Coquette's stay in Glasgow did not promise well for the Whaup's studies. On the very morning after she had given him a rose to cheer him on his homeward walk, he was again up at Lady Drum's house. He looked very blank, however, on being shown into a room, to find that venerable lady the sole occupant; and he saw by the shrewd and good-natured smile on her face that she perceived his disappointment.
"Yes, she is out," said Lady Drum. "Is that the question ye would ask?"
"Well, it is, to tell you the truth," said the Whaup.
"Could ye expect her to bide in the house on a morning like this? If there is a glint o' sunshine to be seen anywhere she is off and out like a butterfly before we have breakfast over."
"Young ladies ought not to go out alone like that," said the Whaup, who had suddenly acquired serious and even gloomy notions of propriety.
His elderly friend took him to the window. Before them lay the long terraces of the Park, the deep valley, the trees, the river, and the opposite heights, all dully radiant in a pallid and smoky sunshine. And on the terrace underneath the window there was a bench; and on the bench sat, all by herself, a young person, whose downcast face, bent over a book, was hidden underneath a white sunshade; and there was nothing at all by which to distinguish the stranger but her faintly yellow morning dress, that shone palely in the sun. Yet you should have seen how swiftly the Whaup's face cleared. In about thirty seconds he had taken an unceremonious farewell of Lady Drum, and hastened down into the Park.
"You must not come to see me every day," said Coquette; "you do give up all your work."
"But look here, Coquette," he remarked, gravely, "isn't it the proper thing to pay a visit of ceremony after a dinner-party?"
"At ten o'clock in the morning?" she said, with a smile; "four o'clock is the time for such calls, and it is not to me you pay them."
He made no reply; but he drew away the book from her lap, and quietly shut it and put it in his pocket. Then he said—
"We are going to have a stroll through the Botanic Gardens."
So she surrendered herself—her only protest being a well-simulated sigh, at which he laughed—and away they went. Glasgow College, and all its class rooms, might have been in the Philippine Islands for anything that the Whaup remembered of them.
Many and many a time during this long and devious saunter, which took them a good deal farther than the Botanic Gardens, the Whaup—yielding to that strange dissatisfaction with their present happiness which distinguishes lovers and fills the most beatific period of human life with trouble—would drag back their rambling talk to the reasons Coquette had for being apprehensive of the future. Why was she disinclined to speak of a possible limit to the number of years he had yet to wait? why did she almost pathetically counsel him to fix his affections on some one else?
Coquette replied gravely, and sometimes a little sadly, to these questions; but she had not the courage to reveal to him the whole truth. There was something so touching in the very trust that he reposed in her—in the frank and generous way that he appealed to her, and took it for granted that she would become his wife—that, in the meantime, she dared not tell him that her heart still wandered away to another man. He did not know that his protestations of love sounded coldly in her ears; and only suggested what they would have been had they been uttered by another. He thought it strange that she was glad to avoid those little confessions and wondering hopes which are the common talk of lovers; and would far rather have him speak to her about his professional future, or even the details of his college life.
For herself, she seemed to think it enough if her cousin were pleased to walk with her; and some day, she doubted not, she would yield to his urgent wishes and become his wife. By that time, was it not likely that the strange unrest in her heart, that vague longing for the presence of one whose name she scarcely ever mentioned, would have died utterly away? And in the remote possibility of her giving herself to her cousin, was it not her duty now to try to eradicate that hapless love which had far more of pain than of pleasure in it? While the Whaup was eagerly sketching out the life which he and she should live together, Coquette was trying to make up her mind never again to see Lord Earlshope.
But it was a hard trial. A woman may marry this man or that man—her affections may shift and alter—but she never forgets the man she loved with all the wonder, and idealism, and devotion of a girl's early love. Coquette asked herself whether she could ever forget Airlie, and the stolen interviews of those spring mornings, and the pathetic farewells that the sea, and the sky, and the shining landscape alone knew.
"Dreaming again," said the Whaup, gently. "I suppose you don't know that that is a river you are looking at?"
They were standing on the small wooden bridge that crosses the Kelvin; and she was gazing into the water as if it were a mirror on which all the future years were reflected.
"Does this river go to the sea?" she asked.
"Most rivers do," replied the Whaup—proud, like a man, of his superior scientific knowledge.
"And perhaps in a day or two it will see Arran."
"Why, you speak as if you were already anxious to leave Glasgow and go back," said the Whaup. "What amusement can there be for you there? My father is buried in that Concordance. Lady Drum is here. Earlshope is deserted—by the way, I wonder what has become of Lord Earlshope."
"Let us go," said Coquette, hastily; and she took her arm off the wooden parapet of the bridge, and went on. The Whaup did not perceive that his mention of Lord Earlshope's name had struck a jarring note.
So they walked leisurely in to Glasgow again; and all the way Coquette skilfully avoided conversation about the matters which were naturally uppermost in her companion's mind. Indeed, a discovery which she made greatly helped her out of the dilemma, and enlivened the remainder of their ramble. She inadvertently slipped into French in making some remark; and the Whaup quickly replied to her in the same tongue. She was surprised and delighted beyond measure. She had no idea of his having studied hard since he left Airlie to extend the small acquaintance with the language which he had picked up as a boy. She saw well what had urged him to do so; and she was pleased by this occult compliment. She insisted on their talking nothing but French all the way home; and the Whaup—with occasional stammering, laughing, and blushing—managed to sustain the conversation with tolerable ease and fluency. She corrected his idioms—very gently, it is true; and also hinted that he might, if he liked, adopt the familiar tutoiement which ought to exist between cousins.
"But I can't," said the Whaup. "My conversation books have taught me to say vous; and so, until I learn, you must call me tu, and I will call you anything that comes uppermost."
This, and all that followed, was spoken in rough-and-ready French, the grammar of which was a good deal better than its pronunciation; and the care which the Whaup had to bestow on his language lent an unromantic and matter-of-fact character to the subjects of their talk, to Coquette's great relief.
When they had reached the house she said—
"You must come in and make an apology to Lady Drum for your inattention. Then you will have a little lunch. Then you will go home and attend to your studies until the evening. Then you will come here and go with us to the theatre; and you may bring a bouquet for Lady Drum, if you choose."
"Any more commands, Coquette?" he said. "What, nothing more? How many lines of Greek must I do if I am disobedient?"
"You must not be rude to me," she remarked, "because that is a trace of your bringing-up at Airlie, which you have nearly forgotten. It is a relic of your savage nature. You are much improved; you are almost civilised."
"Yes," said the Whaup, "I saw a cart of turnips go by yesterday quite unprotected from behind, and I did not steal one..... Hillo! who is that sitting with Lady Drum at the window?"
Coquette looked up, and did not betray the least emotion, although a sharp spasm shot across her heart.
"It is Lord Earlshope, is it not?" she said, in a low voice.
"Yes," said the Whaup, with a sudden coldness in his tone, and returning at once to his English; "it is rather singular he should come here just now, but that is his own affair. No one ever could tell what he would do next. Coquette, I don't think I shall go into the house just now—you make my excuses to Lady Drum."
"Very well," said Coquette, calmly.
She held out her hand to bid him good-bye. He was surprised. He expected she would have insisted on his going into the house; and, on the contrary, she seemed rather relieved that he was going away.
"What is the matter, Coquette?" he asked. "Are you vexed because I am going away? Very well—I will go in—come along."
And with that, he went up the steps; but he could not tell by her face whether or not she had been annoyed by his wishing to go. They entered the house together. Lord Earlshope rose as they went into the room, and stepped forward to meet Coquette; and the Whaup watched the manner in which she advanced to shake hands with him. Why were her eyes cast down, and her face a trifle pale? She answered in almost an inaudible way the kindly inquiries which Lord Earlshope—whose demeanour was quite unconstrained, frank, and courteous—made as to her having enjoyed her visit to Glasgow. The Whaup himself, in shaking hands with his rival, was constrained to admit that there was something pleasant and friendly in Earlshope's manner, and in the look of his clear light-blue eye, which rather disarmed suspicion. In a very few minutes the Whaup had completely thawed, and was laughing heartily at a letter sent by Mr. Gillespie, the schoolmaster, which Lord Earlshope read aloud to Lady Drum.
Nevertheless, as he went to his lodgings he was considerably disquieted. He did not like leaving Lord Earlshope in the company of Coquette. It seemed to him an infringement of that right of property which he had acquired by her promise. In the old days he was vaguely jealous, and was inclined to be rudely suspicious of Coquette's small prevarications; but his jealousy and his rudeness were readily dissipated whenever he came under the influence of Earlshope's good nature, or of Coquette's gentle solicitude. Now he had a still better claim to look after her. Had he not sworn in the olden time to take care of her, and be her champion? Alas! the Whaup had yet to learn that a woman is best left to take care of herself in such delicate matters; and that no guard can be placed on the capricious wanderings of her affection.
Lord Earlshope and Lady Drum had been carelessly chatting at the window when the Whaup and Coquette drew near. They saw them walking up the slopes of the Park to the house, and Earlshope said—
"What a handsome fellow Tom Cassilis has grown! I have never seen any young fellow alter so rapidly."
"Has he not?" said Lady Drum, with a little touch of pride—for she fancied that both these young people somehow belonged to her. "I should like to see them married."
It is possible that this artless confession on the part of the old lady was put out as a feeler. She liked Tom Cassilis well enough; but, being mortal and a woman, she must have wondered sometimes whether Coquette might not wed a lord—especially a lord who had frequently betrayed his admiration for her. But, when she said this, Earlshope betrayed no surprise. He merely said—
"They will make a handsome pair; and many a man will envy young Cassilis his good fortune."
Lady Drum was a trifle disappointed. Was there no mystery at all, then, connected with those romantic episodes in the Highlands? Lord Earlshope talked of her protégée as if she were merely some ordinary country girl who was about to marry and become the mistress of a household; whereas all the men she had heard talk of Coquette spoke of her as something rare and wonderful. Lady Drum was almost sorry that she had asked him to join them at the theatre that evening; but she reflected that, if Lord Earlshope were so indifferent, the peaceful progress of the two cousins towards marriage was rendered all the more secure. She only thought that Coquette would have made a beautiful and charming hostess to preside over the hospitalities of Earlshope.
"Ho, ho!" said Lady Drum, when Coquette came down to dinner dressed for the theatre. "We hae made our toilette something just quite extraordinary. Mr. Thomas is a fortunate lad to hae so much done for him."
"I do not dress for him, or for any one," said Coquette, with an air of calm magnificence.
This going to the theatre was quite an excitement for Coquette, who had not visited any such place of amusement since she left France. Lady Drum warned her not to say anything about it in her letters to Airlie, or the chances were that the Minister would order her recall from Glasgow at once.
"And my cousin," said Coquette, "has he never been to any theatre?"
"That is more than I can say," remarked Lady Drum, with a smile.
When at length they drove down to the big building, and went up the broad staircase, and got into the corridor, there was an odour of escaped gas and a confused sound of music which quite delighted Coquette—it was so like the odour and the sound prevalent in the theatres she had visited long ago in France. And when they got into the box, which was the biggest in the theatre, they found the Whaup already there, with two bouquets awaiting Lady Drum and Coquette. Lady Drum, naturally taking the place of honour, was perhaps a little glad to screen herself in her corner by the curtains; but Coquette, with the calm air of a princess, and with her brilliant toilette getting a new splendour from the gleaming lights of the house, took her seat, and lifted her bouquet, and made the Whaup a pretty speech of thanks which filled his heart with pleasure; then she turned her attention to the stage.
"Shall I ever be able," said the Whaup to himself, as he looked wistfully at her, "to give her pretty dresses like that, and buy her pearls for her neck and her hair, and take her to all the amusements?"
The young gentleman was rather proud; and would not even acknowledge to himself that Coquette could buy pearls for herself and pay for far more amusements than she cared to see.
The performances need not be described in detail. They consisted, in the first place, of a romantic drama of the good old kind, in which a lot of very pronounced characters—whose virtues and vices they took every opportunity of revealing to the audience—did impossible things in impossible places and talked a language unfamiliar to any nation at present inhabiting the earth. This piece was to be followed by a burlesque, for which Sir Peter professed himself to be impatient.
"For," said he, "there is in every burlesque a young lady with a saucy face and pretty ankles, with whom you can fall in love for an hour or two with impunity. And I am anxious for her appearance; because Miss Coquette has quite deserted me, and I am left out in the cold."
The truth is, Coquette had discovered in her cousin a quite astonishing familiarity with this theatre. He was acquainted with all its arrangements, and seemed to know the name of everybody in connection with it. Now, how had he gained this knowledge?
"Oh, I do see that the life of the students is not all study," Coquette remarked, with a gracious sarcasm; "you do sometimes find them singing 'Come lasses and lads,' and they do waste time with tobacco and laughing, and even know a good deal about the actresses of the theatre. Why was none of that in your letters to Airlie?"
"Well, I'll tell you the truth, Coquette," said the Whaup, with a laugh and a blush that became his handsome face well, "I dared not tell anybody at Airlie I went to the theatre; nor do I think I should have gone in any case but for a notion I had that, somehow or other, you must like the theatre. You never told me that, you know, but I guessed it from—from—from—"
"From my manner, or my talk? You do think me like an actress, then?"
"No, it is not that at all," said the Whaup. "You are too sincere and simple in your ways. But somehow I thought that, with your having been brought up in the south, and accustomed to a southern liking for enjoyment and artistic things, and with your sympathy for fine colours, and for music, and all that—why, I thought, Coquette, you would be sure to like the theatre; and so, do you know, I used to come here very often—not here, of course, but away up there to that dark gallery—and I used to sit and think what the theatre would be like when Coquette came to see it."
He spoke quite shyly; for, indeed, he half fancied she might laugh at those romantic dreamings of his when he was far away from her in the big city; but when he ventured to steal a glance at her face, lo! the soft dark eyes were quite moist. And she pretended to look down into the circle of flowers he had given her, and said in a low voice—
"You have been thinking of me very much when I was down in Airlie, and you here by yourself. I do not deserve it—but I will show my gratitude to you some day."
"Why, Coquette," he said, "you need not thank me for it. Only to think of you was a pleasure to me—the only pleasure I had all that long winter time."
Had Lady Drum heard the whispered little sentences which passed between these two young folks, she might, perhaps, have thought that they expressed more genuine emotion than the bursts of rhetoric in which, on the stage, the lucky lover was declaring his passion for the plump and middle-aged heroine. But they took care she should hear nothing of it.
Presently in came Lord Earlshope with his crush-hat under his arm; and he, also, had brought two bouquets. The Whaup noticed, with a passing twinge of mortification, that these were far finer and more delicate flowers than he had been able to buy, and he expected to see his own poor gifts immediately laid aside. But he did not know Coquette. She thanked Lord Earlshope very graciously for the flowers, and said how fortunate it was he had brought them.
"For I always do like to throw a bouquet to the actress after her long evening's work, yet I was becoming sorry to give her the flowers that my cousin did bring me. But you have brought one for her, too, if I may give it to her?"
"Why, of course," said Earlshope, who probably did not put such value on a handful of flowers as did the Whaup: "and when you wish to give it her, let me pitch it on the stage, or you will probably hit one of the men in the orchestra."
"But you must keep them for the young lady of the burlesque," said Sir Peter; "she is always better-looking than the heroine of the drama, isn't she, isn't she? Then you have a greater opportunity of judging."
"Why?" said Lady Drum, with a look of such severity as effectually to prevent her husband answering—instead, he turned away and gaily hummed something about
"Ecoutez la leçon
Qui vous fait Henriette."
But there was another woman in the theatre who had attracted their attention before Lord Earlshope had arrived. She was seated in the corner of the box opposite; and, as a rule, was hidden behind the curtain. When they did get a glimpse of her, her manner and appearance were so singular as to attract a good deal of attention. She was of middle height, stout, with rather a florid face, coal-black hair, and a wild, uncertain look, which was seldom fixed on any object for two minutes together. Oddly enough, she stared over at Coquette in rather a peculiar way; until that young lady studiously kept her eyes on the stage, and did not again glance towards the opposite box.
"Singular-looking woman, isn't she?" said Sir Peter. "Opium, eh? eh? Is that opium that makes her eyes so wild? She drinks, I swear, and seems mad with drink, eh? eh? What do you say, Cassilis?"
"I wish you would not talk of that person," said Lady Drum; and then the conversation dropped.
About a quarter of an hour after Lord Earlshope had come into the theatre, this woman apparently retired from her corner behind the curtain; then she walked forward from the back of the box to the front of it; and there stood at full length, looking over, with an odd expression of amusement on her face, at the group in front of Lady Drum's box. The movement was noticed by the whole theatre; and certainly it was noticed by Lord Earlshope; for, during one second, his eyes seemed to be fixed on this woman; and then, still regarding her, he retreated a step or two from the front of the box, with his face becoming deadly white.
"What is the matter?" said Lady Drum, anxiously—for he had been speaking to her—"you have become very pale—are you ill?"
"Lady Drum, I wish to speak with you privately for a moment," he said, quite calmly, but with a singular constraint of manner that somewhat alarmed her.
She rose at once, and followed him into the corridor outside. There he stood, apparently quite composed and yet still very pale.
"Would you mind taking Miss Cassilis home at once?" he said.
"Take her home! Why?"
"I cannot tell you why," he said, with some show of anxiety and impatience. "I cannot tell you why; but I wish, Lady Drum, you would. I beg you—I entreat you to take her away instantly!"
"But why?" said the old lady, who was at once perplexed and alarmed.
"You saw that woman opposite," said Lord Earlshope, rather abandoning the calmness of his demeanour. "She will come round here presently—I know she will—she will go into the box—she will insult Miss Cassilis: for Heaven's sake, Lady Drum, get her out of the way of that woman!"
"Bless me!" said Lady Drum, elevating her eyebrows, "are we a' to be frightened out o' our wits by a mad woman, and three men wi' us? And if there was no one wi' us," she added, drawing herself up, "I am not afraid of the girl being insulted if she is under my care; and what for should any woman, mad as she may be, fasten upon us? My certes! I will see that she does not come near the girl, or my name is not Margaret Ainslie!"
For a moment or two Lord Earlshope stood irresolute, with mortification and dismay plainly evident on his pale features; then he said, suddenly—
"I must tell you at once, Lady Drum. I have many a time determined to do so—but put it off until now—when I can be silent no longer. That woman in the theatre just now, a woman soddened and mad with brandy—is my wife—at least, she was my wife some years ago. Goodness knows, I have no reason to be afraid of her but one—it is for the sake of Miss Cassilis I beg of you, Lady Drum—to take her away—out of her reach—she is a woman of outrageous passions—a scene in a public place will have all the excitement of a new sort of drunkenness for her——"
To all these incoherent ejaculations, Lady Drum only replied—
"Your wife!"
"This is not a time to blame me for anything," he said, hurriedly. "I cannot give you any explanations just now. You don't know why I should have concealed my marriage with this horrible woman—but you will not blame me when you hear. All I want is to secure Miss Cassilis' safety."
"That," said Lady Drum, with firmness, "is secure enough in my keeping. You need not be afraid, Lord Earlshope—she is quite secure where she is."
"You mean to keep her in the theatre?"
"Most certainly."
"Then I will go. If I leave, that woman's mood may change; but I see from her laughing to herself that she means mischief. I cannot charge my own wife at the police-court."
He left the theatre there and then. Lady Drum returned to the box, and made some sort of apology for his departure. But she did not see much of what was going on upon the stage; for her thoughts were busy with many strange things that she now recollected as having been connected with Lord Earlshope; and sometimes she turned from Coquette's face to glance at the box opposite. Coquette was thoroughly enjoying the piece; the woman in the opposite box remained hidden, and was apparently alone.
Lady Drum began to grow afraid. Should she send Coquette at once back to Airlie? Her first impulse, on hearing the disclosures made by Lord Earlshope at the theatre, was one of indignation and anger against himself, for having, as she thought, unnecessarily acted a lie during so many years, and deceived his friends. She now understood all the strange references he had often made to married life—the half-concealed and bitter irony of his talk—his nervous susceptibility on certain points—his frequent appearance of weariness and hopelessness, as of a man to whom life was no longer of any value. She was amazed at the morbid sense of shame which rendered this man so anxious to avoid the confession of his having made a desperate blunder in his youth. Why had he gone about under false colours? Why had he imposed on his friends? Why had he spoken to Coquette?
This thought of Coquette flashed upon Lady Drum as a revelation. She knew now why the disclosure of Earlshope's marriage had made her angry; and she at once did him the justice of remembering that, so far as she knew, he had made no pretensions to be the lover of Coquette. That had been Lady Drum's secret hope: he could not be blamed for it.
But at the same time there was something about the relations between Earlshope and Coquette which she did not understand; and as she felt herself peculiarly responsible for that young lady, she began to ask herself if she had not better make all things safe by sending Coquette home to her uncle. Lady Drum sat in the corner of her morning-room, and looked down from the window on the Park. Coquette was out there as usual—for there was sunshine abroad, which she loved as a drunkard loves drink—and she was leisurely reading a book under the shadow of her sunshade. How quiet and happy she looked—buried away from all consciousness of the world around her in that other world of romance that lay unfolded on her knee! Lady Drum had got to love the girl with a mother's tenderness; and as she now looked down on her she wondered what precautions could be taken to render the fair young life inviolate from wrong and suffering, if that were possible.
First of all, she wrote a note to Lord Earlshope, and sent it down to his hotel, asking him to call on her immediately. She wished to have further explanations before saying anything to Sir Peter, or, indeed, to any one of the little circle that had been formed at Airlie. At the moment she was writing this letter, Earlshope himself was walking quickly up to the place where Coquette sat.
"Ah, it is you! I do wish much to see you for a few moments," she said, with something of gladness in her face.
He did not reply; but sat down beside her, his lips firm, and his brow clouded. She did not notice this alteration from his ordinary demeanour; but immediately proceeded to say, in rather a low voice, and with her eyes grown serious and even anxious—
"I have much to say to you. I have been thinking over all our position with each other, and I am going to ask you for a favour. First of all, I will tell you a secret."
Why did she look constrained, and even agitated? he asked himself. Had she already heard from Lady Drum? Her fingers were working nervously with the book before her; her breath seemed to go and come more quickly; and her voice was almost inaudible.
"This is what I must tell you," she said, with her eyes fixed on the ground. "I have promised to my cousin to be his wife. I did tell you I should do that, and now it is done, and he is glad. I am not glad, perhaps—not now—but afterwards it may be different. And so, as I am to be his wife, I do not think it is right I should see you any more; and I will ask you to go away now altogether, and when we do meet, here or in Airlie, it will be the same with us as strangers. You will do this for my sake—will you not? It is much to ask; I shall be more sorry than you, perhaps; but how can I see you if I am to marry him?"
"And so we are to be strangers, Coquette," he said, quite calmly. "It is all over, then. We have had some pleasant dreaming; but the daylight has come, and the work of the world. When we meet each other, as you say, it will be as strangers—strangers as on the first morning I saw you at Airlie, driving up the road in the sunlight, when I was glad to know that you were going to remain at the Manse. All that happened down at Airlie is to be forgotten; and you and I are just like two people passing each other in the street, and not expecting, perhaps, even to meet again. Yet there are some things which neither you nor I shall ever forget."
"Ah, I know that—I know that!" said Coquette, almost wildly. "Do not speak of all that now. Sometimes I do think I cannot do as my cousin wishes—I become afraid—I cannot speak to him—I begin to tremble when I think of all the long years to come. Alas! I have sometimes wondered whether I shall live till then."
"Coquette, what do you mean?" he said. "Have you resolved to make your life miserable? Is this how you look forward to marriage, which ought to be the proudest event in a woman's life, and the seal of all the happiness to come after? What have you done, Coquette?"
"I have done what I ought to do," she said, "and it is only at moments that I do fear of it. My cousin is very good; he is very fond of me; he will break his heart if I do not marry him. And I do like him very well, too. Perhaps, in some years, I shall have forgotten a great deal of all that is past now, and shall have come to be very fond of him, too; and it will be a pleasure to me to become his wife. You must not be sorry for me. You must not think it is a sacrifice, or anything like that. When I am afraid now—when I am sad too, so that I wish I could go away to France, and not see any more of this country—it is only when I do think of Airlie, and of—of—"
She never finished the sentence, because her lips were beginning to quiver. And for a moment, too, his look had grown absent, as if he were calling up memories of the days of their meetings on the moor—meetings which were but recent, and yet which now seemed buried far away in the forlorn mists of the past. All at once he appeared to rouse himself, and said, with some abruptness—
"Coquette, you do not blame me for being unable to help you in your distress. I am going to tell you why I cannot. I am going to tell you what will render it unnecessary for me to promise not to see you again; for you will hate the sight of me, and consider me not fit to be spoken to by any honest man or woman. Many and many a time have I determined to tell you; and yet it seemed so hard that I should make you my enemy—that you should go away only with contempt for me——"
She interrupted him quickly, and with some alarm on her face.
"Ah, I know," she said. "You will tell me something you have done—why? What is the use of that now? I do not wish to hear it. I wish to think of you always as I think now; and when I look back at our last meeting in Glasgow—you sitting there, I here, and bidding good-bye to all that time which began down at Airlie, I shall have pleasure of it, even if I cry about it. Why do you tell me this thing? What is the use? Is it wise to do it? I have seen you often about to tell me a secret. I have seen you disturbed and anxious; and sometimes I have wondered, too, and wished to know. But then, I did think there was enough trouble in the world without adding this; and I hoped you would remain to me always as you were then—when I did first begin to know you."
"Why, Coquette," he said, with a strange, half-tender look of admiration, "your generosity shames me all the more, and shows me what a horribly selfish wretch I have been. You don't half seem to know how good you are."
His voice dropped a little here, as there was some one coming along the road. Lord Earlshope and Coquette both sat silent, and did not look up, expecting the stranger to pass.
But the stranger did not pass. On the contrary, she came nearer, as if to sit down on the same seat with them, and so Earlshope turned round to see who she was. No sooner had he done so than he started to his feet with an oath, and confronted the woman who stood before him. Coquette, alarmed beyond measure, saw that the stranger was the singular-looking person, with the coarse and red face, and the unsteady black eyes, who had sat opposite her in the theatre the previous evening, and who now regarded both herself and Lord Earlshope with a glance full of malicious amusement in it. He, on the other hand, had his face white with rage, and indeed, had advanced a step or two as if to thrust her back from Coquette; but now he stood with apparent self-control, his hands clenched.
"You had better go home," he said, still facing the stranger. "I give you fair warning you had better go home."
"Why," said the woman, with a loud laugh, "you have not said as much to me for six years back! You might give me a pleasanter welcome. My dear," she added, looking to Coquette, "I am sorry to have disturbed you; but do you know who I am? I am Lady Earlshope. You are not surprised? Perhaps you don't understand? Indeed, I saw you were a foreigner by your dress last evening. The women in this country don't know how to dress; do they? What are you—Italian or French?"
Coquette had risen to her feet, and stood quite still—a trifle pale, perhaps, but not visibly terrified. The woman advanced a step or two; Lord Earlshope caught her by the wrist. Her air of bantering merriment changed in a moment, and a glow of passion sprang to the hot, powerful-looking face, and the sullen black eyes. She wrenched away her hand with an angry vehemence, and let loose all the venom of her tongue.
"Have you no shame, woman, that you make an exhibition of yourself in the open day?" he said. "Are you determined to give me the honour of appearing in a police-court against you?"
With that she burst out into another laugh, the harshness and unreality of which sounded strangely in Coquette's ears.
"It is not the first time I have been in a police-court. Did you hear of my horse-whipping that old Duke in the streets of Madrid? Yes, I thought you must have heard the story. Come, Harry, let's be friends! I will leave you with the little Italian. I have my carriage at the gate there—there is brandy in it—shall we celebrate the charming conjugal scene we have just gone through? No!"
She shrugged her shoulders, and laughed in a vacuous way; it was apparent she required no more brandy.
"Good-bye, then, for the present. This little conversation with you, Harry, has been quite delightful—reminding one of old days—but don't you lay hands on me again, or, by heavens, you will be a dead man the next moment. Addio, addio! And for you, you pretty little signorina, with the black eyes and the dumb mouth, quando avrò il piacere di rivederla? What, you don't speak Italian either? Never mind. I shall see both of you again, I hope."
She walked back along the road to the gate of the park, where an open carriage was waiting. A servant opened the door for her. She stepped up and took her seat, and drove off alone, laughing and kissing her hands in a tipsy fashion to the pair she had just left.
"Coquette," said Earlshope, "that is my wife."
He was watching every line of her face, with an anxious sadness, to gather what her first impulse would be. And yet he felt that in uttering these words he had for ever disgraced himself in her eyes, and deserved only to be thrust away from her with horror and shame. Indeed he waited to hear her own lips pronounce his condemnation and decree his banishment.
Coquette came a step nearer and looked him in the face, and held out her hand, and said—
"I know it all now, and am very sorry for you."
"But don't you remember what I have done, Coquette?" he said, with wonder in his look. "I am not fit to take your hand. But if you would only listen to me for a moment—that is all I ask. Will you sit down, Coquette? I cannot excuse myself, but I want to tell you something."
"You have had a sad life," said Coquette, calmly. "I do now know the reason of many things, and I cannot be angry. It is no use to be angry now, when we are going away from each other."
"You see that woman," he said, sinking down on the seat with an expression of the most utter and hopeless despair. "I married her when I was a lad fresh from college. I met her in Paris—I was travelling—she, too, was going about with her father, who called himself an officer; I followed her from town to town; and in three months I was married. Married!—chained to a wild beast rather. When I got to know the hideous habits of the woman to whom I was indissolubly linked, suicide was my first thought. What other refuge had I from a state of things that was worse than anything death could bring to me? The law cannot step in between her and me. Brutal and debased as she is, she has far too good a notion of the advantages of a tolerable income to risk it by doing anything on which I could claim a divorce. Ignorant and passionate she is; but she is not a fool in money matters; and so there was nothing for it but to buy up her absence by paying any price for it. I discovered what sort of woman she was before we ever returned to England; and when I came back here, I came alone. I dreaded the exposure of the blunder I had committed, partly on my own account, but chiefly on account of the disgrace I had brought on my family. How could I introduce this drunken and insolent woman to my friends, and have them insulted by her open defiances of decency? Year after year I lived down there at Earlshope—hearing only of her wild escapades from a distance. I exacted from her, as a condition of giving her more than the half of my income, a promise to drop my name; and perhaps you may have heard of the notorious Mrs. Smith Arnold, with whom the London magistrates are familiar. That is the woman you have just seen. These stories came to me down at Earlshope, until I dared scarcely open a newspaper; and I grew to hate the very sight of woman, as being related to the devil who had ruined my life. And then you came to Airlie."
He paused for a moment. She had never before seen him so moved.
"I looked in your pure and young face, and I thought the world seemed to grow more wholesome and sweet. I began to believe that there were tender and true-hearted women in the world; and sometimes I thought what I might have been, too, but for that irremediable blunder. Fancy some sinner in hell, who is tortured by remorse over the sins and lost opportunities of his life, and there comes to him a bunch of pale violets, sweet with the fragrant memories of his youth, when the world was innocent and fair to him, and when he believed in the girl who was walking with him, and in the heaven over his head——"
"Ah, do not talk like that!" she said. "It is more terrible than all you have told me."
"You do not know the condition into which I had sunk. To you I was a mere easy-tempered idler, who strolled about the country and amused himself indolently. To myself I was a sepulchre, filled with the dead bones and dust of buried hopes and beliefs. What had I to live for? When I went about and saw other men enjoying the comfort of happy domestic relations—men who had a home, and a constant companion and confidante to share their holiday journeys or their quiet summer evenings—my own solitude and wretchedness were all the more forcibly thrust on me. I shut myself up in that house at Airlie. It was enough if the hours went by—enough that I was left alone. Goodness knows, I did not complain much or seek to revenge myself on society for my own mistake. If my blunder, according to the existing state of the law, demanded so much punishment, I was willing to suffer it. During these solitary days, I used to study myself as if there were another being beside me, and watch how the last remnants of belief in anything were being gradually worn away, bit by bit, by the irritation of this sense of wrong. If you had known me as I really was when you first saw me, you would have shrank away in fear. Do you remember the morning I got up on the dog-cart to talk to you?"
"Yes," said Coquette, in a low voice.
"For a few moments I forgot myself. When I left you at the Manse, I discovered to my intense astonishment that I was quite cheerful—that the world seemed ever so much brighter, and that Airlie moor looked well in the sunlight. Then I thought of your coming in among those gloomy Cameronians, and whether your light and happy southern nature, which I saw even then, would conquer the prejudice and suspicion around you. It was a problem that interested me deeply. When I got to know you a little you used to tell me inadvertently, how things were going on at the Manse, and I saw that the fight would be a hard one, but that you would win in the end. First of all, you took your cousin captive—that was natural. Then the Minister. Then you won over Leezibeth. There remains only Andrew now; for I think you would secure a large majority in a plébiscite of the villagers. As for myself, that I can scarcely talk about just yet. It seemed so harmless a thing at first for me to see you—to have the comfort even of looking at you from a distance as you sat in the little church—or to pass you on the road, with a look and a smile. There was a new life in Airlie. Sometimes I thought bitterly of what might have been but for the error which had ruined me; but that thought disappeared in the actual enjoyment of your presence. Then I began to play with the danger that would have been more obvious to another man, but which I laughed at. For was it possible that I could fall in love, like a schoolboy, and sigh and write verses? I began to make experiments with myself. You know the rest, Coquette; but you do not know the remorse that struck me when I found that my thoughtlessness had prepared a great misery for you."
"It was no misery," she said, simply; "it was a pleasure to me; and if it was wrong, which I do not know, it comes to an end now. And you—I am not angry with you; for your life has not been a happy one—and you did not know until we were up in the Highlands that it mattered to me—and then you went away——"
"Coquette," he said, "I won't have you make excuses for me. I can make none for myself. When I look at you, and think of what I ought to have done when you came to Airlie—I should have told you there and then, and guarded against every possibility—I feel that I am an outcast. But who would have thought it possible?" he added, with his eyes grown distant and sombre. "I do not know how it has all come about; but you and I are sitting together here for the last time; and we are going different ways—whither, who can tell?"
With that Coquette rose—no trace of emotion visible on the calm face.
"Good-bye," she said. "I will hear of you sometimes through Lady Drum."
"Good-bye, Coquette," he said, taking her hand. And then a strange expression came over his face, and he added suddenly, "It is madness and wickedness to say it, but I will say it. Coquette, you will never forget that there is a man in the world who loves you better than his own life—who will venture everything that remains to him in this world and the next to do you the tiniest service. Will you remember that—always? Good-bye, Coquette—God bless you for your gentleness, and your sweetness, and your forgiveness!"
She turned from him, and walked away, and went up the steps towards the house, all by herself. As she passed through the hall, Lady Drum met her, and asked her a question. The girl replied, quite calmly, though rather in a low voice, and passed on. Lady Drum was struck with the expression of her face, which was singularly colourless and immobile; and she looked after her as she went up the stairs. Was there not something unsteady in her gait? The old lady followed her, and went to the door of her room, and listened. A great fear smote her heart, for within there was a sound of wild weeping and sobbing; and when she straightway opened the door, and hurried into the room, she found Coquette sitting by the bedside, her face and hands buried in the clothes, and her slight frame trembling and convulsed with the passion of her grief.
"What is it, Coquette? What is it, Coquette?" she cried, in great alarm.
And she sat down by the girl, and drew her towards her bosom, as she would have done with her own child, and hid her face there. And then Coquette told her story.
Sir Peter was standing at the window, aimlessly whistling, when his wife came in so hurriedly that he at once turned to see what was the matter. Indeed, she advanced upon him with such an air that he rather drew back, and certainly stopped his whistling.
"Are you a man?" she said, with wrath in her voice.
"I hope so," said Sir Peter, innocently.
"Then you know what you have to do. You have to go at once to Lord Earlshope—I have scarcely the patience to name him—and tell him what every honest man and woman thinks of him—what it is he deserves for conduct unworthy of an African savage——"
"Good heavens!" cried Sir Peter, "Do you want me to commit murder, or what? I am not Macbeth, and I won't be goaded into murdering anybody—"
It was Coquette who interposed. She had followed into the room immediately after Lady Drum, and she now came up.
"It is all a mistake, Sir Peter," she said, with perfect self-command. "I did tell Lady Drum something—she did not wait to hear it all. Lord Earlshope has done nothing to be blamed—it is a misapprehension—a mistake."
"Why, Lord Earlshope is a married man!" said Lady Drum, hotly.
"That may be a crime, my dear," said Sir Peter, mildly; "but it is one that brings with it its own punishment."
"Lady Drum," said Coquette, in an imploring voice, "I do wish you to come away. I will explain it all to you. Indeed, have I not the right to say you shall not tell any one what I have told you?"
"Certainly," said Sir Peter. "Who wants to betray a young lady's secrets? Take her away, my dear child, and pacify her: I am afraid to meddle with her."
Lady Drum stood irresolute. On the one side was the beseeching of Coquette, on the other was the feather-brained husband, who apparently would not interest himself in anything but his lunch and his dinner. Yet the brave old Scotchwoman had a glow of indignation burning in her cheeks, over the wrong which she deemed to have been committed towards the girl intrusted to her charge. Coquette put her hand on her arm, and gently led her away from the room.
"That's right," said Sir Peter to them, as he turned to his drumming on the window-panes, "keep your secrets to yourselves—they are dangerous property to lend. I don't want to hear any mysteries. I am for an easy life."
But Lady Drum was in no such careless mood; and very piteously Coquette had to beg of her not to make an exposure of the matter. Indeed, the girl besought her so earnestly that Lady Drum was driven into warm language to defend herself, and at last she used the word "infamous." Then Coquette rose up, quite pale and proud, and said—
"I am sorry you think that, Lady Drum. Why? Because I must go from your house. If he is infamous, I am infamous too, for I do not think he has done any wrong."
"Not done wrong!" cried the old lady. "Not done wrong! A married man who trifles wi' the affections of a young girl!"
"He did not do so," said Coquette, calmly. "It was a misfortune that happened to us both—that is all. You do not know the pain and misery it has caused him; nor his other troubles; nor how we had determined not to see each other again. Ah, you do not understand it at all, if you think he is to blame. He is very miserable, that is what I know—that is enough for me to know; and if he has done wrong, I have too; and yet, Lady Drum, if my mamma were here, I would go down on my knees before her, and I would tell her all about it from the first day at Airlie, and I do know she would not be angry with me for what I have done——"
Coquette turned away her head. Lady Drum went to her and drew her nearer to her, and hid her head in her arms.
"You are very unfortunate, my poor girl—for you are fond of him yet, are you not?"
"Oh, Lady Drum!" she cried wildly, bursting into tears, "I do love him better than everything in the world—and I cannot help it—and now he is gone, I shall never see him again, neither here nor at Airlie, for he will not go back to Airlie—and all I wish now is that I might be dead, and not wake up morning after morning to think of him far away——"
"Hush, child!" said the old woman, gravely. "You do not know what these wild words mean. You must teach yourself not to think of him. It is a sin to think of him."
"But if I cannot help it," sobbed the girl; "if it always comes back to me—all that happened at Airlie—and when we were sailing in the summer time—how can I help thinking of him, Lady Drum? It is hard enough if I do not see him—and I would like to see him only once, to say that I am sorry for him—and that, whatever people may say, I know, and I will remember, that he was a good man—and very gentle to me—and very kind to all people, as you know, Lady Drum——"
"You must think less of him, and more of yourself, my girl," said the old lady, kissing her tenderly. "It is a misfortune that has fallen ower ye, as you say; but you are young yet, with plenty o' life and spirits in ye, and ye must determine to cure yourself o' an infatuation which is dangerous beyond speaking or thinking. Coquette, what for do ye look like that? Are ye in a trance? Bestir yourself, my lassie—listen, listen, there is your cousin come, and he is talking to Sir Peter in the hall."
"My cousin?"
"Yes."
Coquette shuddered, and turned away her head.
"I cannot see him. Tell him, Lady Drum, I go back to Airlie to-morrow; and I will see him when he comes in the autumn—perhaps."
"Why do you say 'perhaps' like that, Coquette?"
"The autumn is a long way off, is it not? Perhaps he will not be able to see me; but I shall be at Airlie then; and perhaps I shall know that he has come into the churchyard to look for me."
It was a wild night at Airlie. The sea could be heard breaking with tremendous force all along the shore; and the wind that blew about the moor brought with it occasional heavy showers of rain. Occasionally, too, there were rifts in the clouds; and a white gleam of moonlight would shine out and down on the dark landscape. The villagers kept themselves snug and warm indoors; and were thankful they were not out at sea on such a night.
Earlshope was more sheltered; but if the house itself was not much shaken by the storm, its inmates could hear the moaning of the wind through the trees in the park, and the howling of the gusts that tore through the fir-woods beyond the moor. The male servants had gone away on some errand or another to Greenock; and as the women-folk did not like to be left quite alone, the Pensioner had consented to come up from Airlie and sleep in the house that night. But first of all, of course, there was a general supper in the housekeeper's room; and then the Pensioner and the housekeeper and the two girls began to tell stories of old things that had happened in the neighbourhood. By-and-by that duty almost entirely devolved upon the Pensioner, who was known to be skilled in legends; and as he had also brought with him his fiddle, he set himself down generally to entertain the company, fortifying himself from time to time with a tumbler of whisky-toddy, which the housekeeper carefully replenished.
Somehow or other, as the night wore on, his stories and his music assumed a more and more uncanny and mystic tinge. Perhaps the howling of the wind in the chimneys, or the more distant sound of its wailing through the big trees in the park, lent an air of melancholy to the old ballads and legends he recited; but, at all events, the small circle of listeners grew almost silent, and sat as if spellbound. He no longer played "There grows a bonnie brier bush in our kailyard," but sang to them, in a quavering and yet plaintive voice, the story of Ellen of Strathcoe, who was rowed away over the lake when the moon was shining and the breeze blowing lightly, but who never reached the shore. And then the old man came nearer to his own time, and told them of the awful stories of second-sight that he had heard when a boy, over among the Cowal hills—of warnings coming at the dead of the night—of voices heard in churchyards—of visions seen by persons in their own houses, as they sat alone in the evening. The girls listened partly to him, and partly to the wind without. The great house seemed to be even more empty than usual; and the creaking of a door or the shaking of a window could be heard in distant rooms. Earlshope was a lonely place at that time of night—so far away from all houses, and so near to the wild moor.
"But there is no story about Earlshope," said one of the girls.
She spoke in a quite timid voice; as if she were listening to the sounds without.
"Wass you never told, then, o' sa auld man that lived here by himsel', and would ride about sa country at night, and drink by himsel' in such a faishion as no man leevin' would pelieve?"
They did not answer him: they only looked—their eyes grown apprehensive.
"It wass an auld Lord Earlshope, as I hef peen told, and he wass a wild man for sa drink; and no one in all sa country side would go near him. Sa bairns would flee from him as he came riding down sa road, and he would ride at them, and frichten them, and gallop on wi' shrieks o' laughin', just as if he wass sa teffle himsel'. And he would ride about sa country at nicht, and knock at folk's doors or windows wi' his stick, and cry in till them, and then ride on again, wi' fearfu' laughin' and singin', just as if he wass possessed. And sare wass a girl in Airlie—a bonnie young lass she wass, as I hef peen told, and he did sweer on a Bible wis sa most dreadfu' sweerin', he would carry her some nicht to Earlshope, or else set sa house on fire over herself and her folk. And sa lass—she was so frichtened she would never go outside sa house; and it wass said she wass to go to Greenock or to Glasgow into service—if sare was service then, for it wass a long time ago."
The Pensioner here bethought him of his toddy, and turned to his glass. During that brief pause there was a dead silence—only some laurel bushes rustled outside in the wind. The Pensioner cleared his throat and resumed his tale.
"And Lord Earlshope, as I hef peen told, did hear sat she would go away from Airlie, and he was in a great rage, and swore sat he would burn sa whole place down, and her too, and all her folk. But one day it wass known to him sat her parents would be over in Saltcoats; and he had men sare, and sa men got hold of sa lassie's folk, and clapped them into a big boat, and took sem out to sea. And sa young lass waited all sa afternoon, and sey did not come home; nor yet at nicht, and she was all by herself, for she wass afraid to go out and speer at sa neighbours. And then, as I hef peen told, he went to sa house at sa dead o' nicht, and pulled sa lassie out, and took her on sa horse, and rode over wi' her to Earlshope—her screamin', him laughin' and sweerin', as wass his ordinar'. And so wild wass he wis sa drink, sat he ordered all sa servants out o' sa house, and sey listened frae the outside to sa awful noises in sa rooms—him ragin' and sweerin', and laughin', jist like sa teffle. And then, as I hef peen told, a licht was seen—and it grew and it grew—and flames wass in all sa windows—and sare was a roarin', and a noise, and a burnin'—and when the mornin' wass come, Earlshope wass burned down to sa ground, and nothing could be seen o' sa young lass or sa auld man either."
The Pensioner took another pull at the tumbler. It was getting more and more late.
"And this, as I hef peen told, is a new Earlshope; but sa auld man hass never gone away from sa place. He is still about here in sa night-time. I do not know he hass been seen; but many's and many's sa time he wass heard to laugh in among the trees in the park, and you will hear sometimes the sound of sa horse's feet not far from sa house. Trop, trop!—trop, trop!—sat is it—licht, licht—and you will not know whesser it is close by, or far away, only you will hear sa laughin' close by, as if it wass at your ear."
Suddenly at this moment a string of the Pensioner's fiddle snapped with a loud bang, and there was a simultaneous shriek from the women. In the strange pause that followed, when they all listened with a beating heart, it seemed to them that at some distance outside there was a measured beat on the soft earth, exactly like the sound of a horse riding up to Earlshope. A minute or two more and the suspicion became a certainty.
"Listen!" said one of the girls, instinctively seizing hold of her neighbour's arm. The wind was still moaning through the trees, but none the less the footfalls of the horse became more and more distinct, and were obviously drawing near to the house.
"Mercy on us!" exclaimed the housekeeper, with a scared face. "Wha can it be at this time o' nicht?"
"It is coming nearer," said another.
"Jeannie!" cried the third, in a frenzy of desperation, "dinna haud me by the airm—a body canna listen!"
The measured sounds grew nearer, until they ceased, apparently, at the very door. Then there was the sharp clink of the bell-handle on the stone, and far away in a hollow corridor a bell jangled hideously. The housekeeper uttered a cry and started to her feet.
"Gude forgi'e me, but there's no a Bible near at hand!" she exclaimed in an agony of trepidation. "Mr. Lamont, Mr. Lamont, what is to be done? This is fearfu'—this is awfu'! Jeannie, what for do ye no open the door?"
"Open the door?" said the girl, faintly, with her eyes starting out of her head.
"Ay, open the door!" said the housekeeper savagely. "Isn't it your business?"
"But—but—but—" stammered the girl, with her teeth chattering, "n—no to open the door to the deevil!"
"I will open sa door!" said the Pensioner, calmly.
When he rose and went into the dark hall the women followed close at his heels, all clinging to each other. Another vigorous pull at the bell had nearly brought them to their knees; but Neil Lamont, groping his way to the door, began to fumble about for the bolts, using much florid and unnecessary Gaelic all the while. At last the bolts were withdrawn, and the door opened. On the threshold stood the dusky figure of a man; beyond him the horse from which he had dismounted, and which he held by the bridle. The women shrank back in affright—one of them uttering a piercing scream. The Pensioner stood for a moment irresolute, and then he advanced a step, and said, with a fine assumption of courage—
"Who sa teffle are you, and what for you will come to disturb a quiet house? What is it sat you want?"
"Confound you, send somebody to take my horse!" was the sharp reply he met with from the mysterious stranger. "What's the matter? Is there no one about the place but a pack of frightened women?"
"It is his lordship himsel'!" cried Neil. "Eh, wha did expect to see you sa nicht?"
"Come and take my horse, you fool!"
"Sat I will; but it is no use calling names," answered Neil, while the women began to breathe.
The Pensioner got the keys of the stable, and led off the horse, while Lord Earlshope entered the hall, called for lights, and began to rub the rain out of his eyes and hair. The whole house was presently in a scurry to have his lordship's wants attended to; but there was considerable delay, for none of the women would go singly on the shortest errand. When, after some time, Neil returned from feeding and grooming the horse in a rough-and-ready fashion, he infused some little courage into the household; and at length the turmoil caused by the unexpected arrival subsided somewhat. Finally, Lord Earlshope called the housekeeper into his study and said to her—
"I shall leave early to-morrow morning. There have been no visitors at Earlshope recently?"
"No, your lordship."
"It is very likely that a woman—a Mrs. Smith Arnold she calls herself—will come here to-morrow and ask to be shown over the place. You will on no account allow her to come into the house,—you understand?"
"But wha can come here the morn?" said the housekeeper; "it's the Sabbath."
"This person may drive here. In any case, you will allow no stranger to come into the place."
"I wish the men folk were coming back afore Monday," said the housekeeper, who was still a trifle perturbed by the Pensioner's stories.
"Cannot three of you keep one woman from coming into the house? You can lock the doors—you need not even talk to her."
Having received her instructions, the housekeeper left; and Lord Earlshope went to a writing-desk, and addressed an envelope to a firm of solicitors in London. The words he then hurriedly wrote and enclosed in the envelope were merely these—"Withhold payment to Mrs. Smith Arnold, if demanded. The stipulations have not been observed. I will call on you in a few days.—Earlshope."
It was close on midnight when he entered the house; and shortly after daybreak next morning he had again set out, telling no one of his intentions. The servants, accustomed to his abrupt comings and goings, were not surprised; but none of them forgot the manner in which Lord Earlshope had ridden up at midnight in the fashion of his notorious ancestor. As for the housekeeper, she was more consequential than ever, having been intrusted with a secret.