their old age, and think with a sigh of the Coquette of long ago, and console themselves with much feeding and the imposing prominence of a portly stomach?

Dr. Menzies, it is true, had vaguely promised that, when his studies were completed, the Whaup should become his assistant, or even his junior partner. But how far away seemed that dim prospect! And why should Coquette—a princess on whom all the world ought to have been proud to wait—be bound down by such ignominious conditions and chances? The Whaup plunged his hands deep into his empty pockets, and stared all the more moodily at his glass.

Then suddenly there was a sound of a piano—a bright, sharp prelude which he seemed to know. Presently, too, he heard as through muffled curtains the distant voice of Coquette; and what was this she was singing? Why, that brisk old ballad of his own that she had heard him sing in his lodgings. Where had she got it? How had she learnt it? The Whaup started to his feet—all the gloom gone from his face. He stole out of the room—in the hubbub of vinous political fervour he was scarcely noticed—and made his way to the drawing-room door. This was what he heard—

Come lasses and lads, get leave of your dads,
    And away to the maypole hie,
For every fair has a sweetheart there,
    And the fiddlers standing by!
        For Willy shall dance with Jane,
        And Johnny has got his Joan,
To trip it, trip it, trip it, &c.

Coquette, then, was in no melancholy mood? Why, what an ass he had been, to grow dismal when there still remained to him the proud possession of that promise of hers! That was his own song she was singing brightly and merrily, and with strange oddities of pronunciation. She herself belonged to him in a manner—and who was there that would not envy him? When the song was finished, the Whaup went into the room, walked up to the piano, sat down by Coquette, and told her that he knew nobody among the men, and had been forced to come in there.

"And where did you get that song, Coquette?" he asked.

"Monsieur!" observed Coquette, "you do talk as if you had the right to be here—which you have not. Do you not see that your friends, the doctor's young ladies, did laugh when you came in and walked over to me!"

"Where should I go, Coquette?"

"I will tell you," she answered in a low voice, as she pretended to turn over the music. "When at the dinner, I did see the youngest of the three young ladies look much at you. I have spoken to her since we came here. She is charming—and oh! very good, and speaks kindly of you, and with a little blush, which is very pretty on your Scotch young ladies. And when I asked her if she knows this song, she did laugh and blush a little again—you have been singing it to her——"

"Oh, Coquette!" he said. "What a sly mouse you are—for all your innocent eyes—to be watching everybody like that."

"But now you go to her, and sit down there, and make yourself very agreeable. You do not know how much she is a friend of yours."

The Whaup began to lose his temper.

"I won't be goaded into speaking to anybody," said he; "and the first thing you have to do, Miss Coquette, to-morrow morning, is to come to a distinct understanding about all the nonsense you have been talking at dinner. What is it all about, Coquette? Are you proud? Then I will coax you and flatter you. Are you frightened? Then I will laugh at you. Are you unreasonable? Then—then, by Jingo, I'll run away with you!"

Coquette laughed lightly; and the Whaup became aware that several pairs of eyes had been drawn towards them.

"This place is getting too hot for me," he said. "Must I really go back?"

"No," she said; "you will stop and sing—something bright, joyful, happy—and you will forget the melancholy things we have been talking about. Have I been unkind to you? You will see I will make it up, and you shall not sit gloomy again at dinner. Besides, it does not improve your good looks: you should be more of the wild boy that I saw when I did first come to Airlie."

"I wish we were both back at Airlie, in those old times!" said the Whaup.

Coquette looked at him with some surprise. She had caught quite a new tone of sadness in his voice, and his eyes had grown absent and clouded.

So he, too, was striving to pierce that unknown future, and seemed bewildered by its vagueness and its gloom? The seriousness of life appeared to have told on him strangely since he left the quiet moorland village. What had wrought the change within the brief space of time that had elapsed since her arrival from France? Was she the cause of it all?—she, who was willing to sacrifice her own life without a murmur for the happiness of those whom she loved? Already, the first months of her stay at Airlie—despite the petty persecutions and little trials she had to endure—had become an idyllic period towards which she looked back with eyes filled with infinite longing.

All that evening she was the prominent figure in Lady Drum's drawing-room. When the men came in from their port wine and politics, they found that Coquette had established herself as a sort of princess, and they only swelled the number of those who formed her court. But upon two, only, of those present did she bestow a marked favour; and these were the Whaup and the youngest of Dr. Menzies' daughters. She so managed that the three of them were generally close together, engaged in all manner of private confabulation. The fair-haired young girl had approached with a certain diffidence and awe this queenly small woman, whom everybody seemed to be talking about; but Coquette had only to smile, and begin to speak a little in her foreign way, in order to win over the soft-hearted young Scotch girl. These three appeared, indeed, to form a group in the nebulous crowd of people who chatted, or drank tea, or listened to the music; and before the evening was over Coquette had conveyed to Miss Menzies—by that species of esoteric telegraphy known to women—a series of impressions which certainly neither had remotely mentioned.

"Coquette," said the Whaup, when all the people had gone but himself, and as he was bidding her good-night, "why did you try to make Mary Menzies believe that she and I were much greater companions, and all that sort of thing, than you and I? You always talked as if you were the third person talking to us two."

"It is too late for questions," said Coquette, with a mingled air of sauciness and gentleness. "You must go away now, and do not forget you go with me to the theatre to-morrow evening—and if you do send me some flowers I will put them in my hair."

"I wish you would give me one just now," he said, rather shyly.

She took a pale-tinted tea-rose out of her bosom and kissed it lightly (for Sir Peter was just then coming along the hall), and gave it him. The rose was a great consolation to the Whaup on his homeward way. And were not the constant stars overhead—shining so calmly, and clearly, and happily, that they seemed to rebuke his anxious forebodings?

"She is as pure as a star," he said to himself, "and as beautiful—and as far away. The years she talks of seem to stretch on and on; and I cannot see the end of them. The stars up there are far nearer to me than Coquette is."

Yet he held the rose in his hand, and she had kissed it.