A daughter of Heth

By William Black

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Title: A daughter of Heth

Author: William Black

Release date: January 20, 2026 [eBook #77747]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Harper and Brothers, 1892

Credits: Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DAUGHTER OF HETH ***





  A DAUGHTER OF HETH

  BY

  WILLIAM BLACK



"If Jacob take a wife of the daughters of Heth, such as these which
are of the daughters of the land, what good shall my life do me?"



  _NEW AND REVISED EDITION_



  NEW YORK: HARPER AND BROTHERS
  1892




  LONDON:
  PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED;
  STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.




_PREFATORY NOTE._

_I have long wished to place before the public an edition of these
novels of mine which should have at least the mechanical merit of
uniformity.  Also I had in contemplation, especially with regard to
the earlier volumes, a large measure of re-shaping and re-writing; so
that books composed amid stress and turmoil might gain something from
the comparative leisure of later years.  But this wider project I
found impracticable.  For one thing, it would have taken a few
lifetimes to accomplish; then again, it was just possible that a
certain freshness and rudeness of touch might have been ill replaced
by a nicer precision.  Nevertheless in many minor ways these pages
have now been thoroughly revised; verbal and other inaccuracies have
been corrected; crooked places have been made straight; conversations
condensed; while a considerable number of those little playfulnesses
which the printer somehow mysteriously manages, when one is not
watching, to introduce into the text, have been removed.  It only
remains for me, in submitting this new series to the reading public,
to express my deep sense of gratitude for the constant favour and
kindness I have already and for so long a time experienced at their
hands._

_W. B._

_London, January, 1892._




  CONTENTS.

  CHAP.

  I.--Coquette's Arrival
  II.--Coquette's Religion
  III.--A Penitent
  IV.--An unexpected Visitor
  V.--Coquette's Music
  VI.--Earlshope
  VII.--The Crucifix
  VIII.--Saltcoats
  IX.--Coquette's Promise
  X.--The Schoolmaster
  XI.--A Meeting on the Moor
  XII.--Coquette's Conquests
  XIII.--A Horoscope
  XIV.--Sir Peter and Lady Drum
  XV.--A dangerous Adventure
  XVI.--Coquette leaves Airlie
  XVII.--Lochfyne
  XVIII.--Coquette sails to the North
  XIX.--Coquette discourses
  XX.--Letters from Airlie
  XXI.--Coquette is troubled
  XXII.--On the Seashore
  XXIII.--Coquette begins to fear
  XXIV.--Touching certain Problems
  XXV.--Coquette's Presentiments
  XXVI.--Confession at last
  XXVII.--Loin de France
  XXVIII.--After many Days
  XXIV.--Coquette's Dreams
  XXX.--On the Way
  XXXI.--An awful Visitor
  XXXII.--In the Springtime
  XXXIII.--Over the Moor
  XXXIV.--Lord Earlshope's Cave
  XXXV.--The Nemesis of Love
  XXXVI.--The Last Day At Airlie
  XXXVII.--Coquette in Town
  XXXVIII.--All about Kelvin-side
  XXXIX.--Lady Drum's Dinner-party
  XL.--The Rosebud
  XLI.--The Whaup becomes anxious
  XLII.--At the Theatre
  XLIII.--Coquette is told
  XLIV.--Coquette's Forebodings
  XLV.--A Legend of Earlshope
  XLVI.--The Minister's Publisher
  XLVII.--An Apparition
  XLVIII.--Earlshope is Invaded
  XLIX.--Coquette's Song
  L.--Coquette forsakes her Friends
  LI.--A Secret of the Sea
  LII.--Consent
  LIII.--The Pale Bride
  LIV.--Husband and Wife
  LV.--The Churchyard on the Moor




A DAUGHTER OF HETH



CHAPTER I.

COQUETTE'S ARRIVAL.

The tide of battle had flowed onward from the village to the Manse.
The retreating party, consisting of the Minister's five sons, were
driven back by force of numbers, contesting every inch of the ground.
Hope had deserted them; and there now remained to them but the one
chance--to reach the fortress of the Manse in safety, and seek the
shelter of its great stone wall.

The enemy numbered over a dozen; and the clangour and clamour of the
pursuit waxed stronger as they pressed on the small and compact body
of five.  The weapons on both sides were stones picked up from the
moorland road; and the terrible aim of the Whaup--the eldest of the
Minister's boys--had disfigured more than one mother's son of the
turbulent crowd that pursued.  He alone--a long-legged Herculean lad
of eighteen--kept in front of his retreating brothers, facing the foe
boldly, and directing his swift, successive discharges with a deadly
accuracy of curve upon the noses of the foremost.  But his valour was
of no avail.  All seemed over.  Their courage began to partake of the
recklessness of despair.  Nature seemed to sympathise with this
disastrous fate; and to the excited eyes of the fugitives it appeared
that the sun was overcast--that the moor around was blacker and more
silent than ever--and that the far stretch of the sea, with the
gloomy hills of Arran, had grown dark as if with a coming storm.
Thus does the human mind confer an anthropomorphic sentiment on all
things, animate and inanimate: a profound observation which occurred
to Mr. Gillespie, the Schoolmaster, who, being on one occasion in the
town of Ayr, when horse-racing or some such godless diversion was
going forward, and having, in a very small and crowded hostelry,
meekly enquired for some boiled eggs, was thus indignantly
remonstrated with by the young woman in charge: "Losh bless me!  Do
ye think the hens can remember to lay eggs in all this bustle and
hurry!"

Finally, the retreating party turned and ran--ignominiously,
pell-mell--until they had gained the high stone wall surrounding the
Manse.  They darted into the garden, slammed the door to, and
barricaded it; the Whaup sending up a peal of defiant laughter that
made the solemn echoes of the old-fashioned house ring again.
Outside this shriek of joy was taken as a challenge; and the party on
the other side of the wall returned a roar of mingled mockery and
anger which was not pleasant to hear.  It meant a blockade and
bombardment; with perhaps a fierce assault when the patience of the
besiegers should give way.  But the Whaup was not of a kind to
indulge in indolent security when his enemies were murmuring hard by.
In an incredibly short space of time he and his brothers had wheeled
up to the wall a couple of empty barrels, and across these was
hurriedly thrown a broad plank.  The Whaup filled his hands with the
gravel of the garden walk, and jumped up on the board.  The instant
that his head appeared above the wall, there was a yell of
execration.  He had just time to discharge his two handfuls of gravel
upon the besiegers, when a shower of stones was directed at him, and
he ducked his head.

"This is famous!" he cried.  "This is grand!  It beats Josephus!
Mair gravel, Jock--mair gravel, Jock!"

Now, in the Manse of Airlie, there was an edition of Josephus' works,
in several volumes, which was the only profane reading allowed to the
boys on Sunday.  Consequently it was much studied--especially the
plates of it; and one of these plates represented the siege of
Jerusalem, with the Romans being killed by stones thrown from the
wall.  No sooner, therefore, had the Whaup mounted on the empty
barrels, than his brothers recognised the position.  They were called
upon to engage in a species of warfare familiar to them.  They formed
themselves into line, and handed up to the Whaup successive supplies
of stones and gravel, with a precision they could not have exceeded
had they actually served in one of the legions of Titus.

The Whaup, however, dared not discharge his ammunition with
regularity.  He had to descend to feints; for he was in a most
perilous position, and might at any moment have had his head rendered
amorphous.  He therefore from time to time showed his hand over the
wall; the expected volley of stones followed; and then he sprang up
to return the compliment with all his might.  Howls of rage greeted
each of his efforts; and, indeed, the turmoil rose to an
extraordinary pitch.  The besiegers were furious.  They were in an
open position, while their foe was well intrenched; and no man can
get a handful of gravel pitched into his face, and also preserve his
temper.  Revenge was out of the question.  The sagacious Whaup never
appeared when they expected him; and when he did appear, it was an
instantaneous up and down, giving them no chance at all of doing him
an injury.  They raved and stormed; and the more bitterly they
shouted names at him, and the more fiercely they heaped insults upon
him, the more joyously he laughed.  The noise, without and within,
was appalling; never, in the memory of man, had such an uproar
resounded around the quiet Manse of Airlie.

Suddenly there was a scared silence within the walls, and a rapid
disappearance of the younger of the besieged.

"Oh, Tam, here's faither!" cried one.

But Tam--elsewhere named the Whaup--was too excited to hear.  He was
shouting and laughing, hurling gravel and stones at his enemies,
when----

When a tall, stern-faced, gray-haired man, who wore a rusty black
coat and a white neckcloth, and who bore in his hand, ominously, a
horsewhip, walked firmly and sedately across the garden.  The hero of
the day was still on the barrels, taunting his foes, and helping
himself to the store of ammunition which his colleagues had piled
upon the plank.

"Who's lang-leggit now?  Where are the Minister's chickens now?  Why
dinna you go and wash your noses in the burn?"

The next moment the Whaup uttered what can only be described as a
squeal.  He had not been expecting an attack from the rear; and there
was fright as well as pain in the yell which followed the startling
cut across the legs which brought him down.  In fact, the lithe curl
of the whip round his calves was at once a mystery and a horror; and
he tumbled rather than jumped from the plank, only to find himself
confronted by his father, whose threatening eye and terrible voice
soon explained the mystery.

"How daur ye, sir," exclaimed Mr. Cassilis, "how daur ye, sir,
transform my house into a Bedlam!  For shame, sir, that your years
have brought ye no more sense than to caper wi' a lot of schoolboys.
Have ye no more respect for yourself--have ye no more respect for the
college you have come home from--than to behave yourself like a
farm-callant, and make yourself the byword of the neighbourhood?  You
are worse than the youngest in the house----"

"I didn't know you were in the Manse," said the Whaup, wondering
whither his brothers had run.

"So much the worse--so much the worse," said the Minister, severely,
"that ye have no better guide to your conduct than the fear o' being
caught.  Why, sir, when I was your age, I was busier with my Greek
Testament than with flinging names at a wheen laddies!"

"It was mair than names, as ye might hae seen," remarked the Whaup,
confidently.

Indeed, he was incorrigible, and the Minister turned away.  His
eldest son had plenty of brains, plenty of courage, and an excellent
physique; but he could not be brought to acquire a sense of the
proper gravity or duties of manhood, nor yet could he be prevailed on
to lay aside the mischievous tricks of his youth.  He was the terror
of the parish.  It was hoped that a winter at Glasgow University
would tame down the Whaup; but he returned to Airlie worse than ever,
and formed his innocent brothers into a regular band of marauders, of
whom all honest people were afraid.  The long-legged daredevil of the
Manse, with his boldness, his cunning, and his agility, left neither
garden, nor farmyard, nor kitchen alone.  Worthy villagers were
tripped up by bits of invisible twine.  Mysterious knocks on the
window woke them at the dead of night.  When they were surprised that
the patience of their sitting hen did not meet with its usual reward,
they found that chalk eggs had been substituted for the natural ones.
Their cats came home with walnut-shells on their feet.  Stable doors
were unaccountably opened.  Furious bulls were found lassoed, so that
no man dare approach them.  The work of the Whaup was everywhere
evident--it was always the Whaup.  And then that young gentleman
would come quietly into the villagers' houses, and chat pleasantly
with them, and confide to them his great grief that his younger
brother, Wattie--notwithstanding that people thought him a quiet,
harmless, pious, and rather sneaking boy--was such a desperate hand
for mischief.  Some believed him; others reproached him for his
wickedness in blaming his own sins upon the only one of the
Minister's family who had an appearance of Christian humility and
grace.

When the Minister had gone into the house, the Whaup--in nowise
downcast by his recent misfortune, although he still was aware of an
odd sensation about the legs--mounted once more upon the barrels to
reconnoitre the enemy.  He had no wish to renew the fight; for
Saturday was his father's day for study and meditation; no stir or
sound was allowed in the place from morning till night; and
certainly, had the young gentlemen of the Manse known that their
father was indoors, they would have let the village boys rave outside
in safety.  Cool and confident as he was, the Whaup did not care to
bring his father out a second time; and so he got up on the
barricades merely for the sake of information.

The turmoil had evidently quieted down, partly through the
ignominious silence of the besieged, and partly through the
appearance of a new object of public attention.  The heads of the
dozen lads outside were now turned towards the village, whence there
was seen coming along the road the Minister's dog-cart, driven by his
ancient henchman, Andrew Bogue.  Beside the driver sat some fair
creature in fluttering white and yellow--an apparition that seldom
met the vision of the inhabitants of Airlie.  The Whaup knew that
this young lady was his cousin from France, who was now, being an
orphan, and having completed her education, coming to live at the
Manse.  But who was the gentleman behind, who sat with his arm flung
carelessly over the bar, while he smiled and chatted to the girl, who
had half turned round to listen to him?

"Why, it is Lord Earlshope," said the Whaup, with his handsome face
suddenly assuming a frown.  "What business has Earlshope to talk to
my cousin?"

Presently the gentleman let himself down from the dog-cart, took off
his hat to her who had been his companion, and turned and went along
the road again.  The dog-cart drove up to the door.  The Whaup,
daring his enemies to touch him, went out boldly, and proceeded to
welcome the new-comer to Airlie.

"I suppose you are my cousin," he said.

"I suppose I am," said the young girl, speaking with an accent so
markedly French that he looked at her in astonishment.  But then she,
in turn, regarded him for a moment with a pair of soft dark eyes, and
he forgot her accent.  He vaguely knew that she had smiled to him;
and that the effect of the smile was rather bewildering--as he
assisted her down from the dog-cart, and begged her to come in
through the garden.




CHAPTER II.

COQUETTE'S RELIGION.

The Whaup was convinced that he had never seen upon earth, nor yet in
his Sunday-morning dreams of what heaven might be like, any creature
half so beautiful, and bewitching, and graceful, as the young girl
who now walked beside him.  Yet he could not tell in what lay her
especial charm; for, regarding her with the eye of a critic, the
Whaup observed that she was full of defects.  Her face was pale and
French-looking; and, instead of the rosy bloom of a pretty country
lass, there was a tinge of southern sun over her complexion.  Then
her hair was in obvious disorder--some ragged ends of silky brown,
scattered over her forehead in Sir Peter Lely fashion, being
surmounted by a piece of yellow silk ribbon; while there were big
masses behind that only partially revealed a shapely neck.  Then her
eyes, though they were dark and expressive, had nothing of the keen
and merry look of your bouncing country belle.  Nor was there
anything majestic in her appearance; although, to be sure, she walked
with an ease and grace which gave even to an observer a sense of
suppleness and pleasure.  Certainly, it was not her voice which had
captivated him; for when he at first heard her absurd accent, he had
nearly burst out laughing.  Notwithstanding all which, when she
turned the pale, pretty, foreign face to him, and when she said, with
a smile that lit up the dark eyes and showed a glimpse of pearly
teeth--"It rains not always in your country, then?"--he remarked no
stiffness in her speech, but thought she spoke in music.  He could
scarcely answer her.  He had already succumbed to the spell of the
soft eyes and the winning voice that had earned for this young lady,
when she was but four years of age, the unfair name of Coquette.

"Do you know Lord Earlshope?" he said, abruptly.

She turned to him with a brief glance of surprise.  It seemed to him
that every alteration in her manner and every new position of her
figure--was an improvement.

"That gentleman who did come with us?  No; I do not know him."

"You were talking to him as if you did know him very well," said the
Whaup, sternly.  He was beginning to suspect this cousin of his of
being a deceitful young person.

"I had great pleasure of speaking to him.  He speaks French--he is
very agreeable."

"Look here," said the Whaup, with a sudden knitting his brow, "I
won't have you talk to Earlshope, if you live in this house.  Now,
mind!"

"What!" she cried, with a look of amused wonder, "I do think you are
jealous of me already.  You will make me--what is it called?
_vaniteuse_.  Is it not a lark!"

She smiled as she locked at her new cousin.  The Whaup began to
recall German legends of the devil appearing in the shape of a
beautiful woman.

"Ladies in this country don't use expressions like that," said he;
adding scornfully, "If that is a French custom, you'd better forget
it."

"Is it not right to say 'a lark?'" she asked, gravely.  "Papa used to
say that, and mamma and I got much of our English from him.  I will
not say it again, if you wish."

"Did you call it English?" said the Whaup, with some contempt.

At this moment the Minister came out from the door of the Manse, and
approached his niece.  She ran to him, took both his hands in hers,
and then suddenly, and somewhat to his discomfiture, kissed him;
while in the excitement of the moment she forgot to speak her broken
English, and showered upon him a series of pretty phrases and
questions in French.

"Dear me!" he observed, in a bewildered way.

"She is a witch," said the Whaup to himself, standing by, and
observing with an angry satisfaction that this incomprehensible
foreigner, no matter what she did or said, was momentarily growing
more graceful.  The charm of her appearance increased with every new
look of her face, with every new gesture of her head.  And when she
suddenly seemed to perceive that her uncle had not understood a word
of her tirade--and when, with a laugh and a blush, she threw out her
pretty hands in a dramatic way, and gave ever so slight a shrug with
her small shoulders--the picture of her confusion and embarrassment
was perfect.

"Oh, she is an actress--I hate actresses!" said the Whaup.

Meanwhile his cousin recovered herself and began to translate into
stiff and curious English (watching her pronunciation carefully) the
rapid French she had been pouring out.  But her uncle interrupted
her, and said--

"Come into the house first, my bairn, and we will have the story of
your journey afterwards.  Dear me, I began to think ye could speak
nothing but that unintelligible Babel o' a tongue."

So he led her into the house, the Whaup following; and Catherine
Cassilis, whom they had been taught by letter to call Coquette,
looked round upon her new home.

She was the only daughter of the Minister's only brother, a young man
who had left Scotland in his teens, and never returned.  He had been
such another as the Whaup in his youth, only that his outrages upon
the decorum of his native village had been of a somewhat more serious
kind.  His family were very glad when he went abroad; and when they
did subsequently hear of him they heard no good.  Indeed, a very
moderate amount of wildishness became something terrible when
rumoured through the quiet of Airlie; and the younger Cassilis was
looked on as the prodigal son, whom no one was anxious to see again.
At length the news came that he had married some foreign woman--and
this put a climax to his wickedness.  It is true that the captain of
a Greenock ship, having been at St. Nazaire, had there met Mr.
Cassilis, who had taken his countryman home to his house, some few
miles further along the banks of the Loire.  The captain carried to
Greenock, and to Airlie, the news that the Minister's brother was the
most fortunate of men.  The French lady he had married was of the
most gracious temperament, and had the sweetest looks.  She had
brought her husband a fine estate on the Loire, where he lived like a
foreign prince, not like the brother of a parish minister.  They had
a daughter--an elf, a fairy, with dark eyes and witching ways--who
lisped French with the greatest ease in the world.  Old Gavin
Cassilis, the Minister, heard, and was secretly rejoiced.  He
corresponded, in his grave and formal fashion, with his brother; but
he would not undertake a voyage to a country that had abandoned
itself to infidelity.  The Minister knew no France but the France of
the Revolution time; and so powerfully had he been impressed in his
youth by the stories of the worship of the Goddess of Reason, that,
while the ancient languages were as familiar to him as his own, while
he knew enough of Italian to read the Inferno, and had mastered oven
the technicalities of the German theologians, nothing would ever
induce him to study French.  It was a language abhorred--it had lent
itself to the most monstrous apostacy of recent times.

The mother and father of Coquette died within a few hours of each
other, cut off by a fever which was raging over the south of France;
and the girl, according to their wish, was sent to a school in the
neighbourhood, where she remained until she was eighteen.  She was
then transferred to the care of her only living relative--Mr. Gavin
Cassilis, the parish Minister of Airlie.  She had never seen anything
of Scotland or of her Scotch relations.  The life that awaited her
was quite unknown to her.  She had no dread of the possible
consequences of removing her thoroughly southern nature into the
chiller social atmosphere of the north.  So far, indeed, her journey
had been a pleasant one; and she saw nothing to make her apprehensive
of the future.  She had been met at the railway station by the
Minister's man, Andrew; but she had no opportunity of noticing his
more than gloomy temperament, or the scant civility he was inclined
to bestow on a foreign jade who was dressed so that all the men
turned and looked at her as though she had been a snare of Satan.
For they had scarcely left the station, and were making their way
upward to the higher country, when they overtook Lord Earlshope, who
was riding leisurely along.  Andrew--much as he contemned the young
nobleman, who had not the best of reputations in the
district--touched his cap, as in duty bound.  His lordship glanced
with a look of surprise and involuntary admiration at the young lady
who sat on the dog-cart; and then rode forward, and said--

"May I have the pleasure of introducing myself to Mr. Cassilis'
niece?  I hope I am not mistaken."

With a frankness which appalled Andrew--who considered this boldness
on the part of an unmarried woman to be indicative of the
licentiousness of French manners--the young lady replied; and in a
few minutes Lord Earlshope had succeeded in drawing her into a
pleasant conversation in her own tongue.  Nay, when they had reached
Earlshope, he insisted that Miss Cassilis should enter the gate and
drive through the park, which ran parallel with the road.  He himself
was forced to leave his horse with the lodge-keeper, the animal
having mysteriously become lame on ascending the hill; but, with a
careless apology and a laugh, the fair-haired young gentleman jumped
on to the dog-cart behind, and begged Andrew for a "lift" as far as
the Manse.

Andrew thought it was none of his business.  Had his companion been
an ordinarily sober and discreet young woman, he would not have
allowed her to talk so familiarly with this graceless young lord;
but, said the Minister's man to himself, they were well met.

"They jabbered away in their foreign lingo," said Andrew, that
evening, to his wife Leezibeth, the house-keeper, "and I'm thinking
it was siccah a language was talked in Sodom and Gomorrah.  And he
was a' smiles, and she was a' smiles; and they seemed to think nae
shame o' themselves, goin' through a decent country-side.  It's a
dispensation, Leezibeth; that's what it is--a dispensation--this
hussy coming amang us wi' her French silks and her satins, and her
deevlish license o' talkin' like a play-actor."

"Andrew, my man," said Leezibeth, with a touch of spite (for she had
become rather a partisan of the stranger), "she'll no be the only
lang tongue we hae in the parish.  And what ails ye at her talking,
if ye dinna understand it?  As for her silks and her satins, the
Queen on the throne couldna set them off better."

"Didna I tell ye!" said Andrew, eagerly, "the carnal eye is attracted
already.  She has cast her wiles owre ye, Leezibeth.  It's a
temptation."

"Will the body be quiet!" said Leezibeth, with rising anger.  "He's
fair out o' his wits to think that a woman come to my time o' life
should be thinking o' silks and satins for mysel'.  'Deed, Andrew,
there's no much fear o' my spending siller on finery, when ye never
see a bawbee without running for an auld stocking to hide it in!"

Oddly enough, Andrew was at first the only one of them who
apprehended any evil from the arrival of the young girl who had come
to pass her life among people very dissimilar from herself.  The
simplicity and frankness of her manner towards Lord Earlshope he
exaggerated into nothing short of license; and his "dour" imagination
had already perceived in her some strange resemblance to the Scarlet
Woman, the Mother of Abominations, who sat on the seven hills and
mocked at the saints.  Andrew was a morbid and morose man, of Seceder
descent; and he had inherited a tinge of the old Cameronian feeling,
not often met with now-a-days.  He felt it incumbent on him to be a
sort of living protest in the Manse against the temporising and
feeble condition of theological opinion he found there.  He looked
upon Mr. Cassilis as little else than a "Moderate;" and even made
bold, upon rare occasions, to confront the Minister himself.

"Andrew," said Mr. Cassilis one day, "you are a rebellious servant,
and one that would intemperately disturb the peace o' the Church."

"In nowise, Minister, in nowise," retorted Andrew, with firmness.
"But in maitters spiritual I will yield obedience to no man.  There
is but one King in Sion, sir, for a' that a dominant and Erastian
Estayblishment may say."

"Toots, toots," said the Minister, testily.  "Let the Establishment
alone, Andrew.  It does more good than harm, surely."

"Maybe, maybe," replied Andrew (with an uncomfortable feeling that
the Establishment had supplied him with the carnal advantages of a
good situation), "but I am not wan that would rub out the ancient
landmarks o' the faith which our fathers suffered for, and starved
for, and bled for.  The auld religion is dying out owre fast as it
is, but there is still a remnant o' Jacob among the Gentiles, and
they are not a' like Nicodemus, that was ashamed o' the truth that
was in him, and bided until the nicht."

It was well, therefore, that this fearless denouncer did not hear the
following conversation which took place between the Minister and his
niece.  The latter had been conducted by Leezibeth to see the rooms
prepared for her.  With these she was highly delighted.  A large
chamber, which had served as a dormitory for the boys, was now
transformed into a sitting-room for her, and the boys' beds had been
carried into a neighbouring hayloft, which had been cleared out for
the purpose.  In this sitting-room she found her piano, which had
been sent on some days before, and a number of other treasures from
her southern home.  There were two small square windows in the room;
and they looked down upon the garden, with its moss-grown wall, and,
beyond that, over a corner of Airlie moor, and, beyond that again,
towards the sloping and wooded country which stretched away to the
western coast.  A faint grey breadth of sea was visible there; and
the island of Arran, with its peaked mountains grown a pale,
transparent blue, lay along the horizon.

"Ye might hae left that music-box in France," said Leezibeth.  "It's
better fitted for there than here."

"I could not live without it," said Coquette, with a quiet smile.

"Then I'd advise ye no to open it the-day, which is a day o'
preparation for the solemn services o' the Sabbath.  The denner is on
the table, miss."

The young lady went down-stairs and took her place at the table, all
the boys staring at her with open mouth and eyes.  It was during her
talk with the Minister that she casually made a remark about "the
last time she had gone to mass."

Consternation sat upon every face.  Even the Minister looked shocked,
and asked her if she had been brought up a Roman.

"A Catholic?  Yes," said Coquette, simply, and yet looking strangely
at the faces of the boys.  They had never before had a Catholic come
among them unawares.

"I am deeply grieved and pained," said the Minister, gravely.  "I
knew not that my brother had been a pervert from the communion of our
Church----"

"Papa was not a Catholic," said Coquette.  "Mamma and I were.  But it
matters nothing.  I will go to your church--it is the same to me."

"But," said the Minister, in amazement and horror, "it is worse that
you should be so indifferent than that you should be a Catholic.
Have you never been instructed as to the all-importance of your
religious faith?"

"I do not know much--but I will learn, if you please," she said.  "I
have only tried to be kind to the people around me--that is all.  I
will learn if you will teach me.  I will be what you like."

"Her ignorance is lamentable," muttered the Minister to himself; and
the boys looked at her askance and with fear.  Perhaps she was a
secret friend and ally of the Pope himself.

But the Whaup, who had been inclined to show an independent contempt
for his new cousin, no sooner saw her get into trouble, than he
startled everybody by exclaiming, warmly--

"She has got the best part of all religions, if she does her best to
the people round about her."

"Thomas," said the Minister, severely, "you are not competent to
judge of these things."

But Coquette looked at the lad, and saw that his face was burning;
and she thanked him with her expressive eyes.  Another such glance
would have made the Whaup forswear his belief in the Gunpowder Plot;
and as it was, he began to cherish wild notions about Roman
Catholicism.  That was the first result of Coquette's arrival at
Airlie.




CHAPTER III.

A PENITENT.

When, on the Sunday morning, Coquette, having risen, dressed, and
come into her sitting-room, went forward to one of the small windows,
she uttered a cry of delight.  She had no idea that the surroundings
of her new home were so beautiful.  Outside the bright sunlight of
the morning fell on the Minister's garden and orchard--a somewhat
tangled mass, it is true, of flower beds and apple trees, with
patches of cabbage, pease, and other kitchen stuff filling up every
corner.  A white rose-tree nearly covered the wall of the Manse, and
hung its leaves and blooms round the two windows; and when she opened
one of these to let the fresh air rush in, there was a fragrance that
filled the room in a second.

But far beyond the precincts of the Manse stretched a great
landscape, so spacious, so varied, so graduated in hue and tone that
her eye ran over it with an ever-increasing delight and wonder.
First, the sea.  Just over the mountains of the distant island of
Arran--a spectral blue mass lying along the horizon--there was a
confusion of clouds that let the sunlight fall down on the plain of
water in misty, slanting lines.  The plain was dark, except where
those rays smote it sharp and clear, glimmering in silver: while a
black steamer, a mere speck, slowly crept across the lines of
blinding light.  Down in the south there was a small grey cloud, the
size of a man's hand, resting on the water; but she did not know that
that was the rock of Ailsa.  Then, nearer shore the blue sea fringed
with white ran into two long bays, bordered by a waste of ruddy sand;
and above the largest of these great bays she saw a thin line of dark
houses and gleaming slates, stretching from the old-world town of
Saltcoats up to its more modern suburb of Ardrossan, where a small
fleet of coasting vessels rocked in the harbour.  So near were these
houses to the water that, from where Coquette stood, they seemed a
black fringe of breastwork to the land; and the spire of Saltcoats
church, rising from above the slates, was sharply defined aginst the
wide and windy breidth of waves.

Then inland.  Her room looked south; and before her stretched the
fair and fertile valleys and hills of Ayrshire--undulating heights
and hollows, intersected by dark green lines of copse running down to
the sea.  The red flames of the Stevenston ironworks flickered in the
daylight: a mist of blue smoke hung over Irvine and Troon; and, had
her eyes known where to look, she might have caught the pale grey
glimmer of the houses of Ayr.  As the white clouds sailed across the
sky, azure shadows crept across the variegated landscape, momentarily
changing its many hues and colours; and while some dark wood would
suddenly deepen in gloom, lo! beside it, some hitherto unperceived
corn-field would as suddenly burst out in a gleam of yellow, burning
like gold.

So still it was on this quiet Sunday morning, that she could hear the
"click" of a grasshopper on the warm gravel outside, and the hum of a
passing bee as it buried itself in one of the white roses, and then
flew on.  Nay, as she continued gazing away towards the south, it
seemed to her that she could hear more.  Was not that the plashing of
the sea on the sunny coast of France?  Was not that the sound of
chanting in the small chapel at Le Croisic, out there the point of
land that runs into the sea above the estuary of the Loire.  Her
mental vision followed the line of coast running inward--passing the
quaint houses and the great building yards of St. Nazaire--and then,
as she followed the windings of the broad blue river, she came to her
own home, high up on the bank, overlooking the islands on the stream
and the lower land and green woods beyond.

"If I had a pair of wings," she said, with a laugh, "I would fly
ayvay."  She had determined she would always speak English now, even
to herself.

She went to her piano and sat down and began to sing the old and
simple air that she had sung when she left her southern home.  She
sang of "Normandie, ma Normandie;" and the sensitive thrill of a rich
and soft contralto voice lent a singular pathos to the air, although
she had gone to the piano chiefly from lightness of heart.  Now it
happened that the Whaup was passing the foot of the stair leading up
to her room.  At first he could not believe his ears that any one was
actually singing a profane song on the Sabbath morning; but no sooner
had he heard "O Normandie, ma Normandie!" than he flew up the stairs,
three steps at a bound, to stop such wickedness.

She did not sing loudly, but he thought he had never heard such
singing.  He paused for a moment at the top of the stair.  He
listened, and succumbed to the temptress.  The peculiar penetrating
timbre of the contralto voice pierced him and fixed him there, so
that he forgot all about his well-meant interference.  He listened
breathlessly, and with a certain amount of awe, as if it had been
vouchsafed to him to hear the chanting of angels.  He remembered no
more that it was sinful; and when the girl ceased, it seemed to him
there was a terrible void in the silence, which was almost misery.

Presently her fingers touched the keys again.  What was this now that
filled the air with a melody which had a strange distance and
unearthliness about it?  She had begun to play one of Mozart's
sonatas, and was playing it carelessly enough; but the Whaup had
never heard anything like it before.  It seemed to him to open with
the sad stateliness of a march, and he could almost hear in it the
tread of aerial hosts; then there was a suggestion of triumph and
joy, subsiding again into that plaintive and measured cadence.  It
was full of dreams and mystery to him; he knew no longer that he was
in a Scotch Manse.  But when the girl within the room broke into the
rapidity of the first variation, and was indeed provoked into giving
some attention to her playing, he was recalled to himself.  He had
been deluded by the devil.  He would no longer permit this thing to
go on unchecked.  And it is probable he would at once have opened the
door and charged her to desist, but from a sneaking hope that she
might play something more intelligible to him than these variations,
which he regarded as impudent and paganish--the original melody
playing hide-and-seek with you in a demoniac fashion, and laughing at
you from behind a corner, when you thought you had secured it.  He
was lingering in this uncertain way when Leezibeth dashed up the
stairs.  She saw him standing there, listening, and threw a glance of
contempt upon him.  She banged the door open, and advanced into the
room.

"Preserve us a', lassie, do ye think what ye're doing?  Do ye no ken
this is the Sabbath, and that you're in a respectable house?"

The girl turned round with more wonder than alarm in her face.

"Is it not right to play music on Sunday?"

"Sunday!  Sunday!" exclaimed Leezibeth, who was nearly choking,
partly from excitement and partly from having rushed upstairs; "your
heathenish gibberish accords weel wi' sic conduct!  There is nae
Sunday for us.  We are no worshippers o' Bel and the Draugon; and
dinna ye tell me that the dochter o' the minister's brither doesna
ken that it is naething less than heathenish to turn a sober and
respectable house into a Babel o' a theatre on a Sabbath morning----"

At this moment the Whaup made his appearance, with his eyes aflame.

"Plenty, plenty, Leezibeth!" said he, standing out in the middle of
the floor.

"Ma certes," said Leezibeth, turning on her new enemy, "and this is a
pretty pass!  Is there to be nae order in the house because ye are a'
won ower by a smooth face and a pair o' glintin' een?  Is the Manse
to be tumbled tapsalteery, and made a byword o' because o' a foreign
hussy?"

"Leezibeth," said the Whaup, "as sure's death, if ye say another word
to my cousin, ye'll gang fleeing' down that stair quicker than ever
ye came up!  Do ye hear?"

Leezibeth threw up her hands, and went away.  The Manse would soon be
no longer fit for a respectable woman to live in.  Singing, and
dancing, and play-acting on the Sabbath morning--after all, Andrew
was right.  It would have been a merciful dispensation if the boat
that brought this Jezebel to the country had foundered in sight of
its shores.

Then the Whaup turned to Coquette.

"Look here," said he, "I don't mean to get into trouble more nor I
can help.  Leezibeth is an authority in the Manse, and ye'll hae to
make friends wi' her.  Don't you imagine you can play music here or
do what ye like on the Sabbath; for you'll have to be like the
rest--gudeness gracious! what are ye crying for?--"

"I do not know," she said, turning her head aside.  "I thank you for
your kindness to me."

"Oh," said he, with a tremendous flush of red to his face--for her
tears had made him valiant--"is that all?  Look here, you can depend
on me.  When you get into trouble, send for me.  If any man or woman
in Airlie says a word to you, by jingo!  I'll punch their head!"

And thereupon she turned and looked at him with laughter like
sunshine struggling through the tears in her eyes.

"Is it English--_ponche sare hade_?"

"Not as you pronounce it," he said, coolly.  "But as I should show
them, if they interfered wi' you, it's very good English, and Scotch,
and Irish all put together."

On Sunday morning Mr. Cassilis had his breakfast by himself in his
study.  The family had theirs in the ordinary breakfast room,
Leezibeth presiding.  It was during this meal that Coquette began for
the first time to realise the fact that there existed between her and
the people around her some terrible and inexplicable difference which
shut her out from them.  Leezibeth was cold and distant to her.  The
boys, all except the Whaup, who manfully took her part, looked
curiously at her.  And with her peculiar sensitiveness to outward
impressions, she began to ask herself if there might not be some
cause for this suspicion on their part.  Perhaps she was, unknown to
herself, more wicked than others.  Perhaps her ignorance--as in this
matter of music, which she had always regarded as harmless--had
blinded her to the fact that there was something more demanded of her
than the simple, and innocent, and joyous life she believed herself
to have led.  These doubts and anxieties grew in proportion to their
vagueness.  Was she, after all, a dangerous person to have come among
these religious people?  Andrew would have been rejoiced to know of
these agitating thoughts: she was awakening to a sense of
wretchedness and sin.

Scarcely was breakfast over than a message was brought that Mr.
Cassilis desired to see his niece privately.  Coquette rose up, very
pale.  Was it now that she was to have explained to her the measure
of her own godlessness, that seemed to be a barrier between her and
the people among whom she was to live?

She went to the door of the study and paused there, with her heart
beating.  Already she felt like a leper that stood at the gates, and
was afraid to talk to any passer-by for fear of a cruel repulse.  She
opened the door, with downcast look, and entered.  Her agitation
prevented her from speaking.  And then, having raised her eyes, and
seeing before her the tall, grey-haired Minister seated in his chair,
she suddenly went forward to him, and flung herself at his feet,
bursting into a wild fit of weeping, and burying her face in his
knees.  In broken speech, interrupted by passionate sobbing and
tears, she implored him to deal gently with her if she had done wrong.

"I do not know," she said, "I do not know.  I do not mean to do
wrong.  I will do what you tell me--but I am all alone here--and I
cannot live if you are angry with me.  I will go away, if you
like--perhaps it will be better if I go away, and not vex you any
more."

"But you have not vexed me, my lassie--you have done no wrong that I
know of," he said, putting his hand on her head.  "What is all this?
What does it mean?"

She looked up to see whether the expression of his face corresponded
with the kindness of his voice.  She saw in those worn, grey, lined
features nothing but gentleness and affection; and the ordinary
sternness of the deep-set eyes replaced by a profound pity.

"I cannot tell you in English--in French I could," she said.  "They
speak to me as if I was different from them, and wicked; and I do not
know in what.  I thought you willed to reproach me.  I could not bear
that.  If I do without knowing, I will do better if you will tell me;
but I cannot live all by myself, and think that I am wicked, and not
know.  If it is wrong to play music, I will not play any more music.
I will ask Lissiebess to pardon me my illness of this morning, which
I did not know at all."

The Minister smiled.

"So you have been playing music this morning, and Leezibeth has
stopped you?  I hope she was not to blame in her speech, for to her
it would seem very heinous to hear profane music on the Sabbath.
Indeed, we all of us in Scotland consider that the Sabbath should be
devoted to meditation and worship, not to idleness and amusement; and
ye will doubtless come to consider it no great hardship to shut your
piano one day out o' the seven.  But I sent for ye this morning wi'
quite another purpose than to scold ye for having fallen through
ignorance into a fault, of which, indeed, I knew nothing."

He now began to unfold to her the serious perplexity which had been
caused him by the fact of her having been brought up a Roman
Catholic.  On the one hand, he had a sacred duty to perform to her as
being almost her sole surviving relation; but on the other hand, was
he justified in supplanting with another faith that faith in which
her mother had desired her to remain?  The Minister had been
seriously troubled about this matter; and wished to have it settled
before he permitted her to go to church with the rest of his family.
He was a scrupulously conscientious man.  They used to say of him in
Airlie that if Satan, in arguing with him, were to fall into a trap,
Mr. Cassilis would scorn to take advantage of any mere slip of the
tongue--a piece of rectitude not invariably met with in religious
disputes.  When, therefore, the Minister saw placed in his hands a
willing convert, he would not accept of the conversion without
explaining to her all the bearings of the case, and pointing out to
her clearly what she was doing.

Coquette solved the difficulty in a second.

"If mamma were here," she said, "she would go at once to your church.
It never mattered to us--the church.  The difference--or is it
differation is the proper English?--was nothing to us; and papa did
not mind.  I will go to your church, and you will tell me all what it
is right.  I will soon know all your religion," she added, more
cheerfully, "and I will sing those dreadful slow tunes which papa
used to sing--to make mamma laugh."

"My brother might have been better employed," said the Minister, with
a frown; but Coquette ran away, light-hearted, to dress herself to go
with the others.

The Whaup was a head taller when he issued from the Manse, by the
side of his new cousin, to go down to the little church.  He was her
protector.  He snubbed the other boys.  To one of them--Wattie the
sneak--he had administered a sharp cuff on the side of the head, when
the latter, on Coquette being summoned into the study, remarked
confidentially, "She's gaun to get her licks;" and now, when the
young lady had come out in all the snowy brightness of her summer
costume, "Wattie revenged himself by murmuring to his companions--

"Doesna she look like a play-actress?"

So the small procession passed along the rough moorland road until
they drew near the little grey church and its graveyard of rude
stones.  Towards this point converged the scattered twos and threes
now visible across the moor and down in the village--old men and
women, young men and maidens all in their best Sunday "braws."  The
dissonant bell was sounding harshly; and the boys, before going into
the gloomy little building, threw a last and wistful glance over the
broad moor, where the bronzed and the yellow butterflies were
fluttering in the sunlight, and the bees drowsily humming in the
heather.

They entered.  Every one stared at Coquette, as they had stared at
her outside.  The boys could not understand the easy self-composure
with which she followed the Whaup down between the small wooden
benches, and took her place in the Minister's pew.  There was no
confusion or embarrassment in her manner on meeting the eyes of a lot
of strangers.

"She's no feared," said Wattie to his neighbour.

When Coquette had taken her seat, she knelt down and covered her face
with her hands.  The Whaup touched her arm quickly.

"Ye must not do that," said he, looking round anxiously to see
whether any of the neighbours had witnessed this piece of Romish
superstition.

That glance round dashed from his lips the cup of pleasure he had
been drinking.  Quietly regarding both himself and Coquette, he met
the eyes of Lord Earlshope; and the congregation had not seen
anything of Coquette's kneeling, for the simple reason that they had
turned from her to gaze on the no less startling phenomenon of Lord
Earlshope occupying his family pew, in which he had not been seen for
years.




CHAPTER IV.

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.

Coquette did not observe the presence of Lord Earlshope for some
time.  She was much engaged in the service, which was quite new to
her.  First of all, the Minister rose in his pulpit and read out a
psalm; and then, under him, the Precentor rose, and begun, all by
himself, to lead off the singing, in a strong harsh voice which had
but little music in it.  The tune was "Drumclog;" and as Coquette
listened, she mentally grouped its fine and impressive melody with
chords, and thought of the wonderful strength and sweetness that
Mendelssohn could have imparted to that bare skeleton of an air.  The
people groaned rather than sung; there was not even an attempt at
part-singing; the men merely followed the air an octave lower, except
when they struck into quite a different key, and produced such
dissonances as are indescribable.  If the use of the piano were not
entirely proscribed, she promised to herself that she would show the
Whaup next morning the true character of that simple and noble air
which was being so cruelly ill-treated.

There followed a long extempore prayer, and another psalm--sung to
the plaintive "Coleshill"--and then there came the sermon.  She tried
hard to understand it, but she could not.  It was an earnest and
powerful appeal; but it was so clothed in the imagery of the Jewish
prophets--so full of the technical phrases of the Scotch
preachers--that she could not follow it.  Her English had been
chiefly gathered from the free and easy conversation of her father,
and even that had been modified by the foreign pronunciation of her
mother; so that such phrases as "the fulfilment of the covenant,"
"girding up the loins," "awakening unto grace," and so forth,
conveyed no meaning to her whatever.  In spite of her best endeavours
she found herself dreaming of the Loire--of St. Nazaire, of Guérande,
of the salt plains that lie between that town and Le Croisic, and of
the Breton peasants in their _bragous-bras_ and wide hats, making
their pilgrimages to the church of Notre Dame de Mûrier.

The sight of Lord Earlshope had made the Whaup both savage and
wicked.  He proposed to Wattie to play "Neevie, neevie,
nick-nack"--an offer which Wattie looked upon as the direct
instigation of the devil, and refused accordingly.

When, at last, Coquette caught the eyes of Lord Earlshope fixed upon
her, she was surprised to see him so intently regarding her.  There
was something wistful, too, in his look; his face bearing an
expression of seriousness she did not expect to find in it.  During
the brief period in which he talked to her he had left upon her the
impression of his being merely a light-hearted young man, who had
winning ways, and a good deal of self-confidence.  But the fact is,
she had paid no very great attention to him; and even now was not
disposed to look upon his fixed gaze as anything beyond a mere
accident.  She turned her eyes aside; tried once more to follow the
sermon; and again subsided into dreaming of Bourg de Batz, and the
square pools of the salt plains, with the ancient walls of Guérande
filling up the horizon of her imagination.

When the service was over, and they had got outside, the Whaup
bundled them off on the road towards the Manse with but little
ceremony, taking care that Coquette should be in front.

"What has changed you?" she said, in some surprise.  "I did think you
were good friends with me on coming to the church."

"Never mind," he said, abruptly; and then he added, sharply, "Did you
see Lord Earlshope there?"

"Certainly I have seen him."

"What business had he there?"

"People go not to the church for business," she said, with a laugh.

"He has not been in that pew for years," said the Whaup, gloomily.

"Perhaps he is becoming a good man?" she said, lightly, making a
careless effort to catch a butterfly that fluttered before her face.

"He has plenty to alter then," said the Whaup, with frowning brows.

She looked at him curiously, and laughed.  Then she turned to the
Whaup's brother.

"Wattie, will you run with me to the house?"

She held out her hand.

"No, I'll no," said Wattie.  "Ye are a Roman, and can get absolution
for a' the ill ye dae."

"I will, an' ye like," said the youngest of the brothers, Dougal,
timidly.

"Come along, then!"

She took his hand, and, before Leezibeth or Andrew could interfere,
they were fleeing along the rough road towards the Manse, far in
front of the others.  Dougal, young as he was, was a swift runner;
but the foreign lassie beat him, and was evidently helping him.  All
at once Dougal was seen to stumble and roll forward.  Coquette made a
desperate effort to save him, but in vain; and while he fell prone
upon the ground, she was brought nearly on her knees.  The little
fellow got up, looking sadly at one of his hands, which was sorely
scratched with the gravel.  He regarded her, too, dumbly; clenching
his lips to keep himself from crying, although the tears would gather
in his eyes.  In an instant she had overwhelmed him with pitying
caresses, and soft French phrases of endearment, while she carefully
smoothed his torn hand with her handkerchief.

"You will come with me to my room, and I will heal it for you."

She carried him off before the others had arrived; and washed his
hand; and put cold cream on it; and gave him a whole box of French
chocolate--a dainty which he had never seen before, but which he
speedily appreciated.  Then she said,

"Come along, now, and I will sing you something--Alas! no, I must not
open my piano any more."

It was the first time Dougal had ever heard anybody say "alas!"--a
word which Coquette had picked up from her English books.  He began
to distrust all this kindness and all these fascinating ways.  What
Coquette knew of English was more English than Scotch in
pronunciation.  Now, everybody in Airlie was aware of the curious
fact that all actors, and public singers, and such people, generally,
as live by their wits, were English; and an English accent was
therefore in itself suspicious.  If this young lady in the white
muslin dress, with the yellow ribbons in her black hair, was not
actually French she was English, which was only a shade less
deplorable.  Dougal accepted the brown and sweet little balls of
chocolate with some compunction, and hoped he was doing no mortal sin
in eating them.

After the "interval," as it was technically called, they had to go to
church again, and here Coquette's patience nearly gave way.  Nor was
the situation rendered less grievous by the Whaup informing her
severely that in Airlie there was no such thing as idle walking about
on the Sabbath--that the whole of the afternoon she would not even be
permitted to go into the garden, but would have to sit indoors and
read a "good book."  The Whaup was not ill-pleased to have to convey
this information: he fancied Lord Earlshope might be prowling about.

There was a "tea dinner" at four o'clock, consisting exclusively of
cold meats, with tea added.  Thereafter, the whole family sat down in
solemn silence to their books--the list being the Bible, the Shorter
and Longer Catechisms, Hutcheson's Exposition, Dr. Spurstow on the
Promise, the Christian's Charter, Bishop Downham on the Covenant of
Grace (these last "printed for _Ralph Smith_, at the _Bible_ in
_Cornhill_"), and Josephus.  By this copy of Josephus there hangs a
tale.

Dougal, remembering that business of the chocolate, came over to
Coquette, and whispered--

"If ye are freends wi' the Whaup, he'll show ye the third vollum o'
Josephus."

Indeed, the boys manifested the most lively curiosity when the Whaup
appeared bearing the third volume of Josephus in his hand.  They
seemed to forget the sunlight outside, and the fresh air of the moor,
in watching this treasure.  The Whaup sat down at the table (the
Minister was at the upper end of the room, in his arm-chair) and the
third volume of Josephus was opened.

Coquette perceived that some mystery was abroad.  The boys drew more
and more near to the Whaup; and were apparently more anxious to see
the third volume of Josephus than anything else.  She observed also
that the Whaup, keeping the board of the volume up, never seemed to
turn over any leaves.

She, too, overcome by feminine curiosity, drew near.  The Whaup
looked at her--suspiciously at first, then he seemed to relent.

"Have ye read Josephus?" he said aloud to her.

"No," said Coquette.

"It is a most valuable work," said the Minister from the upper end of
the room (the Whaup started), "as giving corroboration to the sacred
writings from one who was not himself an advocate of the truth."

Coquette moved her chair in to the table.  The Whaup carefully placed
the volume before her.  She looked at it, and beheld--two white mice!

The mystery was solved.  The Whaup had daringly cut out the body of
the volume, leaving the boards and a margin of the leaves all round.
In the hole thus formed reposed two white mice, in the feeding and
petting of which he spent the whole Sunday afternoon, when he was
supposed to be reading diligently.  No wonder the boys were anxious
to see the third volume of Josephus; and when any one of them had
done a particular favour to the Whaup, he was allowed to have half an
hour of the valuable book.  There were also two or three leaves left
in front; so that, when any dangerous person passed, these leaves
could be shut down over the cage of the mice.

They were thus engaged when Leezibeth suddenly opened the door, and
said--

"Lord Earlshope would speak wi' ye, sir."

Astonishment was depicted on every countenance.  From time immemorial
no visitor had dared to invade the sanctity of Airlie Manse on a
Sabbath afternoon.

"Show him into my study, Leezibeth," said the Minister.

"By no means," said his lordship, entering, "I would not disturb you,
Mr. Cassilis, on any account.  I have merely called in to say a
passing word to you, although I know it is not good manners in Airlie
to pay visits on Sunday."

"Your lordship is doubtless aware," returned Mr. Cassilis, gravely,
"that it is not any consideration of manners that leads us to keep
the Sabbath inviolate from customs which on other days are lawful and
praise-worthy."

"I know, I know," said the young gentleman, good-naturedly, and
taking so little notice of the hint as to appropriate a chair; "but
you must blame my English education if I fall short.  Indeed, it
struck me this morning that I have of late been rather remiss in
attending to my duties; and I made a sort of resolve to do better.
You would see I was at church to-day."

"You could not have been in a more fitting place," said the Minister.

Mr. Cassilis, despite the fact that he was talking to the patron of
the living--Lord Earlshope's father had presented him to the parish
of Airlie--was not disposed to be too gracious to this young man,
whose manner of conduct, although in no way openly sinful, had been a
scandal to the neighbourhood.

"He'll have a heavy reckonin' to settle i' the next worl'," Andrew
used to say, "be he lord or no lord.  What think ye, sirs, o' a young
man that reads licht books and smokes cigaurs frae the rising o' the
sun even till the ganging doon o' the same; and roams about on the
Lord's day breaking in a wheen pointers?"

The boys looked on this visit of Lord Earlshope as a blessed relief
from the monotony of the Sunday afternoon; and while they kept their
eyes steadily directed on their books, listened eagerly to what he
had to say.  This amusement did not last long.  His
lordship--scarcely taking any notice of Coquette in his talk, though
he sometimes looked at her by chance--spoke chiefly of some repairs
in the church which he was willing to aid with a subscription; and,
having thus pleased the Minister, mentioned that Earlshope itself had
been undergoing repairs and redecoration.

"And I have no near neighbours but yourselves, Mr. Cassilis, to see
our new grandeur.  Will you not pay Earlshope a visit?  What do you
say to coming over, the whole of you, to-morrow, and seeing what I
have done?  I dare say Mrs. Graham will be able to get some lunch for
you; and I should like your niece--whom I had the pleasure of seeing
on her way here--to give me her opinion about an organ that has been
sent me from abroad.  What do you say?  I am sure the boys will enjoy
a holiday in the grounds, and be able to find amusement for
themselves."

If the Whaup dared to have spoken, he would have refused in indignant
terms.  The other boys were delighted with the prospect--although
they were still supposed to be reading.  Coquette merely looked at
Mr. Cassilis, apparently without much interest, awaiting his answer.

Mr. Cassilis replied, in grave and dignified terms of courtesy, that
he would be proud to avail himself of his lordship's invitation; and
added that he hoped this re-establishment of the relations which had
existed between Earlshope and the Manse in the time of his lordship's
father meant that he, the present Lord Earlshope, intended to come
oftener to church than had been his wont of late.  The hint was
conveyed in very plain language.  The young nobleman, however, took
it in good part, and speedily bade them good evening.  He bowed to
Coquette as he passed her; and she acknowledged this little
manifestation of respect, with her eyes fixed on the ground.




CHAPTER V.

COQUETTE'S MUSIC.

What was this great rushing and whistling noise that filled the
girl's ears as the light of the morning--entering by a small window
which had no sort of blind or shutter--fell on her face and opened
her confused eyes to its glare?  She had been dreaming of Earlshope.
Dreams are but _rechauffés_ of past experiences; and this ghostly
Earlshope that she had visited in her sleep was a French Earlshope.
The broad blue Loire ran down a valley in front of it.  There were
hills for a background which had long terraces of vines on them.
From the windows she could see the steamers--mere dots with a long
serpent trail of smoke behind them--creep into the haven of St.
Nazaire; and far over the sea lay the calm summer stillness of a
southern sky.

She awoke to find herself in Scotland.  The Manse shook in the wind.
There was a roaring of rain on the slates and on the window panes;
and a hissing outside told of the deluge that was pouring a red
stream down the moorland road.  Fierce gusts from the south-west flew
about the house, and howled in the chimney; great grey masses of
cloud, riven by the hurricane, came up from the sea and swept across
the moor.  The room was cold and damp.  When she had partly dressed,
she went to the window.  Along the horizon there was a thin black
line, dull as lead, which was all that was visible of the sea.  The
mountains of Arran had entirely vanished, and in their place was a
wall of grey vapour.  Flying before the blast came those huge volumes
of smoke-like cloud; and every now and again their lower edges would
be torn down by the wind and hurled upon the moor in heavy, slanting
torrents of rain; while there was a sound of rushing water
everywhere; and the trees and shrubs of the garden bent and shivered
in the gleaming wet.

"No Earlshope for ye to-day," said the Whaup, with ill-disguised
glee, when she went down-stairs to breakfast.

"I am not sorry.  What a dreadful chill country!" said Coquette, who
was trembling with cold.

"Would you like a fire?" said the Whaup, eagerly.

"A fire, indeed!" cried Leezibeth, as she entered with the tray.  "A
fire in the middle o' summer!  We have na been brought up to sic
luxuries in this pairt o' the country."

"I am not very cold," said Coquette, sitting down in a corner, and
trying to keep herself from shivering.

The Whaup walked out of the room.  He was too angry to speak.  He
looked once at Leezibeth on going out, and there was a blaze of wrath
in his eyes.

The Minister came in to breakfast, and they all sat down--all but the
Whaup.

"Where is Thomas?" said Mr. Cassilis.

The reply was a shrill scream from Leezibeth, who was apparently at
the door.  At the same moment a wild crackling and sputtering of fire
was heard overhead; and as everybody rushed to the passage, it was
found that dense volumes of smoke were rolling down, blown by the
currents above.  Leezibeth had flown up-stairs on first perceiving
this smell of burning.  There, in Coquette's parlour, she caught
sight of the Whaup working like a demon within the pungent clouds
that filled the room, blown outwards by the fierce wind coming down
the chimney.  With another cry of alarm Leezibeth darted into the
nearest bedroom, and brought out a ewer of water, which she
discharged at the blazing mass of newspapers and lumps of wood that
the Whaup had crammed into the small grate.

"Would ye set fire to the house?  Would ye set fire to the house?"
she cried--and, indeed, it looked as if the house were on fire.

"Yes, I would," shouted the demon in the smoke, "rather than kill
anybody wi' cold!"

"Oh, it's that lassie--it's that lassie," cried Leezibeth, "that'll
be the ruin o' us a'!"

When assistance came, and the fire was finally subdued, both the
Whaup and Leezibeth were spectacles to have awakened the ridicule of
gods and men.  The effect of the deluge of water had been to send up
a cloud of dust and ashes with the smoke; and their respective faces
were tattooed so that even Mr. Cassilis--for the first time these
many years--burst into a fit of laughter.  Even Wattie laughed;
seeing which, the Whaup charged at him, caught him by the waist, and
carried him bodily down-stairs and out through the rain to the yard,
where he made him work the iron handle of the pump.  When the Whaup
made his appearance at the breakfast table he was clean; but both
himself and his brother were rather damp.

Mr. Cassilis severely reprimanded his eldest son; but he ordered
Leezibeth to light a fire in Miss Cassilis' room nevertheless.  The
wind had somewhat abated now, and the clouds had gathered for a
steady downpour.  Leezibeth went to her appointed task with
bitterness of heart, but she comforted herself with texts.  As she
stuffed the unconsumed remnants of the Whaup's bonfire into the
grate, she uttered a denunciation of the luxury and idleness which
were appearing for the first time in a godly house.

"But we," she muttered to herself, "who are the poor o' this world,
rich in faith, and heirs o' the kingdom, maun bide and suffer.  We
maun e'en be the servants o' such as this woman that has come amongst
us--such as lie upon beds of ivory, and stretch themselves upon their
couches, and eat the lambs out of the flock, and the calves out of
the midst of the stall; that chant to the sound of the viol, and
invent to themselves instruments of music, like David; that drink
wine in bowls, and anoint themselves wi' the chief ointments: but
they are not grieved for the affliction of Joseph."

Yet even these consolations did not seem quite to allay the
irritation of her mind; for a big tom cat that belonged to the house
having approached her elbow too confidently, suddenly received a
"skelp" that sent him flying across the room and down the stairs as
if the spirits of ten thousand legions of dogs were pursuing him.

Airlie Manse was destined that day to be given up to what Leezibeth
would have called the noise of viols and godless rejoicings.  All
thought of getting to Earlshope was abandoned; and shortly after
breakfast Coquette invited Mr. Cassilis and the boys to her
sitting-room, promising to play something for them.  Custom made the
Minister hesitate for a moment.  Was not dance music very near
dancing, which he regarded as a profane and dangerous amusement?

"I wish to play for you--what you call it?--the tune of the church
yesterday, as it should be sung.  Will you hear it from me?"

No objection of course could be taken to sacred music.  The Minister
led the way to the room; and the boys sat down silently, looking
round with curiosity and awe upon the strange bits of foreign
adornment and luxury which Coquette had already placed about her
chamber.  The fire was burning brightly, the rain battering on the
panes outside.  Coquette sat down to the piano.

The Minister did not know at first that he was listening to the old
and familiar air of "Drumclog."  It seemed to him the cry of a great
supplication--sad, yearning, and distant, as if it came from a far
hill-side half hidden in mist.  It sounded like the softened and
various voices of a multitude made harmonious and pathetic by
distance.

But when she smote firmer chords, and, with a resonant and powerful
bass, let the clear treble ring out triumphantly, he recognised
"Drumclog."  It was a song of victory now--the war cry of a host
moved by intense religious enthusiasm--there was a joyous
thanksgiving in it, and the clear voices of women and children.  It
seemed to him to represent a tumult of rejoicing--set in measured and
modulated music--that rose like one sweet, strong voice.  Then again
the chords were softened, and the air changed to a wail.  He could
almost see the far moor, and the dead lying on it, with women
wringing their hands, and yet thanking God for the victory.

"It is wonderful, wonderful," he said, when Coquette had ceased
playing, "the power o' a dumb instrument to speak such strange
things."

He was surprised to find that this carnal invention of music had
awakened such profound emotion within him.  He covertly looked to see
if the girl herself were affected as she had affected him; but
Coquette turned round and said, lightly, "It is a good air, but your
church people they do not sing it.  They groan, groan, groan all the
same air--no singing in parts, no music."

"But you would make any tune, however bad, sound well," said the
Whaup, warmly.  "To every one note you give four or five other notes,
all in harmony.  No wonder it sounds well.  It is no test.  Play us
some of your foreign music, that we may compare it."

The boys looked at the Whaup with astonishment: he was becoming an
orator.

So she played them the _Cujus animam_, and for the first time in its
history the Manse of Airlie was flooded with that sonorous music that
has entranced the hearts of multitudes.  She played them the mystic
melodies of the _Hochzeitmarsch_, and they thought that these also
were the expression of a sublime devotional exaltation.  Indeed, the
boys regarded those pieces with something of awe and fear.  There was
an unholy smack of organ playing and Romanism about Coquette's
performances.  Had she not transformed the decent and sober tune of
"Drumclog" into a mass, or chant, or some such vague portion of
Catholic ordinances?  Wattie was in possession of an ingenious little
book on "Various Forms of Idolatry;" and--the first plate
representing the burning at the stake of a "Popish witch"--he had
pointed out to his brothers that the black and profuse hair of the
young woman in the flames very much resembled the hair of Coquette.
It was but a suggestion; yet Rabbie, another of the brothers,
expressed the belief that there were witches in these days also, that
they were emissaries of the "deevil," and that it behoved every one
who wished to save his soul to guard against such fiends in disguise,
and, above all, never to repeat any charm after them towards twelve
of the night.

Coquette rose from the piano.

"Who is going to play for me now?" she said, looking at the boys.

A loud guffaw ran down the line of them--the notion of a boy being
able to play on the piano was irresistibly ludicrous.

"Have you not learned at the school?" she asked.  "You must know some
pieces to play."

"Frenchmen may learn to play the piano," said the Whaup, with an air
of calm superiority, "but men in this country have something else to
do."

"What is it you do?" said Coquette, simply, having quite
misunderstood the remark.  "You play not the piano: is it the
violin--the--the flute--one learns here at the school?"

"We dinna learn music at the schule, ye gowk," said one of the boys.

"No, nor manners either," said the Whaup, firing up at the last word.

At this juncture the Minister gravely thanked Coquette for the
pleasure her music had given him, and left the room.  No sooner had
he gone than the Whaup ordered his brothers to follow.  They seemed
inclined to show a spirit of insubordination.

"Out every one o' ye!" he cried, "or I'll leather ye in a lump!"

This somewhat dictatorial proceeding left him master of the field.
So he turned to Coquette, and said--

"Ye wanted to hear some music.  There is but one musician in Airlie
forbye the Precentor.  I mean Neil the Pensioner.  He's a famous
player on the fiddle--an out-and-out player, ye may take my word
for't.  Will I go and bring him to ye?"

"Perhaps he will not come."

"Oh, I'll bring him," said the Whaup, confidently.

"But it rains much," said Coquette, looking out on the disconsolate
grey landscape, the dripping trees, and the lowering sky.

The Whaup laughed aloud, as his long legs carried him down the soft
red road over the moor towards the village.  He was no timid French
creature, brought up under fair skies, that he should dread a
temporary wetting.  When he arrived at Neil Lamont's cottage, the
rain was running down his face, and he only blew it from his mouth
and flung it from his fingers as he burst into the astonished
Pensioner's presence, and bade him bundle up his fiddle and come
along.

The Pensioner, as he was called, was a tall, spare old Highlandman,
somewhat bent now, with scanty grey hair, and dazed, mild grey eyes,
who had been at Waterloo.  He represented at once the martial and
musical aspects of Airlie.  His narrative of the events of Waterloo
had gradually, during many years, become more and more full of
personal detail, until the old man at last firmly believed that he
himself, in his own proper person, had witnessed the whole of the
battle, and been one of the chief heroes of the hour.  Napoleon, whom
he had never seen, he described minutely; and the inhabitants of
Airlie had learned to picture the rage and mortification visible on
the face of the great commander when he saw Neil rushing on to
victory over the dead bodies of six French grenadiers, whom the hardy
Highlander had overcome.  Waterloo had grown to be a great panorama
for him; and he would unroll it at any moment, and name you every
object and person in the picture.

He was the village musician, too, and was in much request at balls,
marriages, and other celebrations.  The old man was singularly
sensitive to music, and the wicked boys of the village used to
practise on his weakness.  When they saw the Pensioner out walking,
they would begin to whistle some military march--"The Campbells are
coming," "The Girl I left behind me," or "What's a' the steer,
kimmer"--and you could see the Pensioner draw himself up, and go on
with a military swagger, with his head erect.  As for his own musical
efforts, was there anybody in the west of Scotland who could play
"The East Neuk o' Fife" with such tremendous "spunk?"

When the Pensioner was told that he had to play to a young French
lady, he was a proud man.

"Ye will na sink," he observed to the Whaup in his curious jumble of
Lowland and Highland pronunciation, "sat I will hurt sa leddy's
feelins.  No.  Our prave regiments sent sa French fleein' at
Waterloo; but I will speak jist nae word apoot it.  I sweer
till't--she will not even pe sinkin I wass at Waterloo."

Coquette received him graciously; the old Highlander was respectful,
and yet dignified, in return.  He gently declined to show her his
medal--fearful that the word "Waterloo" would pain her.  He would not
say a word about his soldiering--was it good manners to insult a
beaten foe?

But he would play for her.  He took his fiddle from its case, and sat
down, and played her all manner of reels and strathspeys--but no
military music.

"Wha will ken," he whispered significantly to the Whaup, "put sat she
will have heard o' our victorious tunes?  Na, na.  Neil Lamont kens
how to pehave himsel' to a leddy."

And, in return, Coquette sat down to the piano.  There was one Scotch
air--"Wha'll be King but Charlie"--which her father was particularly
fond of.  When she struck into that bold and stirring piece of music,
with all the agencies of harmonious chords, the old Highlander sat at
first apparently stupefied.  He had never known the majesty and the
power that, could be lent to the tune which boys played on penny
whistles.  But as he became familiar with the rich and splendid
sounds, he became more and more excited.  He beat time with his foot;
he slapped his thigh with his hand; he kept his head erect, and
looked defiance.  Suddenly he seemed to forget the presence of the
Whaup, who was seated in a corner; he started to his feet, and began
pacing up and down the room, waving the bow of his violin as if it
were a sword.  And all at once Coquette heard behind her the shrill
and quavering notes of an old man's voice--

  "Come ower sa heather! come a' tagether!
  Come Ronald, an' Tonald, an' a' tagether!"

and, when she turned round, the old Highlandman, as one possessed,
was marching up and down the chamber, with his head high in the air,
and tears running down his withered grey cheeks.

"_Aw, Dyeea!_" he cried, as he sank shamefacedly into a chair.  "I
have never heard sa like o' sat not since sa day I will pe porn!"




CHAPTER VI.

EARLSHOPE.

How fair, and fresh, and green looked the grounds of Earlshope on the
next day, when Mr. Cassilis and Coquette drew near.  The warm sun had
come out again, and the air was sweet with the scent of the wet
trees.  Masses of white cloud still came up from the south, sweeping
over the dark, clear blue of the sky; and the peaks of Arran, set far
amid the sea, were pale and faint in a haze of silver light.

Coquette was merry-hearted.  The sunshine seemed to please her as it
pleased the butterflies and the bees that were again abroad.  As she
went down the moorland path, she laughed and chatted with the
Minister, and was constantly, out of pure lightness of spirit,
breaking into exclamations in her native tongue--on which she would
suddenly recall herself with a pout of impatience and resume her odd
and quaint English talk.

The Whaup had been ill-tempered on setting forth; but the sunlight
and the bright life around him thawed his sulkiness, and he became
merely mischievous.  His brothers perceived his mood, and kept out of
his way.  He was in the humour for rough practical jokes; and no one
of them wished to be tripped up and sent into the red-coloured "burn"
that still ran down between the moor and the road to the little
stream in the hollow.

When they had passed the keeper's lodge, and gone under a winding
avenue of trees, they came in sight of the big stone building and the
bright green lawn in front of it.  They also saw their host seated
beside a stone lion, smoking a cigar, and watching the operations of
a lad who, mounted on the pedestal of a statue of Venus, was busily
engaged in giving that modest but scantily clad young woman a coating
of white paint.

"Did you ever see anything so curious?" he said, when he had bade
them welcome.  "Look at the rude indifference with which he comes
over her nose, and gives her a slap on the cheek, and tickles her
neck with his brush!  I have been wondering what she would do if she
were to come alive--whether she would scream and run away, or rise up
in indignant silence, or give him a sound box on the ears."

"If she were to come alive," said Coquette, "he would be made blind
with fear, and she would fly up into the heavens."

"_Et procul in tenuem ex oculis evanuit auram_," said the Minister,
graciously, with a smile.  He had not aired so much Latin for years.

They had a walk round the grounds, skirting the not very extensive
park, before they turned into the garden.  Here everything was heavy
with perfume in the sweet, warm air.  They went into the hothouses
and vineries; and Lord Earlshope found a bunch of muscatel grapes
ripe enough to be cut for Coquette.  No sooner had she placed one
between her lips than she cried out--

"Oh, how like to the vine!  I have not tasted----"

She looked at the Minister, and hastily stopped her speech.

"You have not tasted muscatel grapes in this country," said Lord
Earlshope, coming to her relief; and he looked at her with a peculiar
smile, as much as to say "I know you meant wine."

The boys preferring to remain in the garden (the Whaup walked off by
himself into the park, under pretence of seeking a peculiar species
of _Potentilla_, Lord Earlshope led his two principal guests back to
the house, and proceeded to show them its curiosities in the way of
pictures, old armour, old furniture, and the like.  Coquette got so
familiarised to his voice and look that she forgot he was but a
distant acquaintance.  She did not know that she stared at him while
he was talking, or that she spoke to him with a pleasant carelessness
which was oddly out of keeping with the Minister's grave and formal
courtesy.  She was not even aware that she was taking note of his
appearance; and that, after they had left, she would be able to
recall every lineament in his face as well as every tone of his voice.

Lord Earlshope was a fair-haired, gentlemanly-looking young man of
some twenty-six or twenty-eight years of age.  He was rather over the
middle height, slimly built, and inclined to lounge carelessly.  The
expression of his eyes, which were large, grey, and clear, varied
singularly--at one time being full of a critical and somewhat cold
scrutiny, and at other times pensive and distant.  He said he had no
politics and no prejudices--unless a very definite belief in "blood"
could be considered a prejudice.

"It is no superstition with me," he said, with apparent carelessness,
to the Minister, as the latter was examining a strange old family
tree hung up in the library.  "I merely think it imprudent for a man
of good family to marry out of his own class.  I have seen the
experiment made by some of my own acquaintances; and, as a rule, the
result has been disastrous....  Disastrous, yes," he went on slowly,
with a curious look coming over his face.  "Yes, indeed, a
disaster----"

But at this moment Coquette came back from the bookshelves, with a
large thin quarto in her hands.

"Look what I have found," she said.  "A volume of old chants."

"It is treasure-trove," said Lord Earlshope, with his face lightening
at her approach.  "I had no idea there was such a book in the place.
Shall we go and try some of them?  You know you promised to give me
your opinion of the organ I have had fitted up."

"I did not promise it, but I will do it," said Coquette.

He led the way down-stairs to the drawing-room, which they had not
yet visited.  The tall chamber-organ, a handsome and richly decorated
instrument, stood in a recess, and therefore did not seem so cumbrous
as it might otherwise have done.

"The defect of the organ," said Lord Earlshope, as he placed the
music for her, "is that the operation of blowing the bellows is
performed in sight of the public.  You see, I must fix in this
handle, and work it while you are playing."

"You must get a screen," she said, "and put a servant there."

"While you are playing," he said, "I could not let anybody else
assist you even in so rude a fashion."

Coquette laughed and sat down.  Presently, the solemn tones of the
organ were pealing out a rich and beautiful chant--full of the quaint
and impressive harmonies which the monks of old pondered over and
elaborated.  If Mr. Cassilis was troubled by a suspicion that this
noble music was of distinctly Roman Catholic or idolatrous origin,
that doubt became a certainty when, at the end of the chant, there
came a long and wailing "Amen!" rolled out by the organ's deep voice.

"You play excellently--you must be familiar with organ playing," said
Lord Earlshope.  "It is not every one who knows the piano who can
perform on an organ."

"At home the old _curé_ used to let me play in the church," she
said--with her eyes grown suddenly distant and sad.  She had
remembered that her home no longer lay away down there in the south,
where life seemed so pleasant.

"Come," said Lord Earlshope, "I hear Sandy about to ring the bell for
luncheon.  Shall we go into the room at once, or wait for the boys?"?

"They will have their luncheon off your fruit trees, I am afraid,"
said Mr. Cassilis.

Nevertheless, the boys were sent for, and arrived, looking rather
afraid.  The Whaup was not with them; no one knew whither he had gone.

Lord Earlshope's household was far from being an extensive one; and
Mr. Cassilis' boys found themselves waited on by two maid-servants
who were well known to them as having been made the subject of many
tricks; while Sandy, his lordship's valet, butler, courier, and
general factotum--a tall and redheaded Scotchman, who, by reason of
his foreign travels, had acquired a profound contempt for everything
in his own country--approach Miss Cassilis with a lofty air, and,
standing behind her at some little distance from the table, extended
a bottle of Chablis so as to reach her glass.

"Miss Cassilis," said Lord Earlshope, "what wine will remind you most
of the Loire?"?

It had been her own thought, and she looked up with a quick and
grateful smile.

"My father left me a fair assortment of Bordeaux wines----" he said.

"But no _vin ordinaire_?" she interposed, with another bright glance.

"I must go myself to get you that," he answered, laughing, "Sandy
does not know how to manufacture it."

Before she could protest he had left the room, and in a few minutes
he had returned with a bottle in his hand, and with the air of a
conjuror on his face.  He himself filled her glass, and Coquette
drank a little of it.

"Ah!" she cried, clasping her hands, "I think I can hear old Nannette
talking outside, and the river running underneath us; it is like
being at home--as if I were at home again!"

She fondled the glass as if it were a magical talisman that had
transported her over the sea, and would have to bring her back.

"I must taste some of that wizard wine," said the Minister, with a
humorous smile--and the boys stared with wonder to hear their father
talking about drinking wine.

"Pray don't, Mr. Cassilis," said their host, with a laugh.  "It is
merely some new and rough claret to which I added a little water--the
nearest approximation to _vin ordinaire_ I could think of.  Since
your niece is so pleased with the Earlshope vintage, I think I must
ask you to let me send her a supply to the Manse.  It is quite
impossible you can get it elsewhere, as I keep the recipe in my own
hands."

"And this is French bread!" said Coquette, startled out of her good
manners by perceiving before her a long, narrow, brown loaf.

"Have I been so fortunate as to create another surprise?" said Lord
Earlshope.  "I telegraphed for that bread to Glasgow, if I must tell
you all my housekeeping secrets."

It soon became clear that the indolent young man, having nothing
better to do, had laid his plans to get a thoroughly French repast
prepared for Coquette.  Every little dish that was offered her--the
red mullet, the bit of fowl, the dry boiled beef and thick sauce, the
plate of salad--was another wonder and another reminiscence of the
south.  Why, it was only a few days since she had arrived in
Scotland, and yet it seemed ages since she had sat down to such
another pretty French breakfast as this practically was.  She sipped
her _vin ordinaire_, and toyed with the various dishes that were
offered her--accepting all, and taking a little bit of each for the
very pleasure of "thinking back"--with such evident delight that even
Mr. Cassilis smiled benignantly.  The boys at the Manse--like other
boys in Scotland--had been taught that it was extremely ignominious
to experience or exhibit any enjoyment in the vulgar delights of
eating and drinking; but surely in the pleased surprise with which
Coquette regarded the French table around her, there was little of
the sensuous satisfaction of the gourmand.

She was altogether delighted with this visit to Earlshope.  As they
went back to the Manse, she was in the most cheerful of moods, and
fairly fascinated the grave Minister with her quaint, broken talk.
She never ceased to speak of the place--of its grounds, its gardens,
its books, and what not--even to the brightness of the atmosphere
around it; until Mr. Cassilis asked her if she thought the sky was
blue only over Earlshope.

"But I hope he will not send the wine--it was a--what you call
it?--joke, was it not?" she said.

"A joke, of course," said Mr. Cassilis.  "We are very proud in this
country, and do not take presents from rich people."

"But I am not of your country," she said, with a laugh.  "If he sends
his stupid _vin ordinaire_, he sends it to me; and I will not drink
it--you shall drink it all.  Did he say he is coming over to see you
soon?"?

"Well, no," replied the Minister; "but since the ice is broken,
nothing is more likely."

The phrase about the ice puzzled Coquette much: when it had been
explained to her, they had already reached the Manse.  But where was
the Whaup?  Nobody had seen him.




CHAPTER VII.

THE CRUCIFIX.

"I am going to sea," said the Whaup, suddenly presenting himself
before Coquette.  She looked up with her soft dark eyes, and said--

"Why you go to sea?"

"Because," said the Whaup--evidently casting about for an
excuse--"because the men of this country should be a seafaring race,
as their forefathers were.  We cannot all be living in big towns, and
becoming clerks.  I am for a hardier life.  I am sick of staying at
home.  I cannot bear this idling any more.  I have been down to the
coast; and when I smell the salt air, and see the waves come tumbling
in, I hate to turn my face to the land again."

There was a sort of shamefaced enthusiasm in the lad's manner; and
Coquette, as she again regarded him, perceived that, although he
believed all he had said, that was not the cause of his hasty
determination.  Yet the boy looked every inch a sailor--the sun-brown
hair thrown back from his handsome face, and the clear light shining
in his blue eyes.

"There is something else," said the girl.  "Why you say nothing of
all this before?  Why do you wish to become a sailor all at once?"

"And, if I must tell you," said he, with a sudden fierceness, "I
will.  I don't choose to stay here to see what I know will happen.
You are surprised?  Perhaps.  But you are a mere child.  You have
been brought up in a French convent, or some such place.  You think
everybody in the world is like yourself, and you make friends with
anybody.  You think they are all as good and as kind as yourself; and
you are so light-hearted, you never stop to think or to suspect.
Enough; you may go on your way, in spite of warning; but I will not
remain here to see my family disgraced by your becoming the friend
and companion of a man like Lord Earlshope."

He spoke warmly and indignantly; and the girl rather cowed before
him, until he uttered the fatal word "disgrace."

"Disgrace!" she repeated, and a quick light sprang to her eyes.  "I
have disgraced no one, not any time in my life!  I will choose my own
friends, and I will not be suspicious.  You are worse than the woman
here: she wants me to believe myself bad and wicked.  Perhaps I am--I
do not know--but I will not begin to suspect my friends of being bad.
If he is so bad, why does your father go to his house?"

"My father is as simple as you are," said the Whaup, contemptuously.

"Then it is only that you are suspicious?  I did not think it of you."

She looked hurt and vexed; and a great compunction filled the heart
of the Whaup.

"Look here," he said, firmly (and in much better English than was
customary with him), "you are my cousin, and it is my business to
warn you when you are likely to get into trouble.  But don't imagine
I am going to persecute you.  No.  You may do as you please.  Perhaps
you are quite right.  Perhaps it is only that I am suspicious.  But,
as you are my cousin, I don't wish to stand by and see what is likely
to happen; and so I am going away.  The sea will suit me better than
a college life, or a doctor's shop, or a pulpit."

Coquette rose from her seat, and began to walk up and down the room,
in deep distress.

"I must go," she said; "it is I who must go.  I bring wretchedness
when I come here--my friends are made miserable--it is my fault.  I
should not have come.  In France I was very happy; they used to call
me the peace-maker at school; and all the people there were cheerful
and kind.  Here I am wicked--I do not know how--and the cause of
contention and pain.  Ah, why you go away because of me!" she
suddenly exclaimed, as she took his hand, while tears started to her
eyes.  "It does not matter to me if I go--I am nobody; I have no home
to break up.  I can go away, and nobody the worse."

"Perhaps it is the best thing you can do," he said, frankly.  "But if
you go, I will go with you--to take care of you."

Coquette laughed.

"You are incomprehensible," she said.  "Why not take care of me here?"

"Will you give me that duty?" he asked, calmly.

"Yes," she said, with a bright smile, "you shall take care of me as
much--as much as you can."

"Mind, it is no joke," said he.  "If I resolve to take care of you, I
will do it; and anybody interfering----"

He did not finish the sentence.

"You will fight for me?" she said, putting her hand on his arm, and
leading him over to the window.  "Do you see those clouds away over
the sea--how they come on, and on, and go away?  These are the moods
of a man--his promises--his intentions.  But overhead do you see the
blue sky?--that is the patience of a woman.  Sometimes the clouds are
dark--sometimes white--but the sky is always the same: is it not?"

"Hm!" said the Whaup, with a touch of scorn, "that is the romantic
stuff they teach you at your French school, is it?  It is very
pretty, but it isn't true.  A man has more patience and more
steadfastness than a woman.  What you meant was, I suppose, that
whatever I might be to you, you would always be the same to me.
Perhaps so!  We shall see in a few years.  But you will never find
any difference in me--after any number of years--if you want somebody
to take your part.  You may remember what I say now afterwards."

"I think I could always trust you," she said, looking rather
wistfully at him with those dark eyes that he had almost ceased to
regard as foreign and strange.  "You have been very good to me since
I came here."

"And I have found out something new for you," he said, eagerly--so
glad was he to fix and establish those amicable relations.  "I hear
you were pleased because Lord Earlshope had French things for you to
eat and drink?"

"Yes--I was pleased," she said, timidly, and looking down.

"But you don't know that there is a town close by here as like St.
Nazaire as it can be: would ye not like to see that?"

"It is impossible!" she said.

"Come and see," he replied.

Coquette very speedily discovered that the Whaup, refusing to accept
of Lord Earlshope's invitation, had gone off by himself on a visit to
Saltcoats; that he had fallen in with some sailors there; that he had
begun talking with them of France and of the French seaports; and
that one of the men had delighted him by saying that on one side the
very town he was in resembled the old place at the mouth of the
Loire.  Of course Miss Coquette was in great anxiety to know where
this favoured town was situated; and would at once have started off
in quest of it.

"Let us go up to your parlour, and I will show it to you," said the
Whaup.

So they went up-stairs, and went to the window.  It was getting
towards the afternoon; and a warm light from the south-west lay over
the fair yellow country, with its dark lines of hedge and copse, its
ruddy streaks of sand, and the distant glimmer of a river.  Seaward
there was a lowering which presaged a storm; and the black line of
the Saltcoats houses fronted a plain of water which had a peculiar
light shining along its surface.

"That is the town," said the Whaup, pointing with a calm air of pride
to Saltcoats.

"I see nothing but a line of slates, and a church that seems to stand
out in the sea," said Coquette, with some disappointment.

"But you must go down to it to find the old stone wall, and the
houses built over it, and the pier and harbour----"

"Ah, is it like that?" cried his companion, clasping her hands.  "Is
it like St. Nazaire?  Are there boats?--and an old church?--and
narrow streets?  Oh, that we go there now!"

"Would you rather see that than drink Lord Earlshope's _vin
ordinaire_?" said the Whaup, with a cold severity.

"Pah!" she cried, petulantly.  "You do give me no peace with your
Lord Earlshope!  I wish you would fight him, not frighten me with
such nonsense.  I will believe you are jealous--you stupid boy!  But
if you will take me to St. Nazaire--to this place--I will forgive you
everything, and I will--what can I do for you!--I will kiss you--I
will sew a handkerchief for you--anything."

The Whaup blushed very red, but frowned all the same.

"I will take you to Saltcoats," said he; "but we in this country
don't like young ladies to be so free with their favours."

Coquette looked rather taken down, and only ventured to say, by way
of submissive apology--

"You are my cousin, you know."

They were about to slip out of the house unperceived, when Leezibeth
confronted them.

"Beg your pardon, Miss, but I would like to hae a word wi' ye," she
said, in a determined tone, as she blocked up their way.

The Whaup began to look fierce.

"It is seventeen years come Michaelmas," said Leezibeth, in set and
measured tones, "since I cam' to this house, and a pious and
God-fearing house it has been, as naebody will gainsay.  We who are
but servants have done our pairt, I hope, to preserve its character;
though in His sight there are nae servants and nae masters, for he
poureth contempt upon princes, and causeth them to wander in the
wilderness, and yet setteth the poor on high from affliction, and
maketh him families like a flock.  I wouldna distinguish between
master and servant in the house; but when the master is blind to the
things of his household, then it would ill become an honest servant,
not afraid to give her testimony----"

"Leezibeth," said the Whaup, "your talk is like a crop o' grass after
three months' rain.  It's good for neither man nor beast, being but a
_blash o' water_."

"As for ye, sir," retorted Leezibeth, angrily, "it was an ill day for
ye that ye turned aside to dangle after an idle woman----"

"As sure as daith, Leezibeth," said the Whaup, in his strongest
vernacular, "I'll gar ye gang skelpin' through the air like a
splinter if ye dinna keep a civil tongue in your head!"

"But what is it all about?" said Coquette, in deep dismay.  "What
have I done?  Have I done any more wrong?  I know not--you must tell
me----"

"And is it not true, Miss," said Leezibeth, fixing her keen grey eye
on the culprit, "that ye daur to keep a crucifix--the symbol of the
woman that sits on seven hills--right aboon your head in your bed;
and have introduced this polluting thing into an honest man's house,
to work wickedness wi', and set a snare before our feet?"

"I do not know what you mean by seven hills, or a woman," said
Coquette, humbly.  "I thought the cross was a symbol of all religion.
If it annoys you, I will take it down, yes--but my mother gave it to
me--I cannot put it away altogether.  I will hide it, if it annoys
you; but I cannot--surely you will not ask me to part with it
altogether----"

"You shall not part with it," said the Whaup, drawing himself up to
his full height.  "Let me see the man or woman who will touch that
crucifix, though it had on it the woman o' Babylon herself!"

Leezibeth looked dazed for a moment.  It was almost impossible that
such words should have been uttered by the eldest son of the
Minister; and for a moment she was inclined to disbelieve the
testimony of her ears.  Yet there before her stood the lad, tall,
proud, handsome, with his eyes burning and his teeth set.  And there
beside him stood the witch-woman who had wrought this perversion in
him--who had come to work destruction in this quiet fold.

"I maun gang to the Minister," said Leezibeth, in despair.  "Andrew
and I maun settle this maitter, or else set out, in our auld age, for
a new resting-place."

"And the sooner the Manse is rid of two cantankerous old idiots the
better!" said the Whaup.

Leezibeth bestowed upon him a glance more of wonder and fear than of
anger, and then went her way.

"Come!" said the Whaup to his companion.  "We maun run for it, or we
shall see no St. Nazaire this night."

Then Coquette, feeling very guilty, found herself stealing away from
the Manse, led by the Minister's daredevil son.




CHAPTER VIII.

SALTCOATS.

The two fugitives fled from the Manse, and crossed over the moor, and
went down to the road leading to Saltcoats, in very diverse moods.
The Whaup made light of the affair of the crucifix, and laughed at it
as a good joke.  Coquette was more thoughtful, and a trifle angry.

"It is too much," she said.  "I am not in the habit to make enemies,
and I cannot live like this--to be looked at as something very bad.
If I do not know the feelings of your country about music, about
Sunday, about religion--and it seems even a crime that I shall be
cheerful at times--why not tell me instead of to scold?  I will do
what they want, but I will not be treated like a child.  It is too
much--this Leesiebess, and her harsh voice, and her scolding.  It is
too much--it is not bearable--it is a beastly shame!"

"A what?" said the Whaup.

"A beastly shame," she repeated, looking at him rather timidly.

The Whaup burst into a roar of laughter.

"Is it not right?" she said.  "Papa did use to say that when he was
indignant."

"Oh, it is intelligible enough," said the Whaup, "quite intelligible;
but young ladies in this country do not say such things."

"I will remember," said Coquette, obediently.

The Whaup now proceeded to point out to his companion that, after
all, there was a good deal to be said on the side of Leezibeth and
her husband Andrew.  Coquette, he said, had given them some cause to
complain.  The people of the Manse--whom Coquette took to represent
the people of the country--were as kind-hearted as people anywhere
else; but they had their customs, their beliefs, their prejudices, to
which they clung tenaciously, just like people elsewhere; and,
especially, in this matter of the crucifix, she had wounded their
feelings by introducing into a Protestant Manse the emblem of a
religion which they regarded with horror.

"But why is it that you regard any religion with horror?" said
Coquette.  "If it is religion, I do think it cannot be much wicked!
If you do bring some Protestant emblem into my Catholic church I
shall not grumble--I would say, we all believe in the one God--you
may have a share of my bench--you may pray just beside me--and we all
look to the one Father who is kind to us."

The Whaup shook his head.

"That is a dangerous notion; but I cannot argue with you about it.
Everything you say, everything you do, is somehow so natural, and
fitting, and easy, that it seems it must be right.  It is all a part
of yourself, and all so perfect that nobody would have it altered,
even if you were wrong."

"You do say that?" said Coquette, with a blush of pleasure.

"That sort of vague religious sentiment you talk of would be
contemptible in anybody else, you know," said the Whaup, frankly--"it
would show either weakness of reasoning or indifference; but in you
it is something that makes people like you.  Why, I have watched you
again and again in the parlour at the Manse; and whether you let your
hand rest on the table, or whether you look out of the window, or
whether you come near the fire, you are always easy and graceful.  It
is a gift you have of making yourself, without knowing it, a picture.
When you came out just now, I thought that grey woolly shawl round
your shoulders was pretty; and since you have put it round your head,
it is quite charming.  You can't help it.  And so you can't help that
light and cheerful way of looking at religion, and of being happy and
contented, and of making yourself a pleasure to the people round
about you."

Coquette began to laugh; and the Whaup came to an uncomfortable stop
in the midst of his rapid enthusiasm.

"When you talk like that," she said, "I think I am again in France, I
am so gay-hearted.  You approve of me, then?" she added, timorously.

Approve of her!  Was it possible that she could care for his
approval?  And in what language could he express his opinion of her
save in the only poetry familiar to Airlie Manse?--"The King's
daughter is all glorious within: her clothing is of wrought gold.
She shall be brought unto the King in raiment of needlework: the
virgins her companions that follow her shall be brought unto thee.
With gladness and rejoicing shall they be brought: they shall enter
into the King's palace."  Only, this King's daughter was without
companions--she was all alone--and the Whaup wondered how this pure
and strange jewel came to be dropped in the centre of a Scotch moor.

The wind was blowing hard from the south-west--the region of rain.
Arran was invisible; and in place of the misty peaks there was a
great wall of leaden-grey sky, from the base of which came lines and
lines of white waves, roaring in to the shore.  Coquette drew her
thick plaid more closely around her, and pressed on; for St. Nazaire
now lay underneath them--a dark line of houses between the sea and
the land.

"What is that woman," said Coquette, looking along the road, "who
stands with the flowers in her hand, and her hair flying?  Is she
mad?  Is she Ophelia come to Scotland?"

Mad enough the girl looked; for as they came up to her, they found
her a bonnie Scotch lassie of sixteen or seventeen, who sobbed at
intervals, and kept casting tearful glances all around her.  She
carried in one hand her bonnet, in the other a bunch of flowers; and
the wind that had scattered the flowers, and left but a remnant in
her hand, had also unloosed her nut-brown hair, and blown it in
tangled masses about her face and neck.  She stood aside, in a shamed
way, to let the strangers pass; but the Whaup stopped.

"What is the matter wi' ye, lass?" said he.

"I had my shoon and stockings in my bundle," she said, while the
tears welled up in her blue eyes, "and I hae dropped them out; and I
canna gang back the road to look for them, for I maun be in Saltcoats
afore kye-time."

"What does she say?" asked Coquette.

"She has only lost her shoes and stockings, that's all," said the
Whaup.

"But it is bad enough for her, I dare say."

In an instant Coquette had out her purse--a dainty little Parisian
thing, in mother-of-pearl, with filagree work round it--and taken
therefrom two Napoleons.

"Here," she said, going forward to the girl, "you must not cry more
about that.  Take my little present, and you will buy more shoes and
more stockings for yourself."

The girl eyed the money with some dismay; and probably wondered if
this was not a temptress who had suddenly appeared to offer her gold,
and who spoke with a strange sound in her voice.

"Dinna be a sumph!" said the Whaup, who could talk broadly enough
when occasion demanded.  "Take the money the leddy offers ye, and
thank her for't."

The girl accepted the foreign-looking coins, and seemed much
distressed that--like the peasantry of Scotland in general--she did
not know how to express the gratitude she felt.  Her thanks were in
her eyes, and these spoke eloquently.  But, just as her benefactors
were moving on, a man came along the road with something dangling
from his hands.  Great was the joy of the girl on perceiving that he
had found her lost property; and, when he had come up and delivered
the things to her, she advanced with the money to Coquette.

"Thank ye, mem," said she.

"Won't you keep the money, and buy something for your little brothers
and sisters, if you have any?"

This offer was declined, with just an inkling of pride in the girl's
manner; and the next instant she was hurrying to Saltcoats as fast as
her bare feet could cany her.

Now, this incident had delayed the two runaways much longer than they
suspected; and, when they got down to Saltcoats, they were much later
than they dreamed.  Indeed, they never looked at the town clock in
passing, so satisfied were they that they had plenty of time.

"This is not like St. Nazaire," said Coquette, decidedly.

"You have not seen it yet," returned the Whaup, just as confidently.

A few minutes afterwards Coquette and he stood upon the shore.  The
long bay of Saltcoats, sweeping round from the far promontory of
Troon, fronted a heaving, tumbling mass of white-crested waves, that
came rolling onward from under a great leaden breadth of sky; and, as
they gazed out on this wintry-looking sea, they had on their right
hand the grey stone wall of the town, which projected into the water,
with here and there a crumbling old house peeping over it.  The
church spire rose above the tallest of the houses, and aided the
perspective--so much so that it was almost possible to imagine that
the site of the building had been chosen by one who had studied the
picturesque opportunities of the place.

"It is St. Nazaire in winter!" cried Coquette, her voice half lost in
the roar of the waves.

"Didn't I tell you?" triumphantly shouted the Whaup, who had never
seen St. Nazaire, but only knew that, on this side, Saltcoats looked
singularly like a little French walled town.  "Now will you come and
see the harbour?"

But she would not leave.  She stood there, with her shawl fluttering
in the fierce wind, and with her slight form scarcely able to
withstand the force of the hurricane, looking out on the rushing
white crests of the waves, on the black line of the town perched
above the rocks, and on the lowering western sky, which seemed to be
slowly advancing with its gloom.  There was no sign of life near
them--not even a sailor on the watch, nor a ship running before the
gale--nothing but the long and level shore, and the great wild mass
of waves, which had a voice like thunder far out beyond the mere
dashing on the beach.

"Imagine what it would be," she said, "to have one you loved out in a
fearful storm, and for you to come down here at night to hear the
savage message that the waves bring.  It would make me mad.  You will
not go to sea?" she added suddenly, turning to him with an urgent
pleading in her face and her voice.

"No--of course not," he said, looking strangely at her.

Was it possible, then, that this vague determination of his had
lingered in her mind as a sort of threat?  Did she care to have him
remain near her?

"Come," said he, "we must hurry, if you mean to look at the harbour
and the old ruins at the point.  Besides, I want you to rest for a
minute or two at an inn here, and you shall see whether there is no
_vin ordinaire_ in the country except at Earlshope."

"Earlshope--Earlshope," she said.  "Why do you talk always of
Earlshope?"

The Whaup would not answer, but led her back through the town, and
stopped on their way to the harbour at the Saracen's Head.  Here
Coquette had a biscuit and a glass of claret; and was further
delighted to perceive that the window of the room they were in looked
out upon a very French-looking courtyard of stone, surrounded by a
high wall which appeared to front the sea.

"It is St. Nazaire in winter," she repeated; "the grey stones, the
windy sea, the chill air.  Yet how dark it becomes!"

Indeed, when they had resumed their journey, and gone out to the
point beyond the little harbour, the gale had waxed much more fierce.
They passed through the ruins of what seemed an ancient fortress on
to the rocks, and found themselves alone in front of the sea, which
had now become of a lurid green.  It was, in fact, much lighter in
colour than the sombre sky above; and the grey-green waves, tumbling
in white, could be seen for an immense distance under this black
canopy of cloud.  The wind whistled around them, and dashed the spray
into their blinded eyes.  The wildness of the scene--the roaring of
wind and sea around--produced a strange excitement in the girl; and
while she clung to the Whaup's arm to steady herself on the rocks,
she laughed aloud in defiance of the storm.  At this moment a glare
of steel-blue light flashed through the driving gloom in front of
them; and almost simultaneously there was a rattle of thunder
overhead, which reverberated far and long among the Arran hills.
Then came the rain; and they could hear the hissing of it on the sea
before it reached them.

"Shall we make for the town?" cried the Whaup, "or shelter ourselves
in the ruins?"

He had scarcely spoken when another wild glare burst before their
eyes, and made them stagger back; while the rattle of the thunder
seemed all around their ears.

"Are you hurt?" said Coquette, for her companion did not speak.

"I think not," said the Whaup; "but my arm tingles up to the elbow,
and I can scarcely move it.  This is close work.  We must hide in the
ruins, or you will be wet through."

They went inside the old building; and crept down and sat mute and
expectant under Coquette's outstretched plaid.  All around them was
the roaring of the waves, with the howling of the gusts of wind and
rain; and ever and anon the rough stone walls before them would be
lit up by a flash of blue lightning, which stunned their eyes for
several seconds.

"This is a punishment that we ran away," said Coquette.

"Nonsense!" said the Whaup.  "This storm will wreck many a boat; and
it would be rather hard if a lot of sailors should be drowned merely
to give us a drouking."

"What is that?"

"A wetting, such as we are likely to get.  Indeed, I don't think
there is much use in stopping here; for it will soon be so dark that
we shall not be able to get along the rocks to the shore."

This consideration made them rise and leave at once; and sure enough
it had grown very dark within the past half-hour.  Night was rapidly
approaching as they made their way through Saltcoats to gain the road
to Airlie.  Nor did the storm abate one jot of its fury; and long
before they had begun to ascend towards the moorland country, the
Whaup was as wet as though he had been lying in a river.  Coquette's
thick plaid saved her somewhat.

"What shall we do?" she said.  "They will be very angry, and this
time they have reason."

"I shouldn't care whether they were angry or not," said the Whaup,
"if only you were at home and in dry clothes."

"But you are wetter than I am."

"But I don't care," said the Whaup, although his teeth were
chattering in his head.

So they struggled on, in the darkness, and wind, and driving rain,
until it seemed to Coquette that the way under foot was strangely
spongy and wet.  She said nothing, however, until the Whaup
exclaimed, in a serious voice--

"We are off the road, and on the moor somewhere."

Such was the fact.  They had got up to the high land only to find
themselves lost in a morass, with no means of securing the slightest
guidance.  There was nothing for it but to blunder on helplessly
through the dark, trusting to find some indication of their
whereabouts.  At last they came to an enclosure and a footpath; and
as they followed this, hoping to reach the Airlie road, they came
upon a small house, which had a light in its windows.

"It is Earlshope Lodge," said the Whaup.  "And there are the gates."

"Oh, let us go in and beg for some shelter," said Coquette, whose
courage had forsaken her the moment she found they had lost their way.

"You may," said a voice from the mass of wet garments beside her,
"you may go in, and get dry clothes, if you like; but I will not."




CHAPTER IX.

COQUETTE'S PROMISE.

"Good morning, Miss Cassilis," said Lord Earlshope, as he met
Coquette coming over the moorland road.  "I hear you had an adventure
last night.  But why did not you go into the lodge and get dried?"

"Why?" said Coquette--"why, because my cousin Tom and I were as wet
as we could be, and it was better to go on straight to the Manse
without waiting.  Have you seen him this morning?"?

"Your cousin?  No."

"I am looking for him.  I think he believes he is in disgrace at the
Manse, and has gone off for some wild mischief.  He has taken all his
brothers with him; and I did hear him laughing and singing as he
always does when he--how do you call it?--when he breaks out."

"Let me help you to look for him," said Earlshope.  "I am sure he
ought to be proud of your solicitude, if anything is wanted to make
him happier than he is.  How thoroughly that handsome lad seems to
enjoy the mere routine of living!"

"You talk as if you were an old man," said Coquette, with one of her
bright laughs.  "Do not you enjoy living?"

"Enjoy it?  No.  If the days pass easily, without much bother, I am
contented; but happiness does not visit a man who looks upon himself
as a failure at twenty-seven."

"I do not understand you," said Coquette, with a puzzled air.

"You would provoke me into talking about myself, as if I were a
hypochondriac.  Yet I have no story--nothing to amuse you with."

"Oh, I do wish you to tell me all about yourself," said Coquette,
with a gracious interest.  "Why you remain by yourself in this place?
Why you have no companions--no occupation?  You are mysterious."

"I am not even that," he said, with a smile.  "I have not even a
mystery.  Yet I will tell you all about myself, if you care to hear,
as we go along.  Stop me when I tire you."

So her companion began and told her all about himself and his
friends, his college life, his relations, his acquaintances, his
circumstances--a rather lengthy narrative, which need not be repeated
here.  Coquette learned a great deal during that time, however, and
saw for the first time Lord Earlshope in a true light.  He was no
longer to her a careless and light-hearted young man, who had made
her acquaintance out of indolent curiosity, and seemed inclined to
flirt with her for mere amusement.  He was, in his own words, a
failure at twenty-seven--a man whose extremely morbid disposition had
set to work years ago to eat into his life.  He had had his
aspirations and ambitions; and had at length convinced himself that
he had not been granted the intellect to accomplish any of his
dreams.  What remained to him?

"I was not fit to do anything," he said, "with those political,
social, and other instruments that are meant to secure the happiness
of multitudes.  All I could do was to try to secure my own happiness,
and help the philanthropists by a single unit."

"Have you done that?" said Coquette.

"No," he rejoined, with a careless shrug, "I think I have failed in
that, too.  All my life I have been cutting open my bellows to see
where the wind came from; and if you were to go over Earlshope, you
would discover the remains of twenty different pursuits that I have
attempted and thrown aside.  Do you know, Miss Cassilis, that I have
even ceased to take any interest in the problem of myself--in the
spectacle of a man physically as strong as most men, and mentally so
vacillating that he has never been able to hold an opinion or get up
a prejudice to swear by.  Even the dullest men have convictions about
politics; but I am a Tory in sympathy and a Radical in theory, so
that I am at war with myself on pretty nearly every point.  Sometimes
I have fancied that there are a good many men in this country more or
less in my condition; and then it has occurred to me that an invasion
of England would be a good thing."

"Ah, you would have something to believe in then--something to fight
for!" said Coquette.

"Perhaps.  Yet I don't know.  If the invaders should happen to have
better educational institutions than England--as is very
likely--oughtn't I to fight on their side, and wish them to be
successful, and give us a lesson?  England, you know, owes everything
to successive invasions; for the proper test of the invader's
political institutions was whether they could hold their own in the
country after he had planted his foot there.  But I have really to
beg your pardon.  I must not teach you the trick of following
everything to the vanishing point.  You have the greatest of earthly
blessings; you enjoy life without asking yourself why."

"But I do not understand," said Coquette, "how I can enjoy more than
you.  Is it not pleasant to come out in the sunshine like this, after
the night's rain, and see the clear sky, and smell the sweet air?
You enjoy that----"

"I cannot help wondering what appetite it will give me."

Coquette made an impatient gesture with her hands.

"At least you do enjoy speaking with me here on this pleasant
morning?"

"The more we talk," he said, "the more I am puzzled by the mystery of
the difference between you and me.  Why, the passing of a
bright-coloured butterfly is an intense pleasure to you!  I have seen
you look up to a gleam of blue sky, and clasp your hands, and laugh
with delight.  Every scent of a flower, every pleasant sound, every
breath of sunshine and air, is a new joy to you; and you are quite
satisfied with merely being alive.  Of course, it is an advantage to
be alive; but there are few who make so much of it as you do."

"You think too much about it," said Coquette; "when you marry some
day, you will have more practical things to think of, and you will be
happier."

At the mention of the word marriage a quick look of annoyance seemed
to pass across his face; but she did not notice it, and he replied
lightly,

"Marriages are made in heaven, Miss Cassilis; and I am afraid they
won't do much for me there."

"Ah! do not you believe in heaven?" she said, and the brown eyes were
turned anxiously to his face.

"Do not let us talk about that," said he, indifferently; "I do not
wish to alienate from me the only companion I have ever found in this
place.  Yet I do not disbelieve in what you believe, I know.  What
were you saying about marriage?" he added, with an apparent effort;
"do you believe that marriages are made in heaven?"

"I do not know," replied Coquette; "the people say that sometimes."

"I was only thinking," remarked Lord Earlshope, with an apparently
careless laugh, "that if the angels employ their leisure in making
marriages, they sometimes turn out a very inferior article.  Don't
you think so?"

Coquette was not a very observant young person--she was much too
occupied with her own round of innocent little enjoyments; but it did
strike her that her companion spoke with a touch of bitterness in his
tone.  However, they did not pursue the subject further, for, much to
their surprise, they suddenly stumbled upon the Whaup and his
brothers.

The boys were at a small bridge crossing the stream that ran down
from Airlie moor; and they were so intent upon their own pursuits
that they took no notice of the approach of Coquette and her
companion.  Lord Earlshope, indeed, at once motioned to Coquette to
preserve silence; and, aided by a line of small alder and hazel
bushes which grew on the banks of the rivulet, they drew quite near
to the Minister's sons without being perceived.

Coquette was right: the Whaup had "broken out."  Feeling assured that
he would be held responsible for all the crimes of yesterday--the
affair of the crucifix, the clandestine excursion to Saltcoats, and
the mishaps that accrued therefrom--the Whaup had reflected that it
was as well to be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.  When Coquette and
her companion came in sight of him, he was fulfilling the measure of
his iniquities.

What had moved him to vent his malignity on his younger brother
Wattie must remain a mystery--unless it was that Wattie was the "best
boy" of the Manse, and, further, that he had shown an enmity to
Coquette; but at this moment Wattie was depending from the small
bridge, his head a short distance from the water, his feet held close
to the parapet by the muscular arms of the Whaup, while one of the
other boys had been made an accomplice to the extent of holding on to
Wattie's trousers.

"Noo, Wattie," said the Whaup, "ye maun say a sweer before ye get up.
I'm no jokin', and unless ye be quick, ye'll be in the water."

But would Wattie, the paragon of scholars, the exemplar to his
brothers, imperil his soul by uttering a "bad word?"  Surely not!
Wattie was resolute.  He knew what punishment was held in reserve for
swearers; and preferred the colder element.

"Wattie," said the Whaup, "say a sweer, or ye'll gang into the burn,
as sure as daith!"

No; Wattie would rather be a martyr.  Whereupon--the bridge being a
very low one--the Whaup and his brothers dipped Wattie a few inches,
so that the ripples touched his head.  Wattie set up a fearful howl;
and his brothers raised him to his former position.

"Now, will ye say it?"

"_Devil!_" cried Wattie.  "Let me up; I hae said a sweer."

The other brothers raised a demoniac shout of triumph over this
apostacy; and the Whaup's roars of laughter had nearly the effect of
precipitating Wattie into the stream in downright earnest.  But this
backsliding on the part of their pious brother did not seem to the
tempters sufficiently serious.

"Ye maun say a worse sweer, Wattie.  '_Deevil_' is no bad enough."

"I'll droon first!" said Wattie, whimpering in his distress, "and
then ye'll get your paiks, I'm thinking."

Down went Wattie's head into the burn again; and this time he was
raised with his mouth sputtering out the contents it had received.

"I'll say what ye like--I'll say what ye like!  _D--n_; is that bad
enough?"

With another unholy shout of derision, Wattie was raised and set on
the bridge.

"Noo," said the Whaup, standing over him, "let me tell you this, my
man.  The next time ye gang to my faither, and tell a story about any
one o' us, or the next time ye say a word against the French lassie,
as ye ca' her, do ye ken what I'll do?  I'll take ye back to my
faither by the lug, and I'll tell him ye were swearin' like a trooper
down by the burn; and every one o' us will testify against ye.  Ma
certes, my man, I'm thinking it will be your turn to consider paiks.
My faither has a bonnie switch, Wattie--a braw switch, Wattie; and
what think ye he'll do to his well-behaved son that gangs about the
countryside swearin' just like a Kilmarnock carter?"

Coquette held out her hand to her companion.

"Good-bye," she said, "and I do thank you for bringing me here."

Lord Earlshope perceived that he was dismissed, but did not know why.
He was not aware that Coquette was trembling lest she should be seen
in his forbidden company.

"Shall I see you to-morrow?" he said, as he took her hand.

"When it is fine I do always go out for a walk after breakfast," she
said lightly; and so they parted.




CHAPTER X.

THE SCHOOLMASTER.

Coquette would have given much to have recalled these words.  She
felt that they implied a promise; and that if she kept her promise
she would find herself hampered by the weight of a secret.  Now, the
girl abhorred every sort of restraint that interfered with the
natural cheerfulness and lightness of her heart; and no sooner had
Lord Earlshope disappeared, than she began to dread this thing that
she had done.  Why had he asked her to meet him?  Why did not he come
to the Manse?  And while she stood irresolute, wondering how she
could free herself from the chains that seemed likely to bind her,
the Whaup and his brother made a dash at the place of her concealment.

"Hillo!" cried her cousin Tom, "how did you come here?"

"I came in search of you," she said, glancing nervously round to see
that Lord Earlshope was out of sight.

"And you were spying on us, were you?" said the Whaup, with a laugh.

"Why do you ill-treat your brother so?" she said.

"It is no ill-treatment," he said, in his best English.  "It is the
execution o' a sentence passed on him last night by the whole of us.
We are the Vehmgericht of this neighbourhood, Miss Coquette, and when
any one injures you appeal to us.  You have only to name him and we
hamstring his cattle, set fire to his barns, and seize himself and
pull out his teeth.  Eh, boys?"

There was a general chorus of assent.

"But you must not call me by that name any more," said the young
lady, with a blush.

"Not Coquette any more?  I shall withdraw the name when I see you
don't deserve it," said the Whaup, with cool insolence.  It was clear
he had "broken out."

The Whaup now dismissed his brothers, and proceeded to escort
Coquette back across the moor.  He explained, however, that he did
not think it advisable for him to go into the Manse just then.

"Why?" said Coquette.  "I told Mr. Cassilis all about it--he does not
think you to blame."

"That means," said her companion, "that you took the blame on
yourself.  But you only know the half."

With which the Whaup broke into another fit of laughter.  When he had
recovered, he told her the story.  That morning, on issuing out, he
heard Andrew and Leezibeth talking about his cousin in a not very
complimentary fashion, and at once determined on revenge.  There was
an outhouse in which were kept garden utensils, coals, and various
other things, and this outhouse had a door which was occasionally
obstinate.  Now the Whaup seeing Andrew at the far end of the garden,
informed him that Mr. Cassilis wanted a spade brought to him; and
Andrew muttered "by and by."  Meanwhile, the Whaup made his way to
the outhouse, opened the door, and shut himself in.  Two or three
minutes afterwards, Andrew came and lifted the latch.  The door would
not open.  He shoved and shook; it would not open--for the simple
reason that the Whaup, who could see through a chink, had his foot
against it.  At last, Andrew, obviously very angry, retired a few
yards--made a race--and threw the whole of his weight upon the door.
There was a crash, a stumble, a cry, and then a great pealing shriek
of merriment as the Whaup jumped out of the place, leaving Andrew
lying among a heap of tumbled pitchforks and hand-barrows.  The door
had yielded so easily that Andrew had precipitated himself upon the
floor of the outhouse, and now lay groaning.

"I don't know what he said," remarked the Whaup, as he recounted the
adventure with great glee, "but it didna sound to me like the Psalms
of David."

"Tom," said his cousin, "you are a wicked boy.  Why do you not give
up these school jokes?  You are tall and strong enough to be a man:
why you behave as if you were at school?"

The Whaup was not in a repentant mood.

"I'm only half and between," said he.  "I am a man some days--a boy
others.  You can't expect me to change all at once, Miss Coquette."

"You must net call me that name," said she.  "It is not fair--I am
not Coquette."

"Oh, indeed," said he.  "When did you see Lord Earlshope?"

"This morning," said she, with a pout.

The Whaup was instantly sobered.

"Was Earlshope at the Manse?" he asked, coldly.

Now was the time for Coquette to make a full confession.  Indeed, she
had admitted having seen Lord Earlshope that morning for the very
purpose of telling the Whaup all about her half-promise, and so
relieving her mind from its burden of secrecy.  But as she looked at
him, she saw that his face had grown implacable.  She had not the
courage to tell him.  She said, in a timid way--

"He met me as I was coming to look for you, and walked a bit of the
way with me."

"How far?"

Coquette drew herself up somewhat.

"You have not the right to ask me such questions."

"I understand now," said the Whaup, calmly, "how you looked caught
when I found you at the bushes, and why you turned to look over the
moor.  I daresay he had come there with you, and sneaked away----"

"Sneaked!--sneaked!" said Coquette, warmly (although she only guessed
at the meaning of the word), "I do not know what it is; but Lord
Earlshope is not afraid to be seen.  Why should he be?  What is wrong
in his going with me there?  And you think I do not know what is
right for me to do?"

"Ah, well," said the Whaup, with an air of resignation.  "I give you
up.  I see you are just like other women."

"What do you mean?" said Coquette, angrily, though she kept her eyes
down.

"Nothing of any importance," said the Whaup, with a forced
carelessness.  "You profess you were doing what was right and
fitting; but you have not explained why you should have sent
Earlshope away--after all, he is a man, and would not have sneaked
off except at your bidding--or why you carefully hid from the whole
of us that you had just left him.  What was the reason of all that
concealment and hypocrisy?" he added, with a touch of indignation.
"I know you were doing no wrong--I have no fear in that way for one
that bears the name of Cassilis.  But why make the pretence of having
done wrong?  Why try to hide it?  Isn't that very woman-like?--isn't
that very deceitful?--and I thought you were something different from
other women."

She was nearly confessing the truth to him--that she had resorted to
this unfortunate bit of concealment merely because she was afraid of
him.  But she knew that if she made this admission she would probably
break down; and, as she would not show any such symptom of weakness,
she merely replied to him, with an air of proud indifference--

"I cannot help it, if I am a woman."

Thereafter, dead silence.  The two walked across the moor, some
little distance apart, without uttering a word.  When they reached
the Manse, Coquette went to her own room and shut herself up, feeling
very stern, determined, and wretched.

The Whaup, on the other hand, rendered desperate, resolved to deliver
himself up into the hands of justice.  He walked into his father's
study in order to impeach himself and demand punishment (the Whaup
felt that banishment from Airlie would almost have been welcome
then), but Mr. Cassilis was outside in the garden.  When the Whaup at
length perceived his father and approached him, he found that the
Schoolmaster was seeking an audience.

The Schoolmaster was a short, stout, red-haired man, with horn-rimmed
spectacles.  He had a bushy red beard, and held his head well drawn
back; so that, but for his defective stature, he would have looked a
person of importance.  However, Nature, not generous as regards
inches, had been kinder to him in his voice, which was deep and
sonorous; and it was the especial pride of Mr. Æneas
Gillespie--Schoolmaster, Parish Clerk, and Grand Aumoner of
Airlie--that he spoke a species of idiomatic English superior to the
talk of the common people his neighbours.  It was only on rare
occasions that he forgot himself, and relapsed into the familiar and
expressive phraseology of the district.

"It is a fine--I might even say a beautiful--morning," he observed to
Mr. Cassilis, as he came up.

"A beautiful morning, indeed," said the Minister.

At this moment the Whaup made his appearance, and was at once saluted
by the Schoolmaster.

"Come along, young man," he said, in his stately tones, "we may ask
your aid, or, as I may say, your assistance, in this matter.  Mr.
Cassilis, may I inquire of you what is your opinion of the present
Lord Earlshope--by which, I mean, do you think him a fit companion
for one o' your household?"

The Schoolmaster planted himself before the Minister, and fixed the
glare of his horn-rimmed spectacles on him.

"The question is a wide one, Mr. Gillespie," said the Minister, with
a smile.  "I do not think we ought to set ourselves up in judgment
upon our neighbours who may have been brought up under different
lights from ours, and may surprise us at times, I admit, by their
conduct.  Nor would it be fitting for them who try to walk according
to the Word to cut themselves off from all communication with people
who are less particular--for these might benefit by example and the
kindly teaching of acquaintanceship."

Mr. Gillespie shook his head.

"I would not interfere with your section of the public duties of this
parish," observed the Schoolmaster.  "You are the arbiter of morals
and conduct, while I do my humble best--my endeavour, as I may
say--with the education of our joint charge.  But if ye will let me
remark, sir, that we may be too easy with our judgment, and encourage
ungodliness by associating therewith.  For I would ask ye, Mr.
Cassilis, if we are to draw no line between the good and the bad,
what is the good--what is the good, as I may say--of being good?"

The Whaup grew very red in the face, and "snirted" with laughter.

"There are, Mr. Cassilis," continued the Schoolmaster, without
pausing for an answer, "there are those who err knowingly, and should
not be encouraged; there are those who err in ignorance, and should
be informed.  Of these last, by way of example, is Mrs. Drumsynie,
the wife of a carter in Dairy, who was taken home on Tuesday last
with a broken leg.  Now, this woman had so far misconstrued the
workings of Providence, as I may say, that when her husband was
brought in to her on a shutter, she exclaimed, 'I thank the Lord we
will get something out o' the Society at last'--meaning the Benefit
Society, of which I am the secretary.  This woman, as I judge, was
not to be taken as an irreverent or wicked woman, but as one
suffering from--or labouring under, as I may say--a misapprehension."

"I perceive, Mr. Gillespie," said Mr. Cassilis, gravely, "but ye were
observing----?"

"I am coming to the point, sir.  And I think I cannot do better than
premise with a simple statement of fact.  At this moment, or instant,
as I may say, your niece is out walking alone with Lord Earlshope."

The Whaup's face flushed with something else than laughter this
time--when he saw the object of the Schoolmaster's visit.

"Ye may premise what ye like," said the lad, indignantly, "but that's
a _doggont lee_!"

"Thomas!" cried the Minister, "ye shall answer for this afterward."

But the Whaup was determined to have it out with his enemy.

"At this moment, or instant, as I may say," he remarked (and the
Schoolmaster dared scarcely believe he was listening to such
insolence from a boy whom he had many a time thrashed), "Mr.
Cassilis's niece is in this house, and not with Lord Earlshope at
all.  And suppose she had been, what then?  Is it a crime for a girl
even to speak to him if she meets him?  Is it worse than for an old
man to come spying and telling tales?  And if an honest woman must
not walk with Earlshope, would an honest man sit down at his table?
And who was it, Mr. Gillespie, proposed Lord Earlshope's health at
the last tenantry dinner?"

This was a deadly thrust; and, having delivered it, the Whaup walked
off.  He was angry that he had been goaded into defending Lord
Earlshope; but his zeal in the cause of Coquette had carried him
beyond such considerations.  He looked up at her window rather sadly
as he passed.

"I suppose I shall be sent to Glasgow for this," he said to himself;
"and she does not know it was done for her sake."

The Schoolmaster and the Minister were left looking at each other.

"I am apprehensive of that lad's future," remarked the Schoolmaster,
"if he gives way to such unruly gusts of passion, and betrays the
symptoms--the evidences, I might even say--of a lawless and
undisciplined mind."

"We will leave that for the present, Mr. Gillespie," said the
Minister, rather impatiently.  "I will examine his conduct later on.
In the meantime, you have something to say about my niece."

"She may be in the house----," began the Schoolmaster.

"She _is_ in the house," said the Minister, decisively.  "None of my
boys has ever been known to tell a lie."

"At all events, Mr. Cassilis, with my own eyes did I see her walking
with that young man.  That is all I have to say.  I leave it to you
to judge whether such conduct is becoming to one who may be regarded,
or considered, as your daughter; or, indeed, whether it is safe for
herself.  We have a duty--an obligation, I might even call it--to
consider how our actions look in the eyes of our neighbour, so as not
to offend, but to walk decently and uprightly----"

"Mr. Gillespie," said the Minister, interrupting him somewhat rudely,
"you may depend on it that my niece has no clandestine relations with
Lord Earlshope.  It is not many days since they met each other for
the first time.  I have no doubt that when you saw them together it
was but a chance meeting.  You would not have them fly from each
other?"

The Schoolmaster shook his head.  He was beginning a serious
discourse on the duties of "professors," when the Minister was forced
to remind his visitor that this was the morning on which he began his
studies for the succeeding Sabbath, and that he would be obliged to
postpone further mention of the matter at present.

"We may return to it again at a more convenient season," said the
Schoolmaster, as he took his leave, "seeing the importance of one in
your position, Mr. Cassilis, being above reproach in all your ways
and actions in this parish."

All that day, and all that evening, Coquette was very silent, proud,
and miserable.  Once only she saw the Whaup; but he went away from
her in another direction.  It was understood in the Manse that
something serious with regard to the Whaup was in the wind.  For more
than an hour in the afternoon he was in his father's study; and when
he came out, he spent the rest of the day in looking over his live
pets--he supported a considerable stock of animals--and visiting his
favourite haunts in the neighbourhood, just as if he were going away.

Next morning Coquette met him at breakfast; he did not speak to her.
If he had even said good morning, she fancied she would have burst
into tears and begged his forgiveness, and told him all that
oppressed her.  But again, as she saw him silent and reserved--grave,
indeed, far beyond his wont--she put it down to pride; and then she
in her turn grew proud, and closed her lips with an inflexible air,
and felt supremely wretched.

Some little time after they had dispersed from the breakfast table,
the Whaup saw Coquette cross the courtyard, with her small hat and
shawl on.  When she perceived him, she walked rather timidly to him,
and said,

"I am going for a walk; I shall be glad if you will come with me."

"Where are you going?" he asked, coldly.

"In the direction I went yesterday.  I promised to go; I do think it
likely I shall meet Lord Earlshope, that is why I want you to come
with me."

"You promised to meet him, and now ask me to join; no, thank you.  I
should be the third wheel of the cart."

He turned and went away.  She looked after him.  A few minutes before
she had resolved she would not go for this walk; she would rather
break that slightly-given promise.  Bub when she saw him go away like
that, her lips were again pressed proudly and determinedly together;
and she raised the latch of the green gate and passed out into the
moorland road.




CHAPTER XI.

A MEETING ON THE MOOR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," said Coquette.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coquette's companion uttered an exclamation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I do not know," said Coquette.

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

"I must go back now," she said.

He looked at her with some surprise.

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

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

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

He smiled; but she was quite grave.

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

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

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

"Yes; and the more improbable the better."

"You get interested?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I did not promise; no.  But I did expect to see him--I did hope to
see him when I came out; and is it wrong?  Is it wrong for me to
speak to a stranger, when I do see him kind to me, in a place where
there are not many amiable people?  If it is wrong, it is because
Lord Earlshope is not suspicious, and hard, and ill-judging, like the
others.  That is why they do say ill of him; that is why they
persuade me to think ill of him.  I do not; I will not.  Since I left
France I did meet no one so courteous--so friendly--as he has been.
Why can I talk to him so easily?  He does not think me wicked because
I have a crucifix that my mother gave me--that is why we are friends;
and he does not suspect me.  But it is all over.  We are not to be
friends again; we may see each other to-morrow; we shall not speak.
Shal1 I tell Leesiebess?--perhaps it will please her!"

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




CHAPTER XII.

COQUETTE'S CONQUESTS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One morning there was a temporary cessation of the rain.

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

"If you please, I will go."

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

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

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

"What for?" said the Whaup.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Pensioner jumped to his feet.

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

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

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

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

"You play a great deal?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XIII.

A HOROSCOPE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It is very good of you----"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XIV.

SIR PETER AND LADY DRUM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Drum at once turned to the Minister.

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

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

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

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

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

"What is that?" said Earlshope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, I will do that," she said, adding timidly--"and about the
yacht--I am not to go?"

He looked in her eyes just then; and, oddly enough, that glance
somehow made him aware that he was holding her hand--a little, white
hand, that had a couple of slender rings on one of the fingers.  He
dropped the hand at once; was uncomfortable and shy for a moment; and
then said desperately, "Yes, I will go."

There was a flush of colour and gladness passed over the pale face;
and she lifted his hand suddenly and pressed it to her lips.  Then
she ran into the house, and presently reappeared with her hat and
some loose white thing that she hurriedly flung round her neck.  Her
eyes were so bright and joyous that the Whaup looked at her with
amazement.

In a secret corner the Whaup found his brothers, armed with large
boughs.  At once all set out for the moor where the bees' nest had
been discovered; and the Whaup revealed to Coquette that his object
in storming the nest was not merely to secure the little underground
nuts of honey.  A deed of vengeance had to be accomplished, and the
captured bees were to aid in the task.

Now, Sir Peter and Lady Drum were returning to Earlshope for
luncheon; but they went out of their way to call at a certain farm,
the dairy-maid there being under her ladyship's treatment.  It was
when they had resumed their route, and were driving along the high
moorland road, that they chanced to see in the distance a small
procession of figures, carrying branches of trees.

"Why yonder is Coquette running and laughing!" said Lord Earlshope.

"Running and laughing?" said Lady Drum.  "Has that dark-eyed little
witch been cheating me?"




CHAPTER XV.

A DANGEROUS ADVENTURE.

"What is the matter with you?" said the Whaup to Coquette.  "For a
few minutes you are alive, and in the world; and the next minute you
are staring over there at the sea, as if you could look through the
Arran hills, and find something miles and miles away on the other
side.".

Coquette started, and recalled herself; but there was no tinge of
embarrassment on the pale, clear, foreign face.  She said--

"I was thinking whether your papa would let us go with Lady Drum."

"Then he has not promised to go?" said the Whaup sharply.

The dark eyes of Coquette began to look afraid.

"It is a strange thing," said the Whaup, "that women will not tell
you all the truth at once.  They must keep back things, and make
mysteries, and try to deceive you.  Why didn't you say to me--'There
is a talk of our going a trip in Earlshope's yacht.  Will you come,
if we are allowed to go?'--instead of hinting that you were all fixed
on going, and I might as well join you?  Well, there, I am not going
to say another word.  You can't help it.  You are only a woman."

"And you are only a boy," she said, looking up to the tall, handsome
lad beside her,--"very kind, and very generous, and very stupid."

"I am older than you, at least," said the Whaup, who did not like
being called a boy.  "And, if it was any use, I'd give you the advice
to drop these little tricks, and be honest."

"If my honesty were equal to your rudeness, I should please you,"
said Coquette, with a smile.  She was disinclined just then to take
umbrage.

"It will be a bold thing for my father to go away anywhere in the
company of Lord Earlshope," observed the Whaup.  "It will be only his
regard for your health that will force him."

"Why?" said Coquette, with a touch of asperity.

"Well, you know the reputation he has in the parish," remarked the
Whaup, coolly.  "Perhaps everybody is wrong; but, at all events,
Earlshope gives them every reason to think ill of him.  He never
comes to church; he walks about on Sundays with his dogs; or else he
reads novels, and smokes cigars.  If I go with you, it is not to be
friends with him; it is to protect you.  Do you know, either he is
mad or one of these novels has turned his head; for he has got a
place built at the end of the grounds like a wizard's cave, with
trickling water running over a lot of rocks; and he sits there at
night to read, and in the rocks he has blue lights, that make the
place look as if it was haunted."

"That is stuff and humbug," said Coquette.

"What did you say?"

"I do mean it is nonsense, if that is better.  It is an old woman's
story of the village--it is a fable--it is foolish."

"Very well, very well," said the Whaup.  "But if you have the courage
to slip out of the house to-night when it is dark, and run all the
way there, I will take you in by an opening that I know, and show you
the place."

"Suppose he were there?" said Coquette.

"No fear.  The nights are getting too cold.  Will you go?"

"Perhaps," said Coquette.

By this time they had arrived at the spot of the moor where the Whaup
had discovered the bees' nest.  He pointed out to his companion a
small hole in a piece of mossy ground which was not covered by the
heather; and as she looked at it, a large humble-bee came crawling
out, paused for a second, and then flew away with a low buzzing noise
into the distance.  The Whaup threw off his jacket, and took his
spade in hand.

"Here," said he to Coquette, "protect yourself with this branch.
Knock them down when they come near you."

"Why?" she said.  "They will not harm me--I am not harming them."

"That may be the case wi' bees in France," observed the Whaup,
disdainfully, "where they've got fine manners; but ye'll find Scotch
bees are different."

So he ordered one of the boys to stand by Coquette and beat down any
bees that might come her way; threatening him with pains and
penalties dire if one should touch her.  Then he struck the spade
into the ground near the entrance to the nest, and raised a large
"divot."  The channel to the subterranean caves was now laid bare;
and one or two bees that had been coming up were seen extricating
themselves from the loose earth.  These Dougal straightway laid hold
of, by means of his handkerchief, and popped them into a large paper
bag which he held.

"What for you put them in a bag?" said Coquette; at which all the
boys burst out laughing.  But they did not tell her the secret.

The excitement of this work of destruction now began.  Out came the
bees in dozens, buzzing up from the ruddy earth only to be struck
down by great branches of alder borne by the boys; while the intrepid
Dougal, with his face and hands quite unguarded, stood over the hole,
and picked up whichever of them looked only stunned.  It was a
dangerous occupation; for those inside the bag which had partially
recovered began to hum their discontent, and tried to escape by the
small opening which admitted their companions in misfortune.
Sometimes, indeed, the other boys assisted, although they had
sufficient occupation for themselves in beating back the winged host
that flew round and round their ears.

Suddenly Wattie uttered a loud shriek, and set off running as hard as
he could.  His companions perceived to their dismay that about twenty
or thirty bees had clustered round his head, and were now following
him, and hovering over him as he ran.

"He's got the queen bee on his bonnet," said the Whaup.  "Throw down
your bonnet--ye idiot!--throw down your bonnet!"

Wattie was still within hearing, and had sufficient nerve left him to
do as he was bid.  He snatched at his cap, pitched it on the heather,
and again made off; but it was soon apparent that he was out of
danger.  The bees had lit upon the cap; and from a safe distance he
stood and regarded it with rather a rueful countenance.

The issue of bees had ceased.  The boys laid down their branches, and
began to dig out with their fingers, from among the red and sandy
earth, the small brown combs of honey, which were speedily
transferred, sand and all, to their mouth.  The Whaup, of course,
would not condescend to such vulgar and childish practices; but he
produced a pen-knife, and extracted some honey from one of the combs,
which Coquette was pleased to taste.

"What for you have bees in the bag?" said Coquette, as they prepared
to go home--a simultaneous charge of branches having cleared Wattie's
cap.

"I told you," said the Whaup, "there was a deed of vengeance to be
done.  In the stable there is a bag of corn, which Andrew opens twice
a day to get some for the pony.  We are going to put the bees in the
bag--I suppose there's near a hundred of them.  When Andrew plunges
his hand into the bag----"

"O you wicked boy!" cried Coquette.

"You are the cause of it," said the Whaup.

"I?"

"I heard him calling ye all sorts o' names out of the Bible--Satan
quoting Scripture, you see--and I have warned him before; and now
he'll get it."

"The bees, they will kill him," said Coquette.

"So much the better," retorted the Whaup; "he is a nuisance."

"But what is that on your hand--that is a sting, is it not?" she
said, looking at a considerable swelling, which was visible on the
Whaup's forefinger.

"Oh, one sting is nothing," he said, carelessly, "unless it's a wasp
or a hornet.  Did you ever burn out a nest of hornets?  If you
haven't, don't try."

"No," said Coquette, simply, "I'm not such a gowk."

"Well, that is pretty English!" observed the Whaup, with a stare.

"Isn't it right?  I did hear you say it yesterday," remarked
Coquette, without any notion that she was turning the tables on her
critic.

So they drew near home again; and the Whaup fancied a shade came over
his companion's face as they approached the Manse.  Perhaps it was
the dull, grey day, which made the old-fashioned little place look
dull and solitary--that made the moor look unusually bleak, and the
long stretch of country sombre and sad.

"I hope you are not tired," said the Whaup.

"Tired?  No," she said, with a certain languor.  "Do you think your
papa will take us away from here for a little while?"

"How you harp on that yacht!" rejoined the Whaup, good-naturedly.  "I
must go and persuade my father on your behalf, I think."

"Will you do that?" she said, with eagerness.

"Yes," he said, "and just now.  Isn't he there in the garden?  I hear
him talking.  Oh, it is the Schoolmaster, who is delivering a
lecture.  Now, I will wager he is talking about you."

"About me?"

"Yes; don't you know you are a dangerous character to the whole
village?"

"I should like to know what he says about me," said Coquette,
proudly, advancing towards the wall which surrounded the garden.

"But not that way," said the Whaup, taking her hand and leading her
off.  "If you wish to know, you mustn't hide and listen--although I
suppose that is a woman's way.  You go into the Manse--I will go into
the garden and bring you word what the new ground of complaint is."

Leaving Coquette, therefore, the Whaup went round the house, and
boldly walked up to the place where Mr. Gillespie and the Minister
stood together.

"It is Earlshope who is catching it this time," said the Whaup to
himself, overhearing the name.

His father looked with some surprise on the approach of his eldest
son--who had rather a pugnacious look on his face, by the way; but
the Schoolmaster was too intent upon his choice phrases to heed.

"... than which, sir, nothing could be more deplorable, or
mortifying, as I may say," observed Mr. Gillespie.  "But I would give
every man the due of his actions; for, although works are not in
themselves saving, they may be a sign--or, as some would term it, a
symptom--of the presence o' grace, even among the Gentiles who know
not the law, yet do the things that are written or inscribed in the
law."

"Yes, yes, Mr. Gillespie!" said the Minister, with an impatient
twitch at his bunch of seals: "but ye said ye had come to tell me----"

"Yes, sir, to inform ye of a circumstance which deserves, or is
entitled to, some remark.  I have been made the means--or, I may say,
the humble instrument--of conveying to the people of this parish no
less a sum than one hundred pounds sterling, to be expended, sir, as
those who have authority among us may direct, for the good--or
benefit--of such as are--such as are--such as are, in fact, here.
Ware it--or as I ought to say--expend it as we best may on the
educational or worldly wants of the parish, it is all the same; and
while I would observe, sir, that the money cannot heighten in value
the services which you give--or rather render to this parish--it
being your duty, as I may express it, to expound the prophecies and
dig up spiritual gold and silver for them that are of Zion, I would
take your advice wi' all humility as to how this sum is to be granted
to, or bestowed upon, the parish."

Mr. Gillespie paused, with the air of a man who had been up to the
occasion.  He raised his large spectacles towards the Minister's
face, and proudly awaited the reply.

"Where got ye this money?" said the Minister.

"Sir, from Lord Earlshope--some three days ago, with a letter dated
from some place in the north, in which his lordship was pleased to
say that it was but a whim of his.  A noble and a praiseworthy whim,
said I to Mrs. Gillespie, on receiving the money, for his lordship,
according to general report, or, as I might say, rumour, is a poor
man for one in his station; and as I would argue from facts, Mr.
Cassilis, rather than from idle hearsay, I am bold to observe that
there are in this very parish those who would look black at his
Lordship, and yet no bestow a bawbee on the relief o' the poor.  I
wouldna, sir, cast--or, in other words, fling--the first stone; and
if some would do as they see Lord Earlshope do, I am thinking, sir,
they would not--they would not do--as--as, in fact, they do do."

Feeling that his eloquence was beginning to halt, the Schoolmaster
pulled out the identical letter and cheque which had effected so
extraordinary a change in his sentiments towards the owner of
Earlshope.  These he handed to Mr. Cassilis, who took them and
scanned them with equal surprise and pleasure.  The Minister even
hinted that since his lordship was so well-disposed to the parish,
and apparently inclined to make up for past forgetfulness, it would
be unbecoming of the parish not to meet his advances in a similar
friendly spirit.

"Precisely and exactly as I observed to Mrs. Gillespie this morning,
sir, not ten minutes--nay, when I recollect, not above five
minutes--indeed, I am sure three minutes could not have
elapsed--after the reading of the letter, or communication I might
call it, seeing what it holds.  And Mrs. Gillespie, sir, made an
observation couched in homely phrase--yet pertaining, or, as I might
say, bearing upon this point.  She remarked that the test of a man's
fair words was when he put his hand in his pocket."

"It is sometimes so," said the Minister; adding, with a sly glance at
the Schoolmaster, "perhaps, after all, Mr. Gillespie, when my
parishioners hear of Lord Earlshope's generosity, they will not
wonder at my receiving him at the Manse, nor yet will they object to
his speaking to my niece."

The Schoolmaster looked rather uncomfortable; and the Whaup, behind
his back, performed some derisive and delighted antics of a vulgar
nature.

"I maun e'en take a man as I find him, Mr. Cassilis," said the
Schoolmaster, forgetting his English in the warmth of his
self-defence.  "If he alters for the better, what for should I stick
to my old opinion, like a flee to the wa'?"

"Certainly, certainly," said the Minister; "but sometimes it is our
judgment that is mistaken in the first case, and it behoves us to be
cautious and charitable."

"No man ever accused me o' being without charity, in moderation--in
moderation," said the Schoolmaster, with his spectacles glaring
fiercely.  "But I am no for that charity that lets ye be led by the
nose.  I have my own opeenions--charity is a good thing--a very good
thing--but it needna make a fool o' ye, and make people believe that
ye are as blind as Eli.  No, sir, wi' due deference to you, I still
consider Lord Earlshope to be----"

In his excitement the Schoolmaster had unconsciously unfolded the
cheque he held in his hands; and he now suddenly found himself
looking at it.  He did not finish the sentence.  He waved his hand,
as though to say--"These are bygones; I was right, but it is no
matter; and Lord Earlshope has mended."

"And what do ye propose to do with the money?--not that there will be
any difficulty in finding suitable directions," said the Minister.

"That," replied the Schoolmaster, with grave importance, "is a matter
for serious--and, I may add, patient--consideration, in which, sir, I
would earnestly desire your assistance and advice.  In the meantime,
it is but fitting (such is my humble opeenion) that acknowledgment of
his lordship's bounty should be made--and that not in a formal
manner, but in a friendly--a conciliatory manner, as I may say, in
which I will show his lordship that we of this parish recognise,
appreciate, and commend these approaches--or overtures they might, I
think, be properly called, on his part; and who knows, sir, but that
encouragement of this kind might have the effect of stimulating or
exciting his lordship to renew--I may say, in short, to repeat--these
attentions of a generous nature----"

Mr. Gillespie stopped here, not sure whether he had got to the end of
his sentence or not.  He then continued--

"I hope, sir, in your capacity of private friend of the young
nobleman, and as public and spiritual overseer of this parish, you
will convey to him our sense of what he has done; and if you could
bring him and the parish closer together----"

"At this present moment, on the contrary," said the Minister, with a
hesitating smile, "Lord Earlshope proposes to carry me away from the
parish.  I have received an invite, with some members of my
household, to go on a small voyage in his lordship's yacht, Lady Drum
being the instigator of the project, as I believe."

The spectacles of the Schoolmaster seemed to wax bigger.

"How do you think the parish would receive the proposal?" asked the
Minister, rather timidly.

"I will make it my business to ascertain," replied the Schoolmaster,
with an air of authority.  "Nay, further, Mr. Cassilis, I will even
go the length of advising your parishioners to acquiesce.  Why, sir,
it is their duty.  Lord Earlshope, Mr. Cassilis, is a man to be
encouraged--he must be encouraged."

This was all that was wanted to confirm the Minister's decision.  He
had for some time back seen fit to abandon the suspicions that had
been suggested by his meeting Lord Earlshope and Coquette on the
moor; and the only question now was whether Coquette's health would
be greatly benefited by his accepting the invitation.

The Whaup made off at this moment, and went to Coquette.

"You owe Gillespie a good turn for once," said he to her.  "The old
fool has persuaded my father to go."




CHAPTER XVI.

COQUETTE LEAVES AIRLIE.

How brightly shone the sun on the welcome morning of their
departure!--when Coquette, as she looked out to catch a glimpse of
the fair blue sea and the distant hills of Arran, could scarce take
time to curb the wildness of her dark hair.  Already the open window
let her drink in the fresh morning breeze; she felt the warmth of the
sun on her cheek.  Generally, at her toilette, she sang careless
snatches of French songs, or even endeavoured to imitate the Whaup's
whistling of a Highland reel; but on this morning she was far too
excited for any such amusements.  The face that had been getting
tired and wan of late was now flushed with happiness; and when at
last she came running down-stairs, and out into the garden--her white
dress fluttering in the sun, and her hair getting rather the better
of the dark blue band interwoven with it--she fairly overwhelmed the
boys with her demonstrations of affection and kindness.

The Whaup's brothers were practical young persons; and, though they
still regarded this foreigner and Catholic as a dangerous
companion--as somebody who had to be approached with caution--they
had discovered, at an early period, that certain gold coins of French
origin could be transformed at Ardrossan into an honest and
respectable mintage.  The amount of pocket-money which the reckless
young woman lavished upon her cousins (excepting the Whaup, of
course,) was appalling; nor could the observant Leezibeth make out
whence came all the new pocket-knives, tools, and similar boyish
luxuries which she discovered about the house.  The boys themselves
had an uneasy impression that there was something desperately wicked
in having so much money; and, indeed, had many private conversations
among themselves about the specious arguments with which they might
cheat the devil if he happened to put in a claim for them, on account
of extravagance.

"You must all be very good till I come back," she said, now, "for I
am going to bring you all presents.  I will buy you--what shall I buy
you?"

The boys began to laugh, but rather in a disappointed way.

"There is but wan thing ye'll get to buy in the Hielands," said
Dougal, "and that's herrin'."

"And too good for you," said the Whaup, coming up, "you greedy young
pigs.  If I hear you bargaining about presents any more I'll present
ye with a bottle o' hazel oil, if ye ken what that is.  Come along,
Miss Coquette, and get your breakfast, and then show me what luggage
you have.  I dare say it's twice as big as I can allow."

"You allow?  Are you the master of the luggage?"

"I am--as you'll find out," said he.  "I have just taken half the
pile of things that Leezibeth had packed up for my father and shunted
them into a drawer.  We don't mean to go to the Sandwich Islands."

"Do we go to the Sandwich Islands?" said Coquette, simply.

"I said we don't mean to go there," repeated the Whaup, with
asperity; "but I suppose you don't know where that is--the French are
so precious ignorant."

"Worse luck," said Coquette, with an expression of sincere penitence
which made the Whaup burst out laughing.

At length, some two hours afterwards, Coquette found herself seated
in the little dog-cart which had brought her to Airlie.  A sour man
was Andrew Bogue that day; and sourer was he now.  Nor word nor
syllable would he utter; and the more vivacious and talkative
Coquette became--speaking to her uncle, who sat behind, the Whaup
having been sent off on foot--the deeper and sterner became the gloom
of his face.  Perhaps he was none the less disposed to predict evil
of this appalling departure from the sober and respectable routine of
the Manse, because of a severe encounter he had had with Leezibeth
that morning.  He saw that Leezibeth had now gone wholly over to the
enemy.

When they reached the harbour and saw the shapely vessel lying out at
anchor, with her sails shining in the sun, they perceived that both
the Whaup and Lady Drum had gone on board.  Presently, the gig was
put off from the yacht, and in a few minutes Coquette and her uncle
were being pulled out by the four blue-jackets.  Lord Earlshope was
at the gangway to receive them.

"Why does he not wear a sailor's uniform?" said Coquette to Mr.
Cassilis, as they drew near.  "He does not seem to care about
anything."

When they stepped on board--and Coquette had looked round with wonder
on the whiteness of the deck, and the scrupulous neatness everywhere
visible--Lady Drum came forward, and kissed her, and said,

"My dear child, I hope you know about yachts, for I don't, and I feel
most uncomfortably in the way of everybody."

"Yes, I know a little," said Coquette.

"Why, all you have to do," said Lord Earlshope, coming forward, "is
to sit in the cockpit there--an innovation I introduced for the very
purpose of getting ladies out of the way during a race.  You need
have no fear of getting hit on the head by the boom, or of being
washed overboard either; and if a wave _should_ come over the
stern----"

"I hope there will be nothing of the kind," said Lady Drum, looking
indignantly out towards the sea.

The prospect there was sufficiently reassuring.  There was a light
breeze from the south-west which was just enough to ruffle the water
and make it of a darker blue.  Overhead the sky was clear and calm;
and the peaks of Arran were faint and aerial in the mid-day mist.
Everything promised a pleasant run up to Loch Fyne, if only the wind
would last.

While the men were getting the vessel under weigh, Lord Earlshope's
visitors went down below; and if Coquette had been pleased with the
prettiness of the yacht above, she was now charmed with the
decorations of the state-rooms and saloon.  The transparent flowers
painted on the skylights--the ornamentation and gilding of what she
profanely called the walls--the innumerable little arrangements for
comfort--all these were matter for praise; but the climax of her
delight was found in a small harmonium which was placed in the saloon.

"I should have got a piano for you," said Lord Earlshope--making no
secret of his having studied her pleasure in the matter--"but they
don't stand the sea so well.  Now, Lady Drum, will you take Miss
Cassilis into your cabin; and when you have made yourselves
thoroughly at home--and got out some wrappers for the sea breezes,
you know--you will find luncheon awaiting you here.  Mr. Cassilis,
you will take a glass of sherry, won't you?  You will always find it
_there_.  Mr. Tom, do you shoot?"

"I should think so!" said the Whaup, who had apparently forgotten his
sentiments of antagonism to Lord Earlshope.

"I thought you would.  You will find my breech-loader in your cabin;
and the steward will give you cartridges if you ask him.  Now I must
go on deck."

"I never thought he had so much snap in him," said the Whaup
familiarly to his father.

"So much what?" said the Minister, severely.

"Why, life--energy.  I thought he was rather a muff--with his white
fingers, and his lazy lounge and that.  But he's not as bad a fellow
as people say."

"Lord Earlshope would be pleased to know that you approve of him,"
said his father; but the Whaup lost the sarcasm, for he had already
run up the companion, to see what was going on above.  His father,
following, found that the Whaup had clambered half-way up the
ratlines, to get a view of the surrounding scenery as the yacht stood
out to sea.

When, some little time thereafter, the steward's bell called upon
Lady Drum and Coquette to come forth from their cabin, the latter was
heard to say--

"Why don't we start, then?  I do not like to remain in harbour."

But the moment she entered the saloon and saw the table slightly
heeling over, she said--

"We are at sea?"

"Yes," said Lord Earlshope; "and missing a pretty part of the coast.
So you ought to hasten your luncheon."

"But what is the matter with the table?" said Lady Drum, making an
effort to put it at right angles to herself.  Coquette screamed, and
caught her hand.

"If you put it straight," said Lord Earlshope, laughing, "you will
see everything fly to the ground."  It was days, indeed, before Lady
Drum could believe that this tumbling table was secure; and many a
time she had to check herself from instinctively "putting it
straight."

Pleasant, indeed, on that bright and quiet afternoon was their run up
the broad channel between Bute and Arran.  Far away the coast of
Ayrshire, which they had left, became paler and more pale; while on
before them successive bays opened out, with silent hills overlooking
them, and here and there the white glimmer of a sea bird in their
shadows.  Down in the south, the mountains that rise from the lonely
Loch Ranza had caught some clouds about their peaks, and were dark
and sombre, as the mountains of Arran generally are; but all in front
of them--the smooth slopes of Bute and Inch Marnoch, the craggy
wonders of the Kyles, the still shores of Cowal and Cantire--lay
steeped in a soft autumnal haze, with the rich colours of heather and
fern only half glimmering through the silver veil.  It was like a
voyage into dreamland--so beautiful was the land and sea and sky
around them--and so still.

Such was the manner of their setting out.  And in the evening they
drew near the little harbour of Tarbert; and all the west was aglow
as if with fire.  Even after they had dropped anchor, and the
mountains of Cowal were black as night, there was a wan glare over
the sky and out on the broad bosom of the loch.  Then through the
pallor of the twilight came the stars, growing and burning in the
darkness, until Coquette thought they seemed just above the points of
the tall masts.  She still lingered on deck, when all the others had
gone below.  The sails were down, lights run up, and through the
skylights of the saloon came a dull yellow glow, and a sound of
voices which spoke of a comfortable and happy party beneath.  Why was
it that she was so sad?  She had had her heart's wish; she was
setting out on the longed-for excursion; yet here she was alone in
the stern of the boat, looking up to the throbbing wonders of the
heavens, or down into the starry plain of the sea, and feeling
strangely isolated and miserable.

Lord Earlshope came in search of her.

"Why do you remain here alone?" he said.

"I do not know," said Coquette, rising wearily.

"They want you down below."

"I will go down; but it is very beautiful up here.  I have never seen
the stars so near.  They seem to be almost touching the top of the
hill there."

"You will have many opportunities of admiring the magical sunsets and
the clear nights of these high latitudes.  You may make the cruise as
long as you please, you know."

"But you do not go with us?" she asked, with some little
embarrassment.

"For a day or two, to give you a start.  Unless I am found to be so
useful that you all ask me to stay."

"Perhaps, then, you will come all the way with us?" said Coquette,
somewhat too eagerly.

"Perhaps I may."

Coquette went down into the cabin then; and everybody was struck
during the evening by her extreme amiability and cheerfulness.  She
quite won the heart of Lady Drum; who said that the effects of the
sea air on the young lady were surprising and gratifying, and needed
only to be supplemented by a little gentian.




CHAPTER XVII.

LOCHFYNE.

"It is Eden: it is the Garden of the Lord!" said the Minister; and
the sad and sunken eyes that had grown dim over many books--that had
grown weary, too, perhaps, with the bleakness of the upland
moor--looked abroad over one of the fairest scenes in the world, and
drank in the quiet and the dear sunshine of it.  Far in front of him
stretched the pale-blue plain of Lochfyne, that was as still, and
smooth, and motionless as the pale-blue sky above.  From this point
of the Knapdale coast away up to the fork of Loch Gilp there was not
a ripple on the calm surface; but over at the opposite shore a slight
breeze was bearing up from the south, and there the blue of the water
was intense and almost dark.  Beyond this azure plain lay the brown
and ruddy colours of the Cowal hills--soft and smooth in the mist of
the heat; while along them moved great dashes of shadow thrown by the
slowly-passing clouds above.  Through the stillness of the sunshine
they heard the soft whistle of the curlew; they saw the solan flap
his heavy white wings far down towards Arran; they watched the
solitary heron standing among the brown weeds out at the point of the
shore--while now and again a sea-trout would leap a foot into the
air, and fall with a splash again into the clear water.  Then all
around them, where they sat on the pebbly beach, was the drowsy
warmth of the sun--glittering sharply on the birch and hazel bushes
by the road--gleaming more softly on the great grey boulders--and
dwelling mistily on the bushes, and heather, and rocks of the
hill-side.  And all this was so still that it scarcely seemed to be
of this world; the murmur of a stream coming down through the
trees--trickling coolly and unseen beneath the tall ferns--had a far
and mournful sound, like the sound of distant music in a dream.

The silence was broken by Coquette trying to whistle "The Last Rose
of Summer."  Then she uttered a little cry of delight as she saw Lord
Earlshope and Lady Drum coming along the road underneath the trees;
and when at length they had drawn near and had come down to the
shore, Coquette said--

"Please, Lady Drum, will you tell me why my uncle becomes sad when he
sees a pretty day and a pretty place.  The good weather does not
cheer him----"

"It cheers you, at all events," said Lady Drum, with a kindly
scrutiny of the girl's face.  "It gives you a colour and a brightness
that makes an old woman like me feel young again only to look at ye.
How have you been employing yourself?"

"I?  I have been trying to whistle as my cousin whistles, but I
cannot do it like him, perhaps because I have no pockets.  He never
is able to whistle unless he puts his hands in his pockets, and looks
careless, and stands so!  Then I have watched the grey heron out at
the rocks there, and I have been wishing he would get a fish."

"I have been wishing I had a gun," said the practical Whaup, with
obvious discontent.

"And my uncle--he has been sitting and looking far away--looking
tired, too, and weary--just as if he were still in church."

"Listening to one of my own sermons, I suppose?" said the Minister,
taking his niece by the ear.  "I hope I have not been oppressing you
with my dulness?"

"Ah, no, no!" she said.  "But I did not speak to you; you were
thinking of old years gone away, were you not?"

The Minister looked at the girl: her eyes seemed to have divined what
he was thinking of.  But presently she turned to Lord Earlshope, and
said--

"We go not to-day?  We do not perhaps to-morrow either?"

"Why," said Lord Earlshope, with a smile, "you might turn your newest
accomplishment to some use.  Could you whistle a breeze to us?  We
are helpless, you see, until we get wind."

"I thought an English milord never wanted for anything that he did
not get," she said, with a glance of grave surprise.

The Whaup began to think that his cousin was a deal too clever to be
safe.

"Would it grieve you so much to stay a few days here?" said Lord
Earlshope.

"Not at all," said Coquette; "I should prefer to stay here always."

"I have had the yacht taken round to Maol-Daroch Bay--that little
shingly creek south of the harbour--since you spoke of the smell of
the fishing-nets this morning.  And when you wish to go into the
village you must ask the captain to send you round in a boat.  By the
way, the gig will be here presently.  I thought you might be too
tired to care about walking back."

"It was very kind of you to think of all that," said Coquette,
timidly, and looking to the ground.

It had already come to be regarded as a matter of course that
everybody should consider Coquette as of first importance, and obey
her slightest whim, and anticipate her smallest wishes.  But the most
systematic and persistent of her slaves was Earlshope himself, who
seemed to have discovered a new method of passing the time in trying
to please this young person by small attentions; and these he offered
in a friendly and familiar way which robbed them of any significance
they might otherwise have had.  The small tyrant, with the dark eyes,
and the delicate, finely-formed face, accepted these ministrations in
that spirit of careless amiability which was natural to her.
Sometimes--but rarely--she would appear to be struck by this or that
act of kindness, and seem almost disturbed that she could not convey
a sense of her gratitude in the broken tongue she spoke; but
ordinarily she passed from hour to hour in the same happy
unconsciousness and delight in the present--glad that all her friends
were around her, and comfortable--glad that she could add to their
enjoyment by being cheerful and merry.  Selfish she certainly was
not; and there was no sort of trouble or pain she would not have
endured to give pleasure to those who were her friends; but she would
have been blind indeed had she not perceived that to give pleasure
she had only to allow herself to be pleased--that her mere presence
diffused a sense of satisfaction through the small meetings that were
held in the saloon of the yacht, when the swinging lamps were lit,
and the stars overhead shut out, and the amusements of the evening
begun.  The Whaup used to say that she was continually making pretty
pictures; and he even condescended at times to express approval of
the neatness of her dress, or to suggest alterations in the disposal
of her big masses of dark-brown hair.

"And in time, you know," he remarked to her, "you will get to talk
like other people."

"I do not wish to talk like you," said Coquette.

"I can at least make myself intelligible," he retorted.

"Do not I become intelligible?" asked Coquette, meekly; and then, of
course, the least symptom of doubt on her part disarmed the Whaup's
criticism, and made him declare that she spoke very well indeed.

The measured splash of oars was now heard; and the heron slowly rose
into the air with a few heavy flaps of his wings, and proceeded to
settle on a farther promontory.  The gig, with its four rowers, came
round the point; and in a few minutes the heavily-laden boat was on
its way back to the yacht.

Coquette was delighted with Maol-Daroch Bay; she insisted upon
landing at once; and she and the Whaup accordingly ran up the white
shingle, and made for the hill-side.  Coquette stood upon a rock that
was perched high among the heathery roughnesses of the hill, and
waved her handkerchief to those who had by this time gone on board
the yacht.  Lord Earlshope answered with his cap, and Mr. Cassilis
with his walking-stick; Lady Drum had gone below.

"Now we shall go up this hill, and round, and down, and back by the
rocks of the shore," said Coquette.

"What's the use?" said the Whaup.  "I haven't a gun; and if I had, I
daren't shoot up here."

"Why must you kill something wherever you go?" said Coquette.

"Why must you scramble along a hill, all for nothing, like a goat?"
demanded the Whaup.

"Because it is something to do," answered Coquette.

"You are a pretty invalid!" remarked the Whaup.  "But here, give me
your hand--if you want climbing, I'll give you enough of it."

"No," said Coquette, planting her foot firmly.  "I like you when you
are gentle, like Lord Earlshope; but I am not going to be pulled by a
big rough boy."

"I have a great mind to carry you against your will," said the Whaup,
a demon of mischief beginning to laugh in his eyes.

"I would kill you if you tried!" said Coquette, with a sudden frown.

He came forward and took her hand quite gently.

"Have I vexed you?  Are you really angry, Coquette?  You didn't think
I was serious, did you?  You know I wouldn't vex you, if I got the
world for it."

A certain quivering of the lip, for a moment uncertain, resolved
itself into a smile--and that into a laugh--and then Coquette said--

"You are a very good boy, Tom, when you like.  Some one will be very
fond of you some day."

The Whaup grew more serious then; and, indeed, it seemed to Coquette
that ever after that time her cousin's manner towards her was more
reserved and grave than it had been before.  He did not try to drag
her into his boyish pranks, as he had been wont to do.  On the
contrary, he himself seemed somewhat altered: and at times she caught
him in a deep reverie.  He began to talk more about his coming winter
studies at the Glasgow University; and was even found, on rare
occasions, absorbed in a book.

He did not cease to exhibit those frank and manly ways which she had
always liked; nor did he even put any marked restraint on his
relations with her.  He was as impertinently straightforward as ever,
if the neatness of her wristbands called for commendation, or if the
streak of dark blue ribbon did not sufficiently curb the wildness of
her hair.  But he was more serious in his ways; and sometimes she
caught him looking at her from a distance, in a cold way, as if she
were a stranger, and he was desirous to impress her appearance on his
memory.

That evening he said to her briefly--

"Lord Earlshope and I are going to start at two to-morrow morning to
go along the coast and see if we can shoot some seals."

"But why should you take trouble to kill them?  Is it a pleasure to
kill them?"

"Bah!" he said.  "Women don't understand these things.  You wouldn't
hear a man ask such a question--except, perhaps, Earlshope
himself--he might--he seems to think in lots of things exactly as you
do."

This was said with no particular intention; and yet the girl looked
apprehensive as though the Whaup had been making some complaint.

Then some time after, he remarked to her--

"I don't think wicked people seem so wicked when you come to know
them."

Coquette was looking over the taffrail; she turned towards him and
said calmly--

"Do you mean me or Lord Earlshope?"

"Why should you always think of him?" said the Whaup.  "Would you be
very angry if what I said applied to both of you?"

With that he laughed and walked away, leaving Coquette to wonder
whether her cousin, too, regarded her as a wicked person.




CHAPTER XVIII.

COQUETTE SAILS TO THE NORTH.

In the darkness the yellow lights of the yacht were shining on the
spars and the rigging; the water that lapped against her side
sparkled with stars of phosphorescent fire; and a slight wind, coming
through the gloom, told of the rustling of ferns and bushes on the
hillside--when certain dusky figures appeared on deck, and began to
converse in whispers.  The Whaup was yawning dreadfully, and perhaps
wishing there was not a seal in the world; but he had proposed the
adventure, to which Lord Earlshope had good-naturedly acceded, and so
he felt himself bound in honour not to retract.

With their guns in their hands they got down into the dinghy which
was waiting for them, and the two men began to pull away gently from
the yacht.  The blades of the oars struck a flash of silver deep into
the water; and the white stars of the waves burned even more keenly
than the other reflected stars which, farther away, were glittering
on the black surface of the sea.  Towards the land some vague and
dusky forms that were scarcely visible were known to be the
iron-bound coast; and in uncomfortable proximity the Whaup could hear
the waves heaving in upon the rocks.  There was no other sound but
that and the measured rowing.  Overhead the innumerable stars burned
clear; there were flickerings of the reflected light on the moving
plain of the sea; and in there at the shore a vague darkness, and the
dashing of unseen waves.

When they had thus proceeded a certain distance along the coast, the
bow of the boat was turned shore-ward, and the men pulled gently in
toward the rocks.  In the starlight the outlines of the hills above
now became dimly visible; but underneath blackness universal seemed
to hide both shore and sea.  The noise all around them, however, told
the Whaup that they must be near land; and in a few minutes the boat
was cautiously run in, one of the men jumping out and holding her
bow.  With a double-barrelled gun in his right hand, the Whaup now
found himself struggling over a series of rocks that were
treacherously covered with seaweed; while, as he got on to higher
ground, these rocks increased in size, and the gaps between them were
plunged in even profounder darkness.  Presently he heard Earlshope
calling on him to halt; and shortly thereafter one of the sailors,
who had landed, appeared clambering over the boulders in order to
take the lead.

Their course was now a sufficiently perilous one.  The great masses
of tumbled rock that here form the coast line appeared to go
precipitately down into the sea--a great black gulf which they could
hear splashing beneath them; while ever and anon they came to deep
ravines in the sides of the hill, down which small streamlets could
be heard trickling.  Their progress along these rough
precipices--generally some fifty or a hundred feet above the sea--was
picturesque but uncomfortable.  The Whaup found that, in spite of all
his wild plunges and daring leaps, the sailor distanced him
considerably: and ahead of him he could only indistinctly see a black
figure which sometimes rose up clear and defined against the star-lit
sky, and at other times was vaguely seen to crawl along the surface
of a grey shelf of rock like some dusky alligator.  Now he found
himself up to the neck among immense brackens; again he was plunged
into some mossy hole, in which his boots were like to remain.  Not
unfrequently he had to go on hands and knees across some more than
usually precipitous shelf; the stock of his gun making sore work of
his knuckles as he clambered up the rough surface.

Another halt was called.  When the small bay around Battle
Island--where the seals were expected to be found--had nearly been
reached, it was determined, to prevent noise, that they should take
off their boots and creep along the rocks on their stocking-soles.
The stars were now paling; and, as the faint light of dawn would soon
appear, every precaution was necessary that the seals should not
become aware of their approach.  No sooner, indeed, had the Whaup
removed his boots than he danced a wild dance of exultation, so
delighted was he to find that the soles of his stockings caught so
easily and surely on the surface of the boulders.  There was now far
less risk of a sudden tumble headlong into the sea--although, to be
sure, even up here among the rocks, it was not pleasant, in the cold
of the night, to find one's feet go down into a pool of mossy water.

"Do you regret having come?" said Lord Earlshope.

"Regret it!" said the Whaup.  "I'd wade a mile up to my neck to shoot
a seal."

Then he added, with his usual frankness--

"I didn't expect you'd have been able to keep up with us."

"Why?"

"Well," said the Whaup, seeing before him the outline of a tall,
lithe, slim figure, "I didn't think you were much good for this sort
of rough work."

Earlshope laughed--not very loudly.

"Perhaps not," he said; he did not think it worth while to astonish
Master Tom with tales of what he had done in the way of muscular
performances.  "But you should not be severe on me.  I rather fancy
this is a piece of folly; and I have undertaken it merely to interest
you."

The Whaup noticed at this moment that his companion had in his hand
the heavy rifle, which he carried in a very easy and facile manner.

"You may be stronger than you look," observed the Whaup--throwing out
this qualification from mere good-humour.  He still retained an
impression that Earlshope, with his lady-like fingers, and his pretty
moustache, and his delicate jewellery, was something of a milksop.

Absolute silence was now the watchword as they advanced: there was no
scraping of heels on the grit of the rocks--no clink of a
trigger-guard in putting down the hand for safety's sake.  In a
thief-like fashion they stole along the high and rugged coast, now
clambering over huge blocks of stone, and again fighting their way
through fern and bush, with their heads low and their footfalls
light.  At length the sailor stopped, and motioned to Lord Earlshope
and the Whaup to descend.  Great was the joy of the latter on
perceiving that at last there was a level bit of shore towards which
they were making their way.  Having gone down, in a snake-like
fashion, over the mighty boulders, they now crept on towards the
beach; and at length took up their position behind two pieces of
rock, from which they could see the channel in front of them, lying
between the land and the dusky object which they knew to be Battle
Island.

Very still and weird was this place in the dark of the morning, with
the cold air from the sea stirring in the brushwood overhead, and
with the ceaseless plash of the waves echoing all along the solitary
coast.  A faint film of cloud had come over the sky, and hid the
stars; but in the east there seemed to be a pallid grey far across
the dark water towards Ardlamont Point.  And, by-and-by, as they
crouched behind the boulders, and waited, there was visible--whence
it had come no one could say--a brilliant planet, burning like gold
in the wan mist above the eastern sea; and they knew that it was the
star of the morning.  Slowly the dawn approached--slowly the dark
outline of Battle Island became more defined; and the black hollows
of the waves that crept in towards the shore had now a pale hue
between them, that scarcely could be called light.

Patiently they waited, scanning the outline of the island-rocks, and
watching all the water around for the rolling of the seals.  There
was no sign.  Perhaps the grey in the east was waxing stronger--it
was impossible to tell, for their eyes had grown bewildered with the
constant motion of the tumbling waves and the eager scrutiny of these
black lines and hollows.

Suddenly there was a quick chirp just beside them, and the Whaup's
heart leapt with alarm.  He turned to find a sea-lark running quite
near him; and, at the same moment that he perceived this first
symptom of awakening life, he became aware that it had grown lighter
out by Ardlamont Point.

And now, with a strange and rapid transition, as if the world had
begun to throb with the birth of the new day, there arose in the
eastern sky a great smoke of red--a pink mist that mounted and spread
as if from some mighty conflagration beyond the line of the sea.  All
in the west--by the far shores of Knapdale and up the long stretch of
Lochfyne--there brooded a dull and mysterious fog, in which hills and
islands lay like gloomy clouds; but over there at the eastern horizon
there was a glow of rose-coloured smoke, which as yet had no
reflection on the sea.  And while they looked on it, half forgetting
the object of their quest in the splendour of this sight--the
perpetual wonder and mystery of the dawn--the red mist parted, and
broke into long parallel swathes of cloud, which were touched with
sharp, jewel-like lines of fire; and as the keenness of the crimson
waxed stronger and stronger, there came over the sea a long and level
flush of salmon-colour, which bathed the waves in its radiance,
leaving their shadows an intense dark green.  The glare and the
majesty of this spectacle lasted but for a few minutes.  The
intensity of the colours subsided; the salmon-coloured waves grew of
a pale neutral tint; a cold twilight spread over the sky; and with
the stirring of the wind came in the new life of the world--the
crowing of some grouse far up in the heather, the chirping of birds
in the bushes, the calling of curlew, and the slow flapping of a pair
of herons coming landward from the sea.

Suddenly Lord Earlshope, who had been peering over the edge of the
rock before him, touched his companion's arm.  The Whaup went forward
on his knees, and stealthily looked over in the direction pointed
out.  He could see nothing but the dark rocks of Battle Island, in
the midst of the greyish-green water.  He was about to express his
disappointment, when it seemed to him that the outline of a bit of
rock at the end of the island was moving.  Could it be the
undulations of the waves which were surging all around; or was that
motion of the black line the motion of an animal that had got up on
it from the water?

Lord Earlshope handed his rifle to the Whaup, with a hurried gesture.
But the arrangement had been that, while the one had a rifle and the
other a double-barrelled fowling-piece loaded with heavy shot, the
distance of the seal was to decide which should fire.  Accordingly,
the Whaup refused to take the rifle.

"It is your shot," he whispered.

"I don't want to kill the beast: why should I?" said Earlshope,
carelessly.

Even as the Whaup was in the act of putting the barrel of the rifle
cautiously over the rock, he remembered what Coquette had said; and
also that he had made the haphazard guess that Earlshope would
probably say the same.  But there was little chance to think of such
things.  His breath was coming and going at double-quick time, and he
held his teeth tight as he brought the sight of the barrel up to the
line of rock.  It rested there for a moment--there was a spurt of
fire--a bang that echoed and re-echoed up among the rocky hills--and
then Lord Earlshope rose, glad to be able to stretch his limbs at
last.

"You have either missed altogether or shot him dead; there was no
movement whatever when you fired."

"By Jove, then," said the Whaup, with tremendous eagerness, "I have
shot him dead if there was a seal there at all--for I know the muzzle
of the rifle was as steady as a rock when I fired."

"We shall see presently," said his companion.  "They will bring the
boat up now."

Presently, the two men were seen pulling round the point; and then
Lord Earlshope and the Whaup went to the edge of the water, got into
the boat, and were pulled out to the island.  Very anxiously did one
of them, at least, regard that small, dark promontory; but there was
nothing visible.  They drew nearer--they now saw the surface of the
rocks clearly--and that was all.

"Very sorry," said Lord Earlshope, "but you seem to have missed."

"I didn't miss!" the Whaup insisted.  "Let us land, and see."

So, at a convenient spot, they ran the boat in, and got out among the
seaweed, and then made their way along to the end of the island.
Suddenly the Whaup uttered a piercing yell of delight, and began to
clamber along the rocks in the most reckless fashion.  Lord
Earlshope, following after him, found him grasping with both his
hands a round-headed, fat, and limp-looking animal, which he was
endeavouring to drag up to the higher platform.

"There--did I miss?" he cried.

"Well, since you have got him, what do you mean to do with him?" said
Lord Earlshope, with a smile.  "You have had the satisfaction of
killing him, and the much rarer satisfaction of getting him after
killing him--but what then?"

The Whaup dropped the seal on to the rocks again; and looked at the
unfortunate creatures with some disappointment mingled with his pride.

"What do they make of these brutes?  You can't get seal-skin
waistcoats out of that soapy-looking stuff?"

"You may eat him, if you like--I suppose he is not much oilier than a
solan.  However, we may as well lug him into the boat, and get back
to Maol-Daroch.  It is singular we have seen none of his companions,
though."

The men approached the slippery animal with much more caution than
the Whaup had displayed--they were evidently not quite sure that the
whiskered mouth might not open and proceed from a bark to a bite.  He
was got into the boat at last; Earlshope and the Whaup followed; and
again the fall of the oars was heard along the lonely coast.  It was
now broad daylight; and when they reached Maol-Daroch Bay, the sun
was shining on the green hill-side, and on the white beach, and on
the far blue plain of the sea.

Coquette was standing at the stern of the yacht as they approached,
with the sunlight colouring her cheek and gleaming on the white
handkerchief she waved to them.

"Have you had a success?" she said.  "Oh, how very miserable you
look!"

"It isn't half as meeserayble as we feel," remarked the Whaup, who
was sleepy, and hungry, and stiff.

"You have not shot nothing!" said Coquette, clapping her hands, "or
you would come home proud and fierce--like the old north warriors
when they did come home from the sea.  What is that in the boat?  Ah!
You shoot one?--yes!  It is beastly-looking--I mean it is
hideous--horrid!"

The seal was allowed for the present to remain in the small boat, and
Earlshope and the Whaup came on deck.  To the sleepy eyes of the
Whaup, who was cold and wretched in spite of his triumph, his cousin
seemed quite offensively cheerful, and bright, and comfortable.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" said Lord Earlshope.

"No," she answered.  "I have made friends with your steward, and he
has given me two apples and a big bunch of grapes.  I am sorry I have
eaten all--I cannot give you one."

"Thank you," said he.  "But I suppose your cousin will follow my
example, get down below, and have a sleep.  Good-bye till lunch-time,
Miss Cassilis--I presume by then we shall be up at Ardrishaig."

So they went below; and Coquette sat down, and took up a book she had
been carrying with her.  But she could not read; for there was
sunlight abroad, and the fluttering of wind through the thin ropes
that stretched up into the blue, and the ripple of the bright water
all around.  They were about to set out now on their voyage
northward--that far wandering into the unknown Western Isles of which
she had dreamed--and he had spoken no word of his leaving them.
Would he go all the way, then, and spend all this happy time with
them, afar from the dull routine-life and the harsh-thinking people
of the land?  As she thought of the fair prospect that was thus
opened out before her, the pages of the book that lay in the sunshine
were filled with pictures--wonderful landscapes that burned in the
brightest of colours, and had the stirring of wind and of light in
them.  Lady Drum came on deck, and was surprised to find the girl
sitting all alone, looking so wonderfully pleased and happy.

"To-day we set sail," said Coquette, almost laughing with pure
gladness, "and go away--away beyond all you can think of--among
hills, and mountains, and the sea."

"Perhaps you would be glad not to come back?" said Lady Drum, looking
into the happy face, and holding both the girl's hands.

"Yes--I should be glad not to come back--it is so pleasant here--and
where we are going, will not that be far more pleasant?"

"That is what young folks always think," said Lady Drum--"always
looking forward with hope in their eyes.  But we who have got older,
and have gone farther on the voyage--we look back."

And while these two and Mr. Cassilis were at breakfast, they heard
the sails being hoisted above; and when they went on deck, they found
the great breadths of white canvas lying over before a southerly
breeze; and there was a hissing of water at the bow and along the
side; and, while Maol-Daroch Bay, and Tarbert, and all the rocks and
islands about were slowly receding to the south, before them there
opened up the great blue breadth of Lochfyne, with the far, faint
hills shining mistily in the sun.




CHAPTER XIX.

COQUETTE DISCOURSES.

"I think your cousin is very fond of you," said Lady Drum, with a
good-natured smile, to Coquette.  They were running up the blue
waters of Lochfyne, before a light and steady breeze.  The Whaup had
concealed himself at the bow, lying prone, with the barrels of his
breech-loader peeping over the rail.

"Oh, yes, I am sure he is," said Coquette, seriously.  "He will do
anything for me--he has dared to fight disagreeable people for me--he
has got into danger for me--he is very kind--and just now, look! he
is trying to get for me some wild bird--I do not know its name--which
has beautiful feathers."

"All that is nothing," said Lady Drum, taking Coquette's hand in
hers.  "Don't you think that some day or other he may ask you to
marry him?"

The elderly lady who was now looking at Coquette's face, expected--as
elderly ladies do expect when they begin to tease girls about
love-affairs--that her companion would blush, and protest, and be
pleased, and affect to be indignant.  On the contrary, Coquette said,
simply and gravely--

"Yes, I have thought of that.  But he is too young."

"And you also, perhaps.  In a year or two he will be a man, and you
will be marriageable."

"Then," said Coquette, dubiously, "it may be.  I do not know, because
my uncle has not spoken to me of any such thing; but he may think it
a good marriage, and arrange it."

"Bless me, lassie!" exclaimed Lady Drum, in amazement.  "Is it true
that folk make slaves of their children in that way in France?  I
have heard of it; I did not believe it.  In this country girls
arrange their own marriages."

"That, too, is very good," said Coquette, "when it is with their
parents' wish.  It is of more consequence that a girl pleases her
parents than herself, is it not?"

"And make herself miserable all her life?" said Lady Drum, startled
to find herself arguing--in defiance of all precedent--on the side of
youth as against age.

"But that does not happen," said Coquette.  "Now one of my good
friends in Nantes--she was told by her parents that she had to marry
a young gentleman who was coming home from the Martinique, and had
never been to France before.  I remember she and her parents did go
down by the railway to St. Nazaire, when they heard the boat had
come; and a week or two after I did see Babiche--that is Isabella,
you know--and oh! how proud and happy she was.  And they are married,
and live at Palmbœuf, just across the river; and Babiche is as
happy as she can be.  But then," added Coquette wistfully, "the young
gentleman was very good-looking."

They were interrupted by a loud "bang!" at the bow.  The Whaup had
fired at a couple of guillemots that were some distance off on the
water; but they had "ducked the flash," and Coquette was not enriched
with any of their plumage.  Then she resumed:

"What I do think very good is this," said Coquette, "when your
parents speak of a marriage, and it is left not altogether fixed; but
all the same, if they die, and you are left alone, and you have no
friends, there is the one person who comes to you and says, 'Now I
will take care of you,' and you know they would have approved.  And
the same it is if you have got into trouble--suppose that you did
become miserable through making an attachment for some one who does
not care for you--there is always this good friend who likes you, and
you can marry, and forget all that is past, and be like other people
for the rest of your life."

Lady Drum could scarce believe her ears.  Had she been called upon to
argue on the usual side, she could have repeated those admirably wise
maxims which elderly ladies have at their command (and which they
never thought of obeying in their youth); but surely things were
ordered differently in France when this young creature--whose soft
dark eyes were apparently made to steal men's hearts away--could be
found gravely arguing a business-like view of love affairs, which
even a shrewd and able Scotchwoman would have scrupled to advance.

"You mean," said Lady Drum, "that French girls like their parents to
choose a husband, so that, if they have an unfortunate love affair,
they can still fall back on this substitute?"

"Oh, no," said Coquette; "you do say things harshly.  But who knows
what might happen?--and if your old _fiancé_ is still faithful--and
would like to marry--you make him happy, do you not?"

"And is that the _rôle_ you have sketched out for your good-natured
cousin?" asked Lady Drum, rather vexed with this plain enunciation of
a theory which, although it was based upon filial submission, seemed
to her to have dangerous elements in it.

"Ah, no," said Coquette, gravely; "I hope I shall never have to go to
him and say that I am willing to become his wife only because I am
miserable and unhappy.  He deserves something better than that, does
he not?"

"And so do you," said Lady Drum, in a kindly fashion.  "You must not
go anticipating misfortune for yourself in that way.  You must forget
the notions those French people put into your head.  You will take to
our simple Scotch habits--and you will marry the man you love best,
and not any substitute at anybody's bidding.  A pleasant courtship--a
happy marriage--and an even, comfortable, respectable life, that is
the custom here."

Indeed, Lady Drum's notions of romance had been derived chiefly from
the somewhat easy and confident overtures made by Sir Peter while he
was yet a young man, and had a waist.  The gay and rotund Sir Peter
at no time would have looked well in the character of Manfred; and
his performance on a guitar under his mistress's window would have
been but indifferent.  Lady Drum knew she was as happy as most
married women; and hoped that these dangerous French ideas about wild
love affairs being atoned for by an after-marriage with a substitute
chosen by relatives, would not be translated into the uncongenial
atmosphere of Western Scotland.

"I thought," said Coquette, "that the Scotch people were very hard in
their obedience to duty--and against pleasure and comfort.  Then I
said to myself, 'Alas!  I shall never become Scotch.'  But now I do
think on one point I am more dutiful than you.  I would marry anybody
that my uncle and all of you considered I ought to marry."

"And make love to somebody else, as is the fashion in France!" said
Lady Drum, with a touch of anger.

"It is no such fashion in France," said Coquette.  "It is only that
the Scotch are ignorant of all people but themselves--and think
nobody so good as themselves--and are suspicious!"

Lady Drum's anger broke into a smile at the pretty vehemence with
which Coquette fought for her country-women; and at this moment Lord
Earlshope came on deck and asked what was the matter in dispute.
Coquette caught Lady Drum's hand, and pressed it.  The old
Scotchwoman looked at the girl, and saw that she was quite pale--a
circumstance that puzzled her not a little in after moments of
reflection.

"Well," said Lady Drum, obeying Coquette's unspoken entreaty, "we
were talking about--about French schools for the most part."

Further inquiry was rendered impossible; for at this moment the yacht
was running into the harbour of Ardrishaig, and there was a good deal
of bustle on board.  The Whaup came aft also, taking the cartridges
out of his gun; and began to make vague suggestions about lunch.
Finally, it was resolved that, so soon as Mr. Cassilis could be
prevailed on to remove his books and writing materials from the table
of the saloon, they should go down to have that meal which was
troubling the mind of the Whaup, and so escape the tedium of the
preparations necessary for going through the Crinan canal.

Why was Coquette so silent and _distraite_ when--after a long and
solemn grace from the Minister--they began the French-looking repast
which had been served for them?

"You are still thinking of the pension, are you not, Miss Cassilis?"
said Earlshope.  "You should give us some initiation into the
mysteries of so sacred a place.  Was there anything romantic about
it?"

"Our pension was full of mystery and romance," said Coquette,
brightening up, "because of two German young ladies who were there.
They introduced--what shall I call it?--exaltation.  Do you know what
it is?  When one girl makes another _exaltée_, because of her
goodness or her beauty, and worships her, and kisses her dress when
she passes her, and serves her in all things, yet dare not speak to
her?  And the girl who is _exaltée_--she must be proud and cold, and
show scorn for her attendant--even although she has been her friend.
It was these German young ladies from the Bohemian-Wald who
introduced it--and they were tall and dark, and very beautiful, and
many would have wished to make them _exaltées_, but they were always
the first to seek out some one whom they admired very much, and no
one was so humble and obedient as they were.  All the pension was
filled with it--it was a religion, an enthusiasm--and you would see
girls crying and kneeling on the floor, to show their love and
admiration for their friend."

"And you--were you ever _exaltée_?" asked Lord Earlshope.

"No," said Coquette, with a little shrug.  "One or two of my friends
did wish to make me _exaltée_, but I did laugh at them, and they were
angry.  I did not wish to be cruel to anyone.  I did prefer to go
about and be friends with everybody in the middle of so much
distraction."

"And did you never exalt anybody?"

"No, it was too troublesome," said Coquette.  At which Lady Drum
smiled.

"It seems to me," observed the Whaup, coolly, "that it was a clever
device to let a lot of girls make love to each other, for want of
anybody else.  It was keeping their hand in, as it were."

"It is a pity you were not there," said Coquette, graciously.  "We
should have been charmed to make you _exalté_."

"And do you think I'd have treated any of you with scorn?" said the
Whaup, with a grin, and quite ignoring Coquette's retort.  "No.  Far
from it, I should have----"

The Whaup glanced at his father, and paused--indeed, his father was
calmly regarding him.

"You would have gone from one to the other," said Lord Earlshope,
gravely, "and persuaded her that she was the victim of a
hallucination."

"In worshipping me?" said the Whaup.  "Well, now I call that a very
good bit of sarcasm.  There is no spite in it, as in women's
sarcasm--but a clean, sharp sword-thrust, straight from the shoulder,
skewering you as if you were an eel, and as if you had nothing to do
but wriggle."

"Thomas," said the Minister, severely, "you are not accustomed to
take so much claret."

"That, sir," replied the Whaup, with perfect coolness, "is why I am
helping myself so liberally at present, with Lord Earlshope's kind
permission."

Lady Drum shook her head; but Coquette laughed in her low, quiet
fashion; and the Whaup familiarly nodded to Lord Earlshope, as much
as to say, "Gave it to the old boy that time."

Then, having fetched hats and shawls from their respective
state-rooms, they went above and got on shore, setting out to walk
along the banks of the Crinan until the _Caroline_ should get clear
of the locks.




CHAPTER XX.

LETTERS FROM AIRLIE.

"Oh," said Coquette, as they walked along the winding path, with the
beautiful scenery of the district gradually opening up before them,
"I did get two letters for you, uncle, at Tarbert, and forgot all
about them.  Here they are; shall I read them?"

The two letters which she produced from, her pocket had the Airlie
stamp on them; and Mr. Cassilis at once bade her do as she pleased.
So she broke the seal of the first, and began to read aloud:


"'Honoured Sir and master in the Lord,--I tak up my pen to let ye
know that I have been,'--what is this?" said Coquette.


The Minister took it from her, and continued himself:


"--that I have been stung.  Atweel I wat no man ever heard me
complain unnecessary-wise about my poseetion in life, which I accept
with gratitude and humeelity from the Giver of all Good--to wit the
Dispenser of all Mercies at present and to come; but I maun tak the
leeberty o' saying, honoured Sir, that I cannot bide in this house
any langer to be treated worse than the beast that perisheth.  From
the fingers to the elbows--and my face and neck likewise--am I
covered wi' the venomous stings o' bees, and do suffer a pain
grievous, and like unto the plagues which were put on the people of
Egypt for their sins.  Honoured Sir, I canna bear wi' they callants
any longer, as I chanced upon one o' them laughing like to split, and
am aware it was a skeein to inflict this wrong and injury upon me,
which I howp will cause you to inquire into, and begging the favour
of a reply to say when ye are coming back--and what sore punishment
will be meeted out to them that richly deserve the same--I am, your
humble and obedient servant in the Lord,

"ANDREW BOGUE."


"Can it be," said the Minister, when he had read this letter aloud,
"can it be that those mischievous boys have conspired to set a lot of
bees to sting him?"

Coquette looked somewhat frightened; but the Whaup observed,
cheerfully--

"Indeed, sir, those brothers of mine are fearful.  I have done my
best with them to keep them out of mischief; but it is no use.  And
to go and set a bees' bike at an auld man----!"

The Whaup shook his head disconsolately.  His brothers were
incorrigible--even he had been compelled to desist from his efforts
to improve them.

"Do you hear him?" said Coquette, in a low voice to Lord Earlshope.
"And it was he himself who did plan all that about the bees, and got
them, and put them in a bag."

"And then," said Earlshope, aloud, to the Whaup, "the worst of it is
that they go and blame you for what they do themselves; so that the
whole district has got to dread you, whereas you have been trying to
put down these pranks."

The Whaup turned towards Lord Earlshope, and slowly winked one of his
eyes.  By this time the Minister had opened the other letter, and was
perusing it in silence.  It ran as follows:--


"Dear and Reverend Sir,--It behoves me to accomplish, or in other
words to fulfil the promise which I, as an elder in your church, made
to you, on your setting forth, to make you acquaint, or familiarise
you with, the events and occurrences, the state of feeling, and
general condition of this parish.  Towards yourself, their spiritual
governor, leader, and guide, the people do show themselves most loyal
and friendly, hoping you will continue your voyages abroad to the
benefiting of your health, and that you may be saved from the perils
of the waters--or, as I might have said, from the dangers that
encompass them who go down to the sea in ships.  As for the young man
who is to take your pulpit, God willing, next Sabbath, report speaks
well of his forbears; but divers persons who have heard him in
Arbroath, Greenock, and elsewhere, do fear that he is not severe
enough in defining the lines and limits of doctrine, holding rather
to the admonitory side, which does not give his hearers sufficient
chance, or opportunity, to use a less pagan word, to get at his own
stand-point, which is a grave, or, it might be said with safety, a
serious matter; for whereas those ministers who have been long with
us, and who have given proofs of their doctrinal soundness, may be
permitted to deal more with reproof and exhortation, it is for the
younger generation of preachers to declare themselves clearly and
sharply, that the church universal may not be ensnared and entrapped
in the dark, there being, I grieve to hear, a dangerous leaven of
looseness in the colleges and other places where young men
congregate, or, as I might say, come together.  The only news of
importance, besides this subject, which I have to communicate, is
that Pensioner Lamont did once more, on the night of Tuesday, become
most abnormal drunk, and did dance and play his fiddle in an
uproarious and godless manner in the house of Mrs. Pettigrew; and
likewise that Lauchie--who is vulgarly called Field
Lauchie--Macintyre's wife's bairn has been visited with the rash,
which I hope will be taken as a sign of the warning finger of
Providence, and cause the said Lauchie to give over, or, as I may
say, abandon, his abominable and reckless conduct of walking to the
town of Ardrossan every Sabbath day, and remaining there until the
evening, I fear in no good company.  This, dear and reverend sir,
from yours to command, ÆNEAS GILLESPIE."


"Good news from Airlie?" asked Lady Drum.

"Yes--in a manner, yes," replied the Minister, with dreamy eyes.  It
was a new thing for him to hear only the distant echo of his parish.

"Your boys seem to want their elder brother to control them?"
continued Lady Drum.

"Yes," said the Minister.  "He prevails on them to leave the Manse
quiet when he is there, though it may be only to lead them into
greater mischief elsewhere.  But they will have to look after
themselves now for the rest of the autumn and winter."

"Why?"

"Because Tom is returning to his studies at Glasgow," observed the
Minister.

Coquette had been standing to watch some water-hens which, on the
opposite bank, were scrambling about in the rushes, and she came up
only in time to hear these last words.

"You are going to Glasgow?" she said to the Whaup.

"Yes," he replied, with some gravity.  "I mean to work hard this
winter."

"And you will not be at Airlie all the time?"

"Does that distress you?" he asked.

"Nobody but Leesiebess and her husband," said Coquette, wistfully.
"It will not be pleasurable--the Manse--in the dark time of the
winter, with the cold of the hill.  But I am glad you do go.  You
will work hard; you will forget your games of mischief; you will come
back more like a man; and when you tell me you have studied well, and
have got--what is it called?--your certification, I will come out to
meet you at the Manse, and I will have a wreath of laurel-leaves for
you, and you will be the great hero of the hour."

"It is something to look forward to," said the Whaup, almost sadly.
"And when I come back will you be just the same, Coquette?--as quiet
and happy and pretty as you always are?"

"I do not know that I am quiet, or happy, or pretty, more than any
one else," said Coquette; "but I hope I shall be always the same to
you, if you come back in one year--two years--ten years."

The Whaup did not reply to that, but he said to himself: "_If she
would only wait two years!  In two years' time I should have worked
to some purpose, and I would come home and ask her to marry me._"

All the rest of their walk along the pretty and picturesque bank he
was restless and impatient in manner--speaking to nobody, thinking
much.  He cut with his stick at the rushes in the water or at the
twigs of the hedge, as if they were the obstacles that lay in his way
towards the beautiful goal he was dreaming of.  At last he got into
the yacht again and went below.  When the others followed, some time
after, they found him busy with his books.

Coquette went to him and said:

"Why do you read?  Have I offended you?  Are you angry with me?"

"No, no," he said, rising and going away; "you are a deal too kind
towards me, and towards all those people who don't understand how
good you are."

Coquette stood by in blank astonishment; she let him pass her and go
up on deck without uttering a word.

By this time the _Caroline_ was lying at anchor in Loch Crinan, and
the afternoon was drawing on apace.  The day had dulled somewhat, and
far out among the western isles that lay along the horizon there was
a faint, still mist that made them shadowy and vague.  Nevertheless,
the Whaup would have the skipper give him the pinnace for a run out
in quest of the guillemot plumage that Coquette had desired; and
when, indeed, that young lady appeared on deck, she beheld the tiny
boat, with its spritsail catching a light breeze, running far out
beyond the sharp island-rocks that crowd the entrance to the natural
harbour.

"It is so small a boat to go out to sea," she said to Lord Earlshope,
who was following the pinnace with his glass.

Meanwhile, the Whaup had stationed himself at the prow of the small
craft, steadying himself with his gun as she began to dip to the
waves; while all in front and around there opened out the great
panorama of lochs and islands, between Luing and Scarba on the north,
and the three dusky peaks of Jura in the south.  The gloomy Sound of
Corrievreckan was steeped in mist; and Dubhchamus Point was scarcely
visible; but nearer at hand, in the middle of the grey and desolate
sea, lay Maoile Rock, and Ris an Valle, with Ruisker and the Ledge
apparently under the shadow of the Paps.  The bright little boat,
despite her ballast and her cargo, went lightly as a feather over the
waves; and the Whaup kept his eyes alert.  There were plenty of birds
about--the solitary solan poised high in the air--the heron calling
from out of the twilight that hung over the distant shores--gulls of
every description, from the pretty kittiwake to the great
black-winged depredator--but in vain he scanned the heaving plain of
waves for the special object of his quest.  At last, however, they
heard the cry of the divers down in the south, and thither the small
boat was directed.  The sound came nearer and nearer--apparently
there were dozens or hundreds of them all about--yet no feather of
one of them could be seen.  Then there was a swift rustle out beyond
the boat--a dark moving line, rapidly crossing the waves--and the
pink flame leapt from the two barrels of the Whaup's gun.  The
pinnace was put about, and run towards a certain dark speck that was
seen floating on the waves; while at the same moment over all the
west there broke a great and sudden fire of yellow--streaming down
from the riven clouds upon the dusky grey of the sea.  In this wild
light the islands grew both dark and distant; and near at hand there
was a glare on the water that dazzled the eyes and made all things
look fantastic and strange.  It lasted but for a moment.  The clouds
slowly closed again; the west grew grey and cold; over all the sea
there fell the leaden-hued twilight; while the bow of the boat--going
this way and that in search of the dead bird--seemed to move forward
into the waste of waters like the nose of a retriever.

They picked up the bird--there was but one.  The Whaup was not
satisfied.  They could still hear the distant calling, and so they
stood out a bit farther to sea--none of them, perhaps, noticing how
rapidly the darkness was descending.

"There is a squall coming," said the man at the tiller, looking far
down into the south-west.

The Whaup saw nothing but a strangely black line along the misty
horizon--a line of deep purple.  He was unwilling to go back then.
Besides, both sea and sky were sufficiently calm; and the coming
breeze would just suffice to run them into Loch Crinan.

"We had better make for the yacht, sir," said the man nearest him.
"It looks bad down there."

Unwilling as he was to give up, the Whaup perceived that the thin
line of black had become a broader band.  He was still looking far
over the mystic plain of the waves towards that lurid streak, when he
seemed to hear an unfamiliar sound in the air.  It was not a distant
sound, but apparently a muttering as of voices all around and in
front, hoarse, and low, and ominous.  And while he still stood
watching, with a curiosity which dulled all sense of fear, the slow
widening of the blackness across the sea, a puff of wind smote his
cheek, and brought the message that those troubled voices of the
waves were deepening into a roar.  Near the boat the sea was
comparatively calm, and the darkening sky was quite still; but it
appeared as though a great circle were inclosing them, and that the
advancing line of storm could be heard raging in the darkness without
being itself visible.  In the intense stillness that reigned around
them, this great hoarse, deepening tumult of sounds found a strange
echo; and then, while the men were making ready for the squall, the
water in the immediate neighbourhood became powerfully agitated--a
hissing of breaking waves was heard all around--then the first blow
of the wind struck the boat as if with a hammer.

By this time the sail had been brailed up; and the tempest that now
came roaring along the black surface of the sea smote nothing but
spars and oars as it hurried the pinnace along with it.  Running
before the wind, and plunging into the great hollows of the waves,
that seemed to be racing towards the shore, the light boat shipped
but little water, except when a gust of wind drove the crest of a
breaking wave across the rowers; but there came torrents of rain
sweeping along with the gale; and presently they found themselves
shut out from sight of land by the driving clouds.  The Whaup still
kept outlook at the bow; but he had long ago laid aside his gun.

It was now a question of making the entrance to the loch without
running on the rocks with which it is studded; and as the boat rose
and sank with the waves, and reeled and staggered under the tearing
wind, the Whaup, dashing back the salt water from his eyes and mouth,
and holding on to the prow, peered into the wild gloom ahead, and was
near shouting joyously aloud from the mere excitement and mildness of
the chase.  It was a race with the waves; and the pinnace rolled and
staggered down in a drunken fashion into huge black depths only to
rise clear again on the hissing masses of foam; while wind and water
alike--the black and riven sky, the plunging and foaming sea, and the
great roaring gusts of the gale that came tearing up from the
south--seemed sweeping onward for those dusky and jagged points which
formed the nearest line of land.

Coquette was standing on deck, her one small hand clinging to the
cold steel shrouds, while her face, terror-stricken and anxious, was
fixed on the blackness of the storm that raged outside the troubled
stillness of the harbour.  Lord Earlshope begged her to go below from
the fierce torrents of the rain; and when she paid no heed to him, he
brought a heavy mantle, and covered her with it from head to foot.
She spoke not a word; and only trembled slightly when the wind came
in with a fierce cry from that angry warring of the elements that was
going on beyond the islands.

The darkness fell fast; and yet as far as they could see there was no
speck of a boat coming in from the wild and moving waste of grey.  To
the girl standing there and gazing out, it appeared as though the
horizon of the other world--that mystic margin on which, in calmer
moments, we seem to see the phantoms of those who have been taken
from us passing in a mournful procession, speechless and cold-eyed,
giving to us no sign of recognition--had come close and near, and
might have withdrawn behind its shadowy folds all the traces of life
which the sea held.  Could it be that the black pall of death had
fallen just beyond those gloomy islands, and hidden for ever from
mortal eyes that handful of anxious men who had lately been
struggling towards the shore?  Was the bright young existence she had
grown familiar with, and almost learned to love, now snatched away
without one mute pressure of the hand to say farewell?  She stood
there as if in a dream; and the things that passed before her eyes
had become spectral and ghastly.  She scarcely knew that she heard
voices.  She clung to the steel ropes--there was something like a
faint "hurrah!" wafted in with the tumult of the sea--there was the
vision of a face gleaming red and joyous with the salt spray and the
rain--and then she knew that she was sinking, with a sound as of the
sea closing over her head.




CHAPTER XXI.

COQUETTE IS TROUBLED.

The gale blew hard all that evening; but towards midnight the sky
cleared; and the large white moon rose wild and swift into the
luminous violet vault, that was still crossed by ragged streaks of
grey cloud hurrying over from the sea.  All along the dark islands
the mournful wash of the waves could be heard; and here, in the quiet
of the bay, the wind brought a fresh and salt flavour with it, as it
blew in gusts about, and swept onward to stir the birches and
brackens of the hills.  The Whaup sat up on deck with Lord Earlshope,
who was smoking; and they spoke in undertones, for all was quiet
below.

"You will get to Oban to-morrow?" asked the Whaup, after some
profound meditation.

"I hope so," said Earlshope.

"I shall leave you then, and go back by coach or steamer."

"Has your adventure of this afternoon frightened you?"

"Faith, no!  My only fright was when my cousin fainted; and I wished,
when I saw that, that every guillemot that ever lived was at the
bottom of the sea.  But I am getting sick of idleness."

Earlshope laughed.

"You may laugh," said the Whaup; "but it is true.  You have earned
the right to be idle, because you are a man.  For a young fellow like
me, with all the world before him, it is miserable to be dawdling
away time, you know."

"I quite agree with you," said his companion; "but it seems to me
this discovery has come upon you rather suddenly."

"All the more reason," returned the Whaup with confidence, "that it
should be acted upon forthwith.  I am going to Glasgow.  I shall live
in lodgings with some fellows I know, and work up my studies for the
next session.  There is a tremendous deal of work in me, although you
might not think it, and I may not see Airlie for two years."

"Why so?"

"Because then I shall be nearer twenty-one than twenty."

"And what will you do then?"

"What shall I do then?  Who knows?" said the Whaup, absently.

Next morning the weather was fine, and the wind had calmed.  The sea
was of a troubled, dark, and shining blue; the far hills of the
islands were of a soft and velvet-like brown, with here and there a
tinge of red or saffron.  The _Caroline_ was soon got under weigh,
and began to open out the successive headlands and bays as she stood
away towards the north.

Coquette came on deck, and looked out on the sea with an involuntary
shudder.  Then she turned to find the Whaup regarding her with rather
a serious and thoughtful look.

"Ah, you wicked boy, to make me so fearful yesterday evening!" she
said.

"But you are quite well this morning?" he asked, anxiously.

"Oh, yes, I am quite well," she said; and the brightness of her face
and of her soft dark eyes was sufficient evidence.

"And I got you the guillemot after all," said the Whaup, with some
pride.  "One of the sailors is preparing both the breast and the
pinions for you, and you can wear either you like."

"For your sake, when you are away in Glasgow," she said with a smile.
"I did hear what you said last night to Lord Earlshope.  I could not
sleep with thinking of the black water, and the wind, and the cry of
the waves.  And will you go away from us now altogether?"

"I must go away sooner or later," said the Whaup.

"But it is a little time until we all go back.  Your father, he
cannot remain long."

"But I have become restless," said the Whaup, with some impatience.

"And you are anxious to go away?" said Coquette.  "It is no
compliment to us; but no, I will not speak like that to you.  I do
think you are right to go.  I will hear of you in Glasgow; I will
think of you every day; and you will work hard, just as if I could
see you and praise you for doing it.  Then, you know, some day a long
way off, it may be a rainy morning at Airlie, or perhaps even a
bright day, and we shall see you come driving up in the dog-cart----"

"Just as you came driving up a few months ago.  Does it not seem a
long time since then?"

"Yes, a long time," said Coquette; "but I do think this is the best
part of it."

The attention of everybody on deck was at this moment directed to the
strange currents through which the _Caroline_ had now to force
herself--long stretches and swirls in an almost smooth sea, with here
and there a boiling-up into a miniature whirlpool of the circling
waters.  These powerful eddies, their outline marked by streaks of
foam, caught the bow of the yacht, and swung it this way or that with
a force which threatened to jibe the sails; while now and again she
would come to a dead stop, as though the sea were of lead.  Far away
on their left, between the misty hills of Jura and Scarba, lay the
treacherous Corryvreckan, dreaded of fishermen; and they knew that
those glassy swirls around them were but the outlying posts and
pickets of the racing and channelled tides.  But slowly and steadily
the _Caroline_ made head through the fierce currents, drawing away
from the still breadth of Loch Shuna, and getting further into Scarba
Sound, with the desolate island of Luing on the right.  How strangely
silent lay the long, lone bays and the solitary stretches of shore in
the sunlight!  There was no sign of life abroad save the hovering in
mid-air of the white gannet, or the far and rapid flight of a string
of wild ducks sinking down towards the south.  But as they drew near
the mouth of Scarba Sound--with the great stretch of the Frith of
Lorn opening up and the mighty shoulders of the Mull mountains rising
faint and grey in the north-west--the solitude grew less absolute.
Here and there a boat became visible.  They came in sight of the
slate-quarries of Easdale.  Then a long streak of smoke beyond told
them that the great steamer from the North was coming down with her
cargo of English tourists from the hills and lochs of Inverness.

They were all on deck when the steamer passed; and doubtless the
people who crowded the larger vessel may have regarded the little
group in the stern of the yacht as sufficiently picturesque--the tall
and grey-haired lady, who had her hand inside the arm of the young
girl; the elderly Minister, looking grave and dignified; Lord
Earlshope, seated carelessly on one of the skylights; the Whaup
waving a handkerchief in reply to several signals of the same kind.

"To-morrow morning," said the Whaup to Lady Drum, "I shall be on
board that steamer, going straight down for Crinan; and you--you will
be off for Skye, I suppose, or Stornoway, or Cape Wrath?"

"What do you mean?" said his father.

"Has nobody told you?  I am going back to Airlie to-morrow, and on to
Glasgow, to prepare for the classes.  I have had enough idling."

"I am glad to hear it," said the Minister, in a tone which did not
betray any strong assurance that the Whaup was to be trusted in these
his new resolves.

But Coquette believed him.  All the rest of that day, as the
_Caroline_ glided through the dark-blue waters--on past Ardencaple
Point and Barnacaryn, under the steep crags at the mouth of Loch
Feochan, and through the Sound of Kerrem, until she was nearing the
calm expanse of Oban Bay--the Whaup perceived that his cousin was
almost elaborately kind and attentive to him, and far more serious
and thoughtful than was her wont.  He himself was a trifle depressed.
Having definitely stated his intentions, he would not show weakness
at the last moment, and draw back from his promised word; but it was
with rather a heavy heart that he went below to gather together his
books and put them in order for the last time on board.

"I think I shall sleep on shore to-night," said he, when he
reappeared.

"Why?" asked Coquette.

"Because I don't wish to have you all up by seven to-morrow morning.
The boat leaves at eight."

"And must we not see you off, and say good-bye?"

"What's the use?" said the Whaup.

Coquette put her hand on his arm, and said, rather shyly:

"I think you would rather come with us.  Why not do that?  It is very
sad and miserable your going all away back by yourself, and I am
sorry to think of it, far more for you than if it were for myself.
It is very hard lines."

The Whaup laughed in spite of his wretchedness.

"I told you ever so long ago not to say that," he said, "and you
promised to remember.  Never mind.  It's very good of you to concern
yourself about me; but I mean to go to-morrow morning.  And look
there!--there is Oban."

"I do hate the place!" said Coquette, petulantly.

She would scarcely look at the semicircle of white houses stretching
round the bay, nor yet at the hills and the scattered villas, nor yet
at the brown and desolate old castle built high on the point beyond.

"It is a town," she said, "that row of bare and ugly houses, and the
hotels, and the shops.  It is not fit for these Highland mountains;
it shames them to look down on it--it is so--so dirty-white and
shabby."

"What ails ye at the town?" said Lady Drum, who did not like to hear
her favourite Oban disparaged.

"A little while ago you would have found Oban quite a grand place,"
said Lord Earlshope--"quite a gay land fashionable place."

"Fashionable!" said Coquette, with that slight elevation of the
eyebrows and the almost imperceptible shrug to which they had all got
accustomed.  "Fashionable!  Perhaps.  It is a good promenade before
the grocers' shops; and do the ladies who make the fashions live in
those dirty-white houses?  What is it that they say?--_Qui n'est pas
difficile, trouve bientôt un asile_."

"You know the other French proverb?" said Lord Earlshope--"_Jeune
femme, pain tendre, et bois vert, mettent la maison en désert_."

"That is possible," said Coquette, "but it is not fashion.  You
should see Biarritz, Lady Drum, with its sands, and the people, and
the music, and the Bay of Biscay, and the Spanish mountains not far.
Even I think our little Le Croisic better, where mamma and I lived at
the _Etablissement_.  But as for this town here, if it is more
pleasant-looking than Ardrossan, I will blow me tight!"

The Whaup shrieked with laughter; and Coquette looked puzzled,
knowing she had made some dreadful blunder, but not very certain what
it was.  Lady Drum rescued her from confusion by carrying her off to
dress for dinner, and explained to her in their common state-room
that she must be careful not to repeat colloquialisms which she had
overheard without being quite sure of their propriety.  Indeed, when
the meaning of the phrase was explained to her, she laughed as much
as the Whaup had done, and entered the saloon, where the gentlemen
were waiting, with a conscious look on her face which considerably
heightened its colour.

"It was you to blame," she said to the Whaup; "I did often hear you
say that."

"_Propria quæ maribus_," said he, and they sat down to dinner.

It was felt to be a farewell celebration.  The Whaup looked grave and
determined--as if he feared he would be moved from his resolution.
Coquette stole furtive glances at him; and wondered what she could
give him to take with him as a keepsake.  The Minister furnished him
with directions about certain things to be done at Airlie; Lady Drum
made him promise to come and see her when she went to Glasgow; and
Lord Earlshope persuaded him to remain on board that night and go
ashore in the morning.

When they went on deck after dinner, it was a beautiful clear night,
with an almost full moon throwing a flood of silver across the bay
from over the dusky island of Kerrera.  Above the town the shoulders
of the hills were touched with a pale and sombre grey; but a keener
light shone along the white fronts of the houses close by the shore;
while nearer at hand it touched the masts and rigging of the various
craft, and threw sharp black shadows on the deck of the _Caroline_.

"Where is Miss Cassilis?" said Lady Drum, when she had taken her
accustomed seat.

At the same moment they heard the first soft notes of the harmonium;
and presently there rose into the still night the clear, and sweet,
and melancholy cadence of Mendelssohn's gondola-song.  The empty
silence of the bay seemed to grow full of this rich and harmonious
music; until one scarcely knew that the sounds were coming from the
open cabin skylight which gleamed an oblong patch of yellow fire in
the dusk.  The night seemed to be as full of music as of moonlight;
it was in the air all around; it was a part of the splendour of the
sky, and scarcely to be distinguished from the lapping of the water
along the side of the boat.  But suddenly she changed the key, and
with sharp and powerful chords struck out the proud and ringing
melody of "Drumclog."  The old Scotch psalm-tune stirred the Whaup,
as a trumpet might stir the heart of a dragoon.  He rose to his feet,
and drew a long breath, as if the plaintive gondola-music had been
stifling him.

"What a grand tune that Drumclog is," he said.  "It means business.
I dare say the old troopers sang it with their teeth set hard, and
their hand on their musket-barrels.  But did you ever hear it played
like that?"

"It is wonderful--wonderful!" said the Minister, with his sad, grey
eyes fixed upon the moonlit sea, under the shadows of the lonely
island.

You should have seen the Whaup the next morning, bustling about with
a determined air, and making, from time to time, a feeble effort to
whistle.  Coquette had been up before any one on board, and now sat,
mute and pale, watching his preparations.  Sometimes she turned to
look towards the quay, where the vessels lay under the yellow and
misty sunlight of the autumn morning.

Then the great steamer came round the point.  The Whaup jumped into
the gig after having shaken hands with everybody and the boat was
pushed off.

"Stop a moment," said Coquette, "I do wish to go with you to the
steamer."

So she, also, got into the boat; and together they went in to the
quay, and got ashore.  The steamer arrived, and the Whaup--still
trying at times to whistle--went on board.  The first bell was rung.

"Good-bye," said Coquette, holding one of his hands in both of hers.
"You will write to me often, often; and when I go back to Airlie I
will write to you every week, and tell you what is going on with all
the people--even with Leesiebess also.  And I will go to see you at
Glasgow, if you will not come to Airlie before you have become a
great man."

A few minutes afterwards the Whaup was waving his handkerchief to her
as the steamer steamed away down the Sound of Kerrera; and Coquette
stood on the quay, looking wistfully after the boat, even until the
clouds of smoke had become a luminous brown in the morning sunlight.




CHAPTER XXII.

ON THE SEASHORE.

"I wish to speak to you of a great secret," said Coquette to Lord
Earlshope that morning, "when we shall have the chance.  It is very
important."

"I shall remember to make the chance," said he, "especially as Lady
Drum wants to go round and see Dunstaffnage.  You must come with us."

The Minister preferred to remain in the yacht.  The fact is, he was
composing a sermon on the judgment that befell Jonah; and was engaged
in painting a picture of the storm, with powerful colours borrowed
from his experiences in Loch Crinan.  He was busy with the task; for
he hoped to be able to preach the sermon next day--being Sunday--to
the small congregation on board.  So it was that the others started
without him; and drove over in a hired trap by the road which leads
past the small Lochan-dhu.  In time they arrived at Dunstaffnage, and
made their way out to the rocks which there rise over the sea,
looking across to Lismore, and Morven, and Kingairloch.

Lady Drum was a brisk and active woman for her age; but she did not
care to exert herself unnecessarily.  When they had gone up and
examined the ruins of the old castle, when they had passed through
the small wood, and reached the line of alternate rock and beach
fronting the sea, she placed herself upon an elevated peak, and
allowed the younger folks to scramble down to the white shingle
below.  There she saw them both sit down--Lord Earlshope beginning to
pitch pebbles carelessly into the sea.  She could hear the murmur of
their talk, too; but could not distinguish what they said.
Apparently there was nothing very important engaging their attention;
for they did not even look at each other; and Lord Earlshope was
evidently more interested in trying to hit a piece of seaweed which
the tide had drifted in to the strand.

"My secret is this," said Coquette.  "Do you know that papa and mamma
did leave me a good deal of money?"

"I was not aware of it," said Lord Earlshope, making another effort
to hit the seaweed.

"Oh, I am very rich--that is to say, not what you English would call
rich, but rich in my country.  Yet I cannot use the money.  What good
is it to me?  Mamma gave me more jewellery than I need--what am I to
do with my money?"

"I don't know much about ladies' expenses," said Earlshope.  "But if
you want to get rid of this burden of wealth, why not keep horses, or
buy a theatre, or----"

"No, no, no," she said.  "You do not understand.  I mean I have
nothing to do with my money for myself.  Now, here is my cousin who
goes to Glasgow to live by himself in lodgings, perhaps not very
pleasant.  His father is not rich.  He must work hard; and your
northern winters are so cold.  Very well: how I am to give him money?"

"That is the problem--is it?" said Earlshope.  "I might have guessed
you did not wish to spend the money on yourself.  Well, I don't know.
I give it up.  If he were a mere lad, you see, you might send him a
20_l._ note now and again, which most of us have found very
acceptable at college.  But you would insult your cousin if you sent
him money bluntly like that.  Besides, you would destroy the
picturesqueness of his position.  Our Scotch colleges are sacred to
the poor student; they are not seminaries for the teaching of
extravagance and good manners, like the English universities."

"Then you cannot help me?" said Coquette.

"Oh, there are a hundred indirect ways in which you could be of
service to him; but you must be careful, and consult with Lady Drum,
who is going to Glasgow, and will probably see him there.  How
fortunate you are to have no care whatever on your mind but the
thought of how to do other people good!  You are never anxious about
yourself; you seem to be surrounded by a sort of halo of comfort and
satisfaction; and annoyances that strike against the charmed circle
are blunted and fall to the ground."

"That is a very nice and pretty speech," said Coquette, with a smile.
"I will soon believe the English are not a barbarous nation if you
make such long compliments."

"I wonder," said Lord Earlshope, looking away over the sea, and
apparently almost talking to himself, "whether, if I were to tell you
another secret, it would annoy you in the least.  I do not think it
would.  How could it matter to you?"

"But what is it?" said Coquette.

"Suppose," said he, throwing another pebble at the bit of seaweed,
"that I were to tell you, first, that you had no need to be alarmed;
that I did not mean to frighten you with a proposal, or any nonsense
of that kind; and then tell you that I had fallen in love with you?
Suppose I were to do that, and tell you the history of the thing, it
would not trouble you in the least, would it?  Why should it, indeed?
You are not responsible; you are not affected by the catastrophe; you
might be curious to know more about it, even, as something to pass
the time."

He spoke with the most absolute indifference; and so preoccupied was
he that he did not even look at his companion.  The first start of
surprise had given way to a mute and apprehensive fear; her face was
quite pale; and she did not know that her two hands were tightly
clasped in her lap, as if to keep them from trembling.

"Such is the fact, however," he continued, just as if he were
describing to her some event of yesterday, of which he had been an
interested spectator.  "You cannot be nearly so surprised as I am;
indeed, I don't suppose you would think anything about it, unless you
considered it as a misfortune which has happened to me; and then you
will, I hope without laughing, give me the benefit of your sympathy.
Yet I am not very wretched, you see; and you--you are no more
affected by it than if you were the moon, and I, according to the
Eastern saying, one of the hundred streams looking up to you.  I am
afraid I have been experimenting on myself, and deserve the blow that
has fallen.  I have been flying my kite too near the thunder-cloud;
and what business had a man of my age with a kite?"

He spoke without any bitterness.  It was a misfortune, and to be
accepted.

"I am very sorry," she said, in a low voice.

"No!--why sorry?" he said.  "I fancied I was more philosophical than
I am.  I think my first sentiment towards you was merely idle
curiosity.  I wished to see how so rare an exotic would flourish when
transplanted to our bleak Scotch moors.  Then you allowed me to make
your acquaintance; and I believed myself filled with the most
paternal solicitude about your welfare.  Sometimes I had
doubts--sometimes I made experiments to solve them.  If I were to
tell you how I fought against the certainty that I had become the
victim of an affection, foolish, hopeless, unreasoning, you would,
perhaps, understand why I think it better to tell you frankly so much
as I have done, by way of explanation.  You might also be amused,
perhaps, if you cared for recondite studies.  To me it has been very
odd to find that, after I had dissected every sensation and analysed
every scrap of emotion I have ever experienced, another being has
sprung into existence by the very side of my lecture-table.  That
other being is also I--looking with contempt at my own anatomical
experiments.  And there is yet a third I--now talking to you--who
looks as a spectator upon both the anatomist and the spectral being
who has escaped his knife.  Do you understand all this?"

A stone fell close beside them; and Coquette's heart leaped at the
sound.  It had been pitched down by Lady Drum as a signal that she
was impatient.

"Yes, I understand it all," said Coquette, still in the same low
voice, "but it is very dreadful."

"Then it is not amusing," said Lord Earlshope, offering his hand to
raise her up.  "I beg your pardon for boring you with a psychological
conundrum.  You are not vexed about my having mentioned it at all?"

"Oh, no," said Coquette; but the beach, and the sea, and the far
mountains, seemed insecure and wavering; and she would fain have had
Lady Drum's arm to lean upon.

"How could you be vexed, indeed, except by the dulness of the story?"
said Lord Earlshope, cheerfully.  "You may consider, if you like,
that you never heard my confession.  It cannot affect you; nor need
it, indeed, in the slightest degree, affect our relations with each
other.  Do you agree with me?"

"_Oui_--yes, I mean--it will be quite the same between us as before,"
said Coquette.

"You will not find me torture you with the jealousies of a lover.  I
shall not scowl when you write a letter without showing me the
address.  I shall not even be angry if you enclose flowers in it.  We
shall be to each other, I hope, the friends we have always been;
until I have quite recovered my equanimity.  And you will not make me
the butt of your ridicule during the process?"

"I shall always be very sorry that this has happened," said Coquette.

"Why, of course!" said her companion.  "Didn't I say so?  You are
sorry, because it is my misfortune.  In return, when you fall in
love--perhaps with your handsome cousin, let us say, who means, I
know, to come back crowned with laurels in order to win for himself a
pretty wife somewhere down in Ayrshire--I will do my best to become
sorry for you.  But then, in your case, why should anybody be sorry?
To fall in love is not always a misfortune--at least, I hope there
are some who do not find it so."

For the first time he spoke sadly; and the expression of his face
conveyed that he was thinking of some distant time.  When Coquette
and her companion rejoined Lady Drum, they were both unusually
silent.  As for the young girl, indeed, she was anxious to get once
more into the waggonette, and have the horses' heads turned towards
Oban.  In the rumble of the wheels along the road there was not much
occasion to talk; and very little indeed of the beautiful scenery, on
that culm and bright autumn morning, did Coquette see as they passed
over the neck of land towards Oban Bay.




CHAPTER XXIII.

COQUETTE BEGINS TO FEAR.

"Uncle," said Coquette, directly they had returned to the yacht,
"when shall we go back to Airlie?"

The Minister looked up in a surprised and dazed way from his MSS.,
and said--

"Go back?--yes--I have been thinking of that too--for it is not
fitting that one should be away from the duties to which one has been
called.  But you--don't you understand that it is for your sake we
are here?  Are you so much better?  What does Lady Drum say?"

The Minister had now so far recalled himself from the sermon on Jonah
that he could attentively scan his niece's face.

"Why," said he, "you are more pale--more languid--now than I have
seen you for many days.  Will not a little more of the sea-air make
you feel strong?"

"I am not unwell," said Coquette, with the same air of restraint;
"but if it will please you to go farther with the yacht, then I will
go too."

So she went away to her own cabin, fearing to go on deck and meet
Lord Earlshope.  In their common state-room she encountered Lady Drum.

"You two were deeply occupied," she said, with a grave and kindly
smile, "when ye forgathered on the beach."

"Yes," said Coquette, with an anxious haste, "I did speak to Lord
Earlshope about my cousin in Glasgow."

"It must have been an interesting subject, for ye never took your
eyes from watching the toe of your boot, which was peeping from under
your dress; and he, I am sure, would not have noticed a man-of-war
had it come round the point.  Dear, dear me!  I willna scold you; but
to come so soon, ye know, after your poor cousin left ye----."

"No, no, no!" said Coquette, hurriedly, as she took her friend's hand
in hers; "you must not talk like that.  You do not know that I have
just been to my uncle to ask him to go home."

Lady Drum began to look more serious.  She had been bantering the
young girl in the fashion that most elderly people love; but she had
no idea that she was actually hitting the mark.  This sudden wish on
the part of Coquette to return to Airlie--what could it mean?
Considerably startled, the old lady saw for the first time that there
was real danger ahead; and she asked Coquette to sit down and have a
talk with her, in a voice so solemn that Coquette was alarmed, and
refused.

"No," she said, "I will not talk.  It is nothing.  You imagine more
than is true.  All that I wish is to leave this voyage when it
pleases you and my uncle."

But Lady Drum was not to be gainsaid; she felt it to be her duty to
warn Coquette.  Lord Earlshope, she said, was a man whom it was
necessary to understand.  He had been accustomed to luxurious
indolence all his days, and might drift into a position which would
compromise more than himself.  He had a dangerous habit of regarding
himself as a study, and experimenting on himself, without reflecting
that others might suffer.  Then, again, he had so resolutely avoided
introductions to rich and charming young ladies who had visited
Castle Cawmil, that she--Lady Drum--was convinced he had some rooted
aversion to the consideration of marriage--that he would never marry.

"Have ye never heard him talk about marriage, and the mistakes that
young men make?  He is as bitter about that as if he was an old man
of sixty, or as if he had made a foolish marriage himself.  Perhaps
he has," she continued, with a smile; "but his success in concealing
it all these years must be a credit to him."

"All that does not concern me," said Coquette, with a sort of piteous
deprecation in her tone.  "Why do you speak to me about Lord
Earlshope's marriage?  I do not care if he has been in fifty
marriages."

"Will you tell me why you are suddenly anxious to go home?" said Lady
Drum, bending her grave and kind eyes upon the girl.

"I have told you," said Coquette, with a touch of hauteur in her
voice, as she turned abruptly away and walked out.

She stood at the foot of the companion-steps.  Which way should she
choose?  Overhead she heard Lord Earlshope talking to the skipper,
who was getting the yacht under canvas to resume the voyage.  In the
saloon sat her uncle, deep in the intricacies of Scotch theology.
Behind her was the elderly lady from whom she had just broken away
with a gesture of indignant pride.  For a minute or two she remained
irresolute, though the firmness of her lips showed that she was still
smarting from what she had considered an unwarrantable interference.
Then she went gently back to the state-room door, opened it, walked
over to where Lady Drum sat, and knelt down penitently and put her
head in her lap.

"I hope you are not angry or offended with me," she said, in a low
voice.  "I am very sorry.  I would tell you what you ask, but it is
not my secret, Lady Drum; I must not, indeed, tell you.  It is
because you are so good a friend that you ask; but--but--but it is no
matter; and will you help me to go back soon to Airlie?"

"Help you?--yes, I will," said Lady Drum, in the same kindly way,
although it was but natural she should feel a little hurt at having
her curiosity baffled.  She put her hand in a gracious and stately
fashion on the young girl's head, and said: "You have a right to keep
your own secrets if you choose; far be it from me to ask you to give
them up.  But should you want to confide in a person who has some
experience o' life, and is anxious to do ye every service, you have
but to come to me."

"Oh, I am sure of that," said Coquette, gratefully.  "I will be as
your own daughter to you."

"And about this going back," continued Lady Drum.  "It would look
strange to turn at this point, just after letting your cousin go home
by himself.  We shall have the best part o' the thing over in a
couple o' days, when we get up to Skye; and then, if ye like, we can
go back by the steamer."

"Two more days!" said Coquette, almost wildly, as she started to her
feet--"two more days!  How can I bear----"

She caught herself up and was silent.

"There is something in all this that ye keep back," said Lady Drum.
"I do not blame ye; but when it suits ye to be more frank wi' me ye
will no find yourself wi' a backward friend.  Now we will go upon the
deck and see what's to the fore."

Coquette was glad to go on deck under this safe-conduct.  Yet what
had she to fear?  Lord Earlshope had made a certain communication to
her with the obvious belief that she would treat it as a matter of no
importance to herself.  Was she not, according to his own account,
surrounded by a halo of self-content which made her independent of
the troubles which afflicted others?

"But I am not selfish," she had bitterly thought to herself as they
were driving back to Oban.  "Why should he think I have no more
feeling than a statue or a picture?  Is it that the people of this
country do not understand it if you are comfortable and careless for
the moment?"

When they now went on deck Lord Earlshope came forward as though he
had utterly forgotten that conversation on the beach at Dunstaffnage,
and placed Coquette and her companion in a position so that they
could see the bay, and the houses, and the rocks of Dunolly, which
they were now leaving behind.  Coquette bade good-bye to Oban with
but little regret.  Perhaps she was chiefly thinking that in a few
minutes they would come in sight of that curved indentation of the
coast which would remind Lord Earlshope of what had happened there.
And, indeed, as they stood away over towards the Sound of Mull, with
the dark mountains of Morven in the north, and the blue waters of the
Atlantic stretching far into the south, they actually came in sight
of those tiny bays which they had visited in the morning.

"Do you recognise the place?" asked Lord Earlshope, carelessly, of
Lady Drum.

Then he turned to Coquette and bade her admire the beautiful and soft
colours of the Morven hills, where the sunlight brought out the warm
tints of the rusty bracken and the heather, through the pearly grey
of the mist and the heat.

"It is very lonely," said Coquette, looking wistfully round the far
shores; "I do not see any sign of life among those mountains or near
the sea."

"You would not enjoy a long visit to these places," said Earlshope,
with a smile.  "I imagine that the constant sight of the loneliness
of the mountains would make you miserable.  Does not the sea look sad
to you?  I have fancied I noticed a sense of relief on your face when
we have settled down in the evening to a comfortable chat in the
saloon, and have shut out for the night the water, and the solitary
hills, and the sky."

She did not answer; nor could she understand how he spoke to her
thus, with absolute freedom of tone and manner.  Had she dreamed all
that had happened under the ruined walls of Dunstaffnage?  She only
knew that he was looking at her with his accustomed look of mingled
curiosity and interest; and that he was, as usual, telling her of his
speculations as regarded herself.  Or was he only assuming this ease
of manner to dissipate her fears and restore their old relations?
Was he only feigning indifference in order to remove her constraint?

It was not until the afternoon, when they had gone up through the
Sound of Mull, and were drawing near to their anchorage in Tobermory
Bay, that he had an opportunity of speaking to her alone.  Lady Drum
had gone below, and Coquette suddenly found herself defenceless.

"Come, Miss Cassilis," he said, "have it out with me now.  You have
been avoiding me all day, to punish me for my foolish disclosure of
this morning.  Is that the case?  Did I commit a blunder?  If I did,
you must pardon me; I did not fancy you would have wasted a second
thought on the matter.  And, indeed, I cannot afford to have you
vexed by my indiscretion; it is not natural for you to look vexed."

"If I am vexed," she said, looking down, and yet speaking rather
warmly, "it is to hear you speak of me so.  You do seem to think me
incapable of caring for any one but myself; you think I should not be
human; not interested in my friends, but always thinking of myself;
always pleased; always with one look, like a picture.  It is not
true.  I am grieved when my friends are grieved--I cannot be
satisfied and pleased when they are in trouble."

"Surely you have no need to tell me that," he said.  "When your face
is clouded with cares, I know they are not your cares, and that you
are far too ready to accept the burden of other people's worries.
But I maintain you have no right to do so.  It is your business--your
duty--to be pleased, satisfied, contented; to make other people happy
by looking at your happiness.  It is natural to you to be happy.
Why, then, should you for a moment suffer yourself to be annoyed by
what I told you this morning?  I see I made a mistake.  You must
forget it.  I fancied I might talk to you about it without its
troubling you more than the looking at a new vessel on the horizon
would trouble you----"

"And you believe me, therefore," she said, with some indignation in
her voice, "a mere doll--a baby--incapable of understanding the real
human anxieties around me?  Perhaps you are right.  Perhaps I do not
care for anything but my own pleasure; but it is not flattery to tell
me so."

With that she walked away from him and rejoined Lady Drum, who had
again come on deck.  Earlshope had no further chance of speaking a
word to her.  At dinner, in the evening, Coquette was silent, and her
face was downcast and troubled.  When she spoke, it was to Lady Drum,
towards whom she was obediently and almost piteously attentive.




CHAPTER XXIV.

TOUCHING CERTAIN PROBLEMS.

Very singular in appearance was the small congregation grouped on the
deck of the _Caroline_, to listen to Mr. Cassilis's sermon, on that
quiet Sunday morning.  The Minister himself stood erect and firm,
with his grey hair--for he was bare-headed--and his sunken face
touched with the early sunlight.  Almost at his feet sat Lady Drum
and Coquette, the latter sometimes wistfully looking away over the
calm sea, towards the distant shores of Loch Sunart.  Lord Earlshope
sat by himself still farther aft, where he could catch the outline of
Coquette's face as she turned to regard the Minister.  And then
forward were the sailors, a small group of bronzed and sturdy men,
lying about in a listless and picturesque fashion, with their scarlet
caps gleaming in the sun.  The background was the smooth waters of
the bay, with a faint blue smoke rising into the still air from over
the scattered houses of Tobermory.

Coquette had begged hard to be allowed to preface or assist the
service with her harmonium; but her prayer was explicitly refused.
Indeed, there might not have been much in the music to accord with
the stern and matter-of-fact exhortation which the Minister had
prepared.  It is true that, as he warmed to his subject, he indulged
in the rare license of breaking away from his preconceived plan of
argument and illustration.  He was dealing with things which were now
before his eyes; and, as his rude and homely eloquence became more
and more touched with enthusiasm, it seemed as though the inspiration
of the sea had fallen on him.  "What meanest thou, O sleeper!" was
his text; and the cry with which the sailors awakened Jonah seemed
the Minister's own cry to the men who now lived along these lonely
coasts.  Indeed, there was a singular and forcible realism about the
address which surprised Coquette; it was so different from the long
and weary sermons on doctrine to which she had of late been
accustomed.  The Minister had borrowed all his imagery from his
recent experiences.  He described the storm--the rushing of the
water--the gloom of the hills--the creaking of cordage--until you
could have fancied that Jonah was actually trying to make for Crinan
Bay.  The sailors were thoroughly aroused and interested.  It was to
them a thrilling and powerful narrative of something that had
actually happened; something a hundred times more real and human than
the vague stories and legends of the Western Isles--those
faintly-coloured and beautiful things that happened so far away and
so long ago that the sound of them now is like the sound of a
sea-shell.

Of course there came the application, which was equally practical, if
less picturesque.  The fishermen, who were now lazily lying on the
grassy slopes above the Tobermory cottages--satisfied with the drowsy
warmth and the sensation of rest; the sailors themselves, who were
busy from day to day with the mysteries of the elements, fighting
with the accidents of the present world, regarding only the visible
horizon around them--they were but as sleepers asleep in a storm.
For outside of this visible horizon lay another and more mysterious
horizon, which was daily drawing closer to them, bearing with it the
doom of humanity.  Hour by hour the world was being narrowed by this
approaching lurk of cloud; and when at last it burst, and the
lightning of death gleamed out from its sombre shadows, would there
then be time to seek for the Jonah who must be thrown overboard?  The
old man, with his bared head and his eager manner, seemed himself a
prophet sent up to denounce Nineveh and all her iniquities; and so
impressive and resonant was his voice--heard over the strange calm of
the sea--that more than one of the sailors had unconsciously turned
to gaze far out towards the horizon, as though expecting to find
there the gathering storm-clouds of which he spoke.

After this forenoon service had been finished, a dilemma occurred.
The Minister had been furnished with no rules for the observance of
the Sabbath on board a vessel.  He had no precedents for his
guidance.  He could not simply request everybody to come indoors and
take a book.  Coquette, indeed, resolutely remained on deck.

"Well," said Lady Drum, "we are out o' doors as much as we can be,
and it would be no worse, surely, if we were walking along the street
yonder."

Not even Lord Earlshope had thought of continuing their voyage; that
was a thing which, on the face of it, could not be permitted.  But
when the Minister was confronted by the difficulty which Lady Drum
had discovered, he did not know well what to do.  He was averse to
their going ashore and walking about on the Sabbath morning, to the
scandal of all decent folk; on the other hand, there was little
difference between that and sitting on deck to look at the sea and
the houses; while going below and immuring themselves all day long
was out of the question.  At last his natural good sense triumphed.
He gave his consent to their leaving the boat for a certain time--in
fact, until the hour for afternoon service on deck, if they chose;
but he would remain on board.

"You will come ashore, will you not?" said Lord Earlshope to Coquette.

"No; I wish to remain with my uncle," said Coquette, hurriedly.

"Nonsense, nonsense!" said Lady Drum.  "Would you have an old woman
like me stravaiging about the shore by myself?"

"But Lord Earlshope will go with you," said Coquette, timidly.

"That does not matter.  He is no companion for me; so get on your hat
and come away at once."

Coquette did so, and got into the gig, determined to cling closely to
Lady Drum's side.  As they neared the shore, the latter remarked that
the village seemed quite deserted.

"The fishermen spend their Sundays either indoors or up on the
hills," said Lord Earlshope.  "I believe the married ones prefer the
hills."

Perhaps that haphazard allusion to marriage remained in his mind;
for, after they had landed and walked some distance round the shore,
until they discovered a pleasant place from which to sit and watch
the seabirds over the Sound, he said, rather indolently--

"I wonder how many of those poor men have a pleasant home to return
to after the fatigue and discomfort of a night out at the fishing."

As this was a problem which neither of the ladies with him could
readily solve, the only answer was the plashing of the clear
sea-water on the stones.  Presently he said, in the same careless
way--

"Do you know, Lady Drum, that physiologists say we become quite
different people every seven years?  Don't look surprised--I am going
to explain.  They say that every atom and every particle of us have
in that time been used up and replaced; so that we are not the same
persons we were seven years before.  It is but natural to suppose
that the mind changes with the body, if not so completely.  You, for
example, must find that you have not the same opinions on many
subjects that you had seven years ago.  And in the case of young
people especially, they do positively and actually change the whole
of their mental and physical structure in even less time than that.
You follow this introductory discourse?" he added, with a laugh.

"Quite," said the elderly lady, "though I am no so sure it is a
proper one for a Sabbath morning."

"You must hear me out, and with attention.  The subject is profound.
If I am a different person at the end of seven years, why should I be
bound by promises I made when I was my former self?"

"Mercy on us!" said Lady Drum.  "Is it a riddle?"

"Yes.  Shall I help you to solve it by an illustration?  Suppose one
of those sturdy young fishermen here, when he is a mere boy of
nineteen--undeveloped and quite vacant as to experience--is induced
to marry some woman who has a bad nature and a hideous temper.  He is
a fool, of course.  But seven years afterwards he is not so great a
fool; indeed he has become another person, according to the
physiological theory; and suppose the new fisherman hates and abhors
his wife--perceives the deformity of her character--is revolted by
her instead of attracted to her.  Now, why should he be bound by the
promise of the former fisherman?  Indeed, she, also, has become
another woman.  Why should the old marriage bind together these two
new persons?  It has gone away as the mark on your finger-nail goes
away: they have outgrown it."

Lady Drum began to look alarmed; and Earlshope, catching sight of her
face, smiled.

"No," he said; "don't imagine me a monster.  I don't want to unmarry
anybody; it is only a theory.  Yet why shouldn't there be a Statute
of Limitations with regard to other matters than money?"

"You mean," said Lady Drum, solemnly, "that I, Margaret Ainslie Drum,
wife of Sir Peter of that name, am no longer a married woman, but
free to marry whom I please?"

"Precisely," said Lord Earlshope, apparently with a sincere joy that
she had so thoroughly understood his argument.  "You might marry me,
or anybody--according to the theory, you know."

"Yes--according to the theory," remarked Lady Drum, endeavouring to
repress her virtuous wrath; "of course, according to the theory."

With that he fairly burst out laughing.

"I do believe I have shocked you," he said, "in my endeavour to find
out an argument why that imaginary poor fisherman should be released
from his bonds.  It was only a joke, you know, Lady Drum; for of
course one could not unsettle all the marriages in England merely to
benefit one or two people.  Yet it does seem hard that when a man is
a fool and marries, then ceases to be a fool and wishes to be free
from his blunder, there is no hope for him.  You don't seem to care
to speculate about those matters, do you?" he added, carelessly, as
he tried to twine two bits of grass.  "Have you ever looked round the
whole circle of your acquaintances, and wondered--supposing all
present marriages were dissolved--what new combinations they would
form in a week's time?"

"I confess," said Lady Drum, with some sarcasm, "that I have never
amused myself in so ingenious a way.  Pray, Lord Earlshope, what was
it in Mr. Cassilis's sermon that provoked these meditations of yours?"

"Oh, they are not of recent date," said his lordship, with a fine
indifference; "it is no new thing for me to discover that some of my
friends would like to be unmarried.  My notion of their right to do
so is only a phantasy, of course, which is not to be taken _au
serieux_."

"I should think not," said Lady Drum, with some dignity.

Indeed, it was not until they had strolled along the shore some
distance on their way back to the boat that the frown left her face.
Her natural good sense, however, came to her aid, and showed her that
Lord Earlshope had merely been amusing himself, as was his wont, with
idle fancies.  He could have nothing to gain personally by advancing
dangerous propositions about the dissolution of marriage-bonds.  What
was it to him if all the fishermen in Tobermory, or in a dozen
Tobermories, remained up on the hills during the Sundays in order to
get away from their wives?  So the grave and handsome face of the old
lady gradually recovered its urbane and benignant expression; and she
even ventured to rebuke Lord Earlshope, in a good-humoured way, about
the inappropriate occasion he had chosen for his lecture on
physiology.

Coquette had said nothing all this time.  She walked by Lady Drum's
side, with something of an absent look, not paying much attention to
what was said.  She seemed relieved to get into the gig again; so
that Lady Drum expressed a hope that her duties of companion had not
been irksome to her.

"Oh, no!" she said; "I am ready to go with you whenever you please."

But later on in the day they had another quiet chat to themselves,
and Coquette became more confidential.

"I do not understand it; there is something wrong in it, surely," she
said, with a thoughtful look in her eyes, "when a young man like Lord
Earlshope seems to have nothing more in the world to do--to have lost
interest in everything--and at times to be gloomy and as if he were
angry with the world.  Have you not noticed it, Lady Drum?  Have you
not seen it in his face when he is talking idly?  And then he says
something in a bitter way, and laughs; and it is not pleasant to
hear.  Why, he has lost interest in everything!  Why does he spend
his time at home, reading books, and anxious to avoid seeing people?"

Lady Drum regarded her with astonishment.

"Well, well," she said; "who would have thought that those dreaming
dark eyes of yours were studying people so accurately, and that
beneath that knot of ribbon in your wild hair the oddest notions were
being formed?  And what concern have ye wi' Lord Earlshope's idle
habits, and his restlessness and dissatisfaction?"

"I?" said Coquette, calmly.  "It is not my concern; but it is sad to
see a man whose existence is wasted--who has no longer any object in
it."

"He enjoys life like other folk," said Lady Drum.

"He does not enjoy his life," said Coquette, with decision.  "He is
very polite, and does not intrude his troubles on any one.  You might
think he passed the time pleasantly--that he was content with his
idleness.  I do not believe it--no, I do believe there is not a more
wretched man alive."

Lady Drum elevated her eyebrows.  Instead of having one problem in
humanity before her, she had now two.  And why had this young lady
taken so pathetic an interest in Lord Earlshope's wretchedness?




CHAPTER XXV.

COQUETTE'S PRESENTIMENTS.

It was impossible that this condition of affairs could last.  A far
less observant man than Earlshope was bound to perceive the singular
change which had fallen over Coquette's manner.  Hitherto she had
appeared to him to be the very personification of joyousness--to live
a graceful, happy, almost unthinking life, in an atmosphere of tender
emotions and kindly sentiments, which were as the sunshine and the
sea-breezes to her.  Why should this young creature, with the calm
and beautiful face, whose dark eyes showed a perfect serenity and
placidity of soul, be visited with the rougher passions, the harsher
experiences, which befall less fortunate people?  That was not her
_rôle_.  It was her business to be happy--to be waited upon--to be
pleased.  She had but to sit on deck, in her French costume of
dark-green tartan and black lace, with a book lying open but unread
on her knee, with her hand inside Lady Drum's arm, with the clear
light of the sea and the clouds shining in her face and in the
darkness of her eyes, and leave troubles and cares and vexations to
those born under a less fortunate star.

All that was over.  Coquette was _distraite_, restless, miserable.
The narrow limits of the yacht were a prison to her.  She was silent
and reserved, and seemed merely to wait with a resigned air for the
end of the voyage.  Had the Whaup been there, she would probably have
entered into confidences with him, or even relieved the blank
monotony by quarrelling with him.  As it was, she listened to Lady
Drum and Lord Earlshope talking, without adding a syllable to the
conversation; and, while she dutifully waited on her uncle, and
arranged his books and papers for him, she went about in a mute way,
which he took as a kindly observance of his wish not to be disturbed
during his hours of study.

"What has become o' your blithe spirits, Catherine?" he asked on the
Monday morning as they were leaving Tobermory Bay.  "I do not hear ye
sing to yourself now?  Yet I am told by Lady Drum that the voyage has
done ye a world o' good."

"Oh, I am very well, uncle," she said, eagerly.  "I am very well,
indeed; and whenever you please to go back to Airlie, I shall be glad
to go too."

"That is good news," said the Minister, cheerfully, "good news.  And
we maun see about getting home again; for I am anxious to hear how
young Mr. Pettigrew acquitted himself yesterday, and I would fain
hope there is no dissension among my people this morning, such as the
enemy is anxious to reap profit by."

"Have you an enemy, uncle?" said Coquette.

"We have all an enemy," answered the Minister, so impressively that
his niece looked alarmed--"an enemy who is ever watchful to take
advantage o' our absence, or our thoughtlessness, who goeth about
like a raging lion, seeking whom he may devour."

"But is he in Airlie?" asked Coquette, who was still puzzled.

"Why, your uncle means the devil," said Lady Drum, gaily, as she
entered the saloon, "who is in Airlie as elsewhere--especially when
there's whisky afoot and the Pensioner is asked to bring out his
fiddle.  Come up the stairs, both o' ye, and see the wonderfu' places
we are passing.  I'm thinking we have got to the end o' the lochs and
the islands at last, and there is nothing left for us but to go
straight out into the sea.  I hope it'll deal gently wi' us," added
Lady Drum, with an involuntary shiver.

When they went on deck--Coquette keeping close by her uncle, as if
she feared being addressed by a stranger--it was clear that the good
weather which had so far accompanied them showed no signs of
breaking.  Over the blue western sea there was but the roughness of a
slight breeze, which was only sufficient to fill the _Caroline's_
sails; while the jagged coast of the mainland, with the mountains of
Ardnamurchan and Moidart, lay steeped in a faint mist under the
morning sunlight.

Lord Earlshope was surprised to hear the Minister talk of returning
immediately.

"We must, at all events, show Miss Cassilis the wonders of Loch
Scavaig and Coruisk," he said, "even though you should have to go
over to-morrow to Broadford, and catch the steamer there.  We shall
make Loch Scavaig this evening if the wind holds."

"I hope the wind will play no tricks with us," said Lady Drum.  "I
shall never forget what I suffered in this very place when I first
went to Skye many years ago--indeed, when Sir Peter and I were just
married."

"You might wait a couple of months without catching such a chance as
we have to-day," said Earlshope.  "But to return to this question of
your stay.  Don't you mean to visit the Spar Cave, and go up Glen
Sligachan, and ascend the Quiraing?"

It was with a dull sense of pain that Coquette heard the reply.  The
Minister said there was no absolute hurry--that his niece would
probably like to visit those wild and romantic scenes, of which she
must have heard and read.  Coquette accepted her fate mutely; but she
took the opportunity of saying, a few minutes afterwards, to Lady
Drum--

"I hope we shall not remain long in this place--this wild island.  It
must be horrible and ghastly, from what they say."

"It is the most desolate and awful place it is possible to imagine,"
said Lady Drum; "a place that reminds you o' a world that had long
ago suffered a judgment-day, and been burnt up wi' fire.  For days
after I saw it first I used to dream about it--the black and still
water and the twisted rocks, and the stillness.  It would be fearfu'
to be left alone there--at night--wi' the sound o' the burns running
in the darkness."

Coquette shuddered.

"I will not go ashore," she said.  "There is no reason for our going
ashore, if we must return at once to Airlie."

So the day wore on, and the stately _Caroline_, with her bow
coquettishly dipping to the waves, drew gradually away towards the
north, passing the broad mouth of the Sound of Sleat, and coming in
view of the tall cliffs of Canna, beyond the mountains of Rum Island.
They were now close by the southern shores of Skye.  Coquette became
more and more disturbed.  It seemed to her that she was being taken
to some gloomy prison, from which no escape was possible.  Lady Drum
continued to describe the sombre and desolate appearance of the place
they were going to, until these pictures produced the most profound
effect on the girl's imagination.  The _Caroline_ seemed to go
forward through the water with a relentless persistency; and
Coquette, as the afternoon approached, and as she saw more and more
clearly the dark outlines of the shores towards which they were
tending, gave way to an unreasoning, despairing terror.

Lady Drum was amazed.

"You are not afraid o' rocks and water?" she-said.

"Afraid of them?  No," said the girl.  "I am afraid of the place--I
know not why--and of our remaining there.  I would rather be away; I
would rather be going back.  It is a presentiment I have: I cannot
understand it, but it makes me tremble."

"That is foolish," said Lady Drum.  "You have not been yourself since
your cousin left."

"I wish he were here now," murmured Coquette.

"He would laugh you out of your fears," said the elderly lady, in a
cheerful way.  "Come, rouse yourself up and dismiss those gloomy
fancies of yours.  We shall see you to-morrow on a little Highland
pony, going round such precipices as are fit to take your breath
away; and you will be as light-hearted and as careless as if you were
in my drawing-room at Castle Cawmil with an open piano before you.
By the way, you have not played us anything since your cousin left us
at Oban."

"I cannot play just now," said Coquette, sitting calm and cold, with
her eyes fixed with a vague apprehensiveness on the coast they were
drawing near.

"What a strange creature you are," said Lady Drum, affectionately.
"You are either all fire, and light, and sunshine, or as deep and
morose as a well on a dark day.  There is Lord Earlshope, who, I am
certain, thinks he has offended you; and he keeps at a distance, and
watches ye in a penitent fashion, as if he would give his ears to see
you laugh again; I think I maun explain to him that it is no his
fault----"

"No, no, no, Lady Drum!" exclaimed Coquette, in a low voice.  "You
must not speak to him."

"Hoity, toity!  Is he to believe that I have quarrelled wi' him as
well; and are we a' to put the man in irons in his own yacht?"

"Please don't tell him anything about me," pleaded Coquette.

"But look at him at this moment," said Lady Drum, with sudden
compassion; "look at him up at the bow there--standing all by
himself--without a human being taking notice o' him--looking
helplessly at nothing, and doubtless wondering whether he will get a
word addressed to him at dinner.  Is it fair, my young lady, to serve
a man in that fashion in his own yacht?"

"You may go and speak to him," said Coquette, eagerly.  "Yes, you
must speak to him--but not about me.  He does not want to talk about
me; and you would only put wrong things into his head.  Please go,
Lady Drum, and talk to him."

"And what for should it rest on an old woman like me to amuse a young
man?  What for am I to talk to him, and ye sitting here as mute and
as mum as a mouse?"

"Because--because----" said Coquette, with hesitation, "because I
think I am afraid of this island.  I am not angry with him--with
anybody--but I--I----.  Oh, Lady Drum!" she suddenly exclaimed,
"won't you persuade them to come away from this place at once,
instead of remaining for days?  I cannot do it--I cannot remain.  I
will go away by myself, if they will let me take the steamer."

She spoke quite wildly; and Lady Drum looked at her with some alarm.

"I cannot understand a bit o' this," she said, gravely.  "What for
have ye a fear o' an island?  Or is it that ye are so anxious to
follow your cousin?"

"I cannot tell you what it is," said Coquette, "for I cannot explain
in your language.  It is a presentiment--a terror--I do not know; I
only know that if we remain in this island long----"

She trembled so violently as she spoke that Lady Drum feared the girl
had been attacked by some nervous fever.  Her face, too, was pale;
and the dark and beautiful eyes were full of a strange lustre,
obviously the result of great excitement.

At this moment some order of the skipper recalled the eyes of
Coquette from looking vaguely over the sea towards the south; and as
she turned her face to the bow, Lady Drum felt the hand that held
hers tighten its grasp, for the _Caroline_ was slowly creeping in
under the shadow of the black Coolins.




CHAPTER XXVI.

CONFESSION AT LAST.

Sunset in the wild Loch Scavaig.  Far up amid the shoulders and peaks
of Garsven there were flashes of flame and the glow of the western
skies, with here and there a beam of ruddy light touching the summits
of the mountains in the east; but down here, in the lonely and
desolate arm of the sea, the bare and riven rocks showed their
fantastic forms in a cold grey twilight.  There was a murmur of
streams in the stillness; and the hollow silence was broken from time
to time by the calling of wild-fowl.  Otherwise the solitary scene
was as voiceless as death; and the only moving thing abroad was the
red light in the clouds.  The _Caroline_ lay motionless in the dark
water.  As the sunset fell the sombre and overshadowing hills seemed
to loom larger; the twisted and precipitous cliffs grew more and more
distant; while a pale blue vapour gathered here and there, as if the
spirits of the mountains were advancing under a veil.

Oddly enough, the terror of Coquette had largely subsided when the
_Caroline_ had cast anchor.  She regarded the gloomy shores with
aversion and distrust; but she no longer trembled.  Indeed, the place
seemed to have exercised some fascination over her; for, while all
the others were busy with their own affairs, she did not cease to
scan with strange and wondering eyes the sombre stretch of water, the
picturesque and desolate coast, and the mystic splendours of the
twilight overhead.  She kept apart from her friends; and appeared
even to regard Lady Drum with a distant and apprehensive look.

Lady Drum resolved that she would speak to the Minister, when
occasion offered.  She was afraid that this niece of his was an
incomprehensible young person, given over to visions and dreams, and
requiring to be kept well in hand.

Dinner was rather a gloomy affair.  Lord Earlshope seemed to consider
that, for some reason or other, a conspiracy had been formed against
him.  He was very courteous and quiet, but spoke chiefly to the
Minister, and that with a certain reserve.  Lady Drum in vain
endeavoured to be lively.

Suddenly the Minister chanced to perceive that there was something
wrong.  He looked from one to the other; and at last he said--

"This wild scenery has had its effect upon us.  We have grown very
grave, have we not, Lady Drum?"

"I think we are downright solemn," said Lady Drum, waking herself up
as if from a nightmare.  "I cannot understand it.  Miss Coquette--as
I am told they sometimes ca' ye--what does it all mean?"

Coquette looked up with a start.

"I do not know," she said.  "To me these mountains look dreadful.  I
am afraid of them.  I should be glad to be away."

Lord Earlshope did not reply to her, or endeavour to reason her out
of her vague impressions.  On the contrary, he regarded her--when no
one else was looking--with a watchful and rather wistful scrutiny,
which seemed to leave rather a sad impression on his own face.

The night was cold; and, after dinner, no one proposed to go on deck.
Indeed, the autumn was rapidly closing in upon them; and there was
comfort in the yellow light of the lamps, the warmth, and the open
books down below.  Lord Earlshope and Lady Drum proceeded to engage
in a game of cribbage; the Minister took up a bundle of MSS.;
Coquette receded into a corner.

Then she stole out of the place, and went up on deck.  How wonderful
was the darkness now!--for it seemed to burn with all manner of weird
and fanciful lights.  There were white stars dancing on the
water--one great planet quivering on the dark plain as if it were a
moon.  Then over the peaks of the Coolins there still lay the lambent
traces of the twilight--a pale metallic glow, which was far too faint
to show on the black surface of the sea.  A wind had sprung up, too,
and it brought with it the sound of the mountain streams from out of
the solemn stillness that dwelt everywhere around.

There came into her head the refrain of a song which she used to hear
the sailors sing in St. Nazaire--

  Après trois ans d'absence
    Loin de France,
  Ah! quel beau jour,
  Que le jour du retour!


"Why cannot I go back there?" she murmured to herself, "where there
were no miserable days, no miserable nights?  I am terrified of this
place--of the people--of what I have become myself.  If I could only
fly away down to the south, and hear them singing that on the Loire--

  Ah! quel beau jour,
  Que le jour du retour!

--that is what I would say also, when I saw old Nannette come out to
welcome me--and she would laugh, and she would cry to see me----"

The tears were running down her own cheeks.  Suddenly there stood by
her a tall figure in the darkness, and she started to hear her name
pronounced.

"Why do you sit up here alone, Miss Cassilis?" said Lord Earlshope.

She could not answer.  He took a seat beside her, and said--

"There is another question I want to ask you.  Why have you avoided
me these two days, and made me as though I were a stranger to you?
Let us be frank with each other.  Are you vexed with me because--in a
moment of foolishness which I deeply regret--I revealed to you a
secret which I ought to have kept to myself?"

"I am not vexed," she said in a low voice.  "You must not suppose
that."

"But I must suppose something," he said.  "Why should I be your _bête
noire_, from whom you must fly at every conceivable moment?  If I
appear on deck you seek refuge with Lady Drum, or go below.  If I go
below you come on deck.  If I join in a conversation you become
silent.  Why should this be so?  I proposed this excursion, as you
know, for your especial benefit.  The whole thing was planned merely
because it might probably amuse you; and yet you are the only one on
board who seems unhappy.  Why?  I broke my compact about returning to
Airlie after seeing you a day or two on the voyage, partly through
indolence, and partly because I fancied I might make matters smooth
and pleasant for you if you went farther.  I find, on the contrary,
that I have become a kill-joy."

"Oh, no, it is not so!" she said, hurriedly.  "There is no one in
fault--no one but myself."

"But you are not in fault," he protested.  "There has been no fault
committed; and I want to know how the old condition of affairs is to
be restored.  I cannot bear to see you suffering this restraint from
morning till night.  Rather than have you pass such another day as I
know you have passed to-day I would row ashore this moment, and take
my chance of finding my way over to Broadford, so that you should
have no fear of to-morrow."

"Oh, no, no!" she said, in despair; "you must not do that.  And you
must not suppose that I am angry with you.  But after what you did
say the other day----"

"That is it," he said, in a tone of profound disappointment.  "I had
already fancied my careless talk was a blunder, but I see only now
how irretrievable it is.  Well, I cannot help it.  You shall not
suffer the penalty of my stupidity, however.  To-morrow morning you
shall be free."

So he went away; and she sat still, silent and immovable, with a
great pain at her heart.  She listened to the murmur of the water
along the shore, and it seemed to have taken up the refrain that had
been running in her memory, only that it was more vague and more sad.
"_Trois ans d'absence ... loin de France ... jour du retour._"  Again
she was startled by the approach of some one.  She knew that Lord
Earlshope had returned.  He brought with him a thick shawl, and he
said, in a somewhat formal and courteous way--

"Lady Drum asks you to put this round you, if you prefer to remain on
deck.  But the night is chilly, and you ought to go below, I think."

"I do not know why you should speak to me in that tone," she said,
with some slight touch of reproach in her voice.  "If all this
unfortunate thing has happened, why make it worse?  I hope you will
not make us strangers to each other, or think me ungrateful for all
the kindness that you did show to me."

For an instant he stood irresolute, and then he said to her--in so
low a voice that it was scarcely heard in the murmur of the sea--

"And I have to thank you for something also.  You have given me back
a little of my old belief in the sweetness and innocence of good
women, and in the nobleness and the mystery of human life.  That is
not a light matter.  It is something to have some of one's old faith
back again, however dearly it may be bought.  The price has been
perhaps heavier than you may have imagined.  I have striven this day
or two back to make you believe that I had almost forgotten what I
told you.  I shall never forget it--nor do I wish to.  I may tell you
that now, when I am about to ask you to say good-bye.  It is not for
you to be annoyed or troubled with such matters.  You will go back to
Airlie.  You will scarcely remember that I ever told you my wretched
and foolish story.  But I shall not go back to Airlie--at least not
for a while; and when we do meet again, I hope you will have
forgotten all this, and will not be afraid to meet me.  So good-bye
now, for I shall not see you in the morning."

He held out his hand, but she made no response.  What was it he heard
in the stillness of the night?

Moved by a great fear, he knelt down beside her, and looked into her
face.  Her eyes were filled with tears; and the sound he had heard
was that of a low and bitter sobbing.  There broke upon him a
revelation far more terrible than that which had informed him of his
own sorrow; and it was with a new anxiety in his voice that he said
to her--

"Why are you distressed.  It is nothing to you--my going away?  It
cannot be anything to you, surely?"

"It is very much--your going away," she said, with a calmness of
despair which startled him; "I cannot bear it.  And yet you must
go--and never see me again.  That will be better for you and for me."

He rose to his feet suddenly; and even in the starlight her tearful
and upturned eyes saw that his face was ghastly pale.

"What have I done?  What have I done?" he exclaimed, as if accusing
himself to the still heavens that burned with their countless stars
above him.  "My own blunders, my own weakness, I can answer for--I
can accept my punishment--but if this poor girl has been made to
suffer through me--that is more than I can bear.
Coquette--Coquette--tell me you do not mean all this!  You cannot
mean it--you do not understand my position--you tell me what it is
madness to think of!  What you say would be to any other man a joy
unspeakable--the beginning of a new life to him; but to me----"

He shuddered only, and turned away from her.  She rose, and took his
hand gently, and said to him, in her low, quiet voice--

"I do not know what you mean; but you must not accuse yourself for
me, or give yourself pain.  I have made a confession--it was right to
do that, for you were going away, and you might have gone with a
wrong thought of me, and have looked back and said I was ungrateful.
Now you will go away knowing that I am still your friend--that I
shall think of you sometimes--and that I shall pray never, never to
see you any more, until wo are old people, and we may meet, and laugh
at the old stupid folly."

There was a calm sadness in her tone that was very bitter to him: and
the next moment he was saying to her in almost a wild way--

"It shall not end thus.  Let the past be past, Coquette; and the
future ours.  Look at the sea out there--far away beyond that you and
I may begin a new life; and the sea itself shall wash out all that we
want to forget.  Will you come, Coquette?  Will you give up all your
pretty ways, and your quiet home, and your amiable friends, to link
yourself to a desperate man, and snatch the joy that the people in
this country would deny us?  Let us seek a new country for ourselves.
You love me, my poor girl, don't you? and see! my hand trembles with
the thought of being able to take you away, and fight for you, and
make for you a new world, with new surroundings, where you would have
but one friend, and one slave.  What do you say, Coquette?  Why
should we two be for ever miserable?  Coquette----"

She drew back from him in fear.

"I am afraid of you now," she said, with a strange trembling.  "You
are another man.  What are you?--what are you?--Ah!  I do see another
face----"

She staggered backward; and then, with a quick cry, fell insensible.
He sprang forward to catch her; and he had scarcely done so when the
Minister hastily approached.

"What is the meaning of this?" he said.

"She has been sitting too long alone," said Lord Earlshope, as Lady
Drum hastened to seize the girl's hands.  "The darkness had got hold
of her imagination--and that wild light up there----"

For at this moment there appeared over the black peaks of the Coolins
a great, shifting flush of pink--that shone up the dark skies and
then died out in a semicircle of pale violet fire.  In the clear
heavens this wild glare gleamed and faded, so that the sea also had
its pallid colours blotting out the white points of the stars.  Mr.
Cassilis paid little attention to the explanation; but it seemed
reasonable enough; for the girl, on coming to herself, looked all
round at this strange glow of rose-colour overhead, and again
shuddered violently.

"She has been nervous all day," said Lady Drum; "she should not have
been left alone."

They took her below; but Earlshope remained above.  In a little while
he went down into the saloon, where Mr. Cassilis sat alone, reading.

"Miss Cassilis will be well in the morning, I hope," he said,
somewhat distantly.

"Oh, doubtless, doubtless.  She is nervous and excitable--as her
father was--but it is nothing serious."

"I hope not," said Earlshope.

He took out writing materials, and hastily wrote a few lines on a
sheet of paper, which he folded up and put in an envelope.  Then he
bade Mr. Cassilis good-night, and retired.

But towards midnight Coquette, lying awake, heard cautious footsteps
on deck, and the whispering voices of the men.  In the extreme
silence her sense of hearing was painfully acute.  She fancied she
heard a boat being brought round.  There was a moment's silence; then
the words, "Give way!"--followed by a splash of oars.

She knew that Lord Earlshope was in the boat which was now making for
the shore through the darkness of the night.  All that had occurred
on deck seemed but a wild dream.  She knew only that he had left
them--perhaps never to see her again in this world; she knew only
that her heart was full of anguish; and that her fast-flowing tears
could not lessen the aching pain.




CHAPTER XXVII.

LOIN DE FRANCE.

A dull grey day lay over Loch Scavaig.  A cold wind came in from the
sea, and moaned about the steep rocks, the desolate hills, and the
dark water.  The wildfowl were more than usually active, circling
about in flocks, restless and noisy.  There were signs of a change in
the weather, and it was a change for the worse.

Mr. Cassilis was the first on deck.

"Please, sir," said the skipper, coming forward to him, "his lordship
bade me say to ye that he had to leave early this morning to catch
the steamer, and didna want to disturb ye.  His lordship hoped, sir,
you and my lady would consider the yacht your own while ye stayed in
it, and I will take your orders for anywhere ye please."

"What a strange young man!" said the Minister to himself, as he
turned away.

He met Lady Drum, and told her what he had heard.

"He is fair daft," said the elderly lady, with some impatience.  "To
think of bringing us up here to this outlandish place, and leaving us
without a word o' apology; but he was never to be reckoned on.  I
have seen him get into a frightful temper, and walk out o' my house,
just because a young leddy friend o' mine would maintain that he
looked like a married man."

"How is my niece?" said the Minister.

"I was about to tell ye, sir," returned Lady Drum, in a cautious and
observant way, "that she is still a little feverish and excited.  I
can see it in her restlessness and her look.  It must have been
coming on; and last night--wi' the darkness, and the wildness o' this
fearsome place, and the red Northern Lights in the sky--it is no
wonder she gave way."

"But I hope it is not serious," said the Minister, hastily.  "I know
so little of these ailments that I must ask ye to be mindful o' her,
as if she were your own child, and do with her what ye think proper.
Is she coming on deck?"

"No," said Lady Drum, carefully watching the effect of her speech as
she proceeded.  "She will be better to lie quiet for the day.  But we
must guard against her having another shock.  We must get away from
here, sir, directly."

"To be sure, to be sure," said the Minister, almost mechanically.
"Where shall we go?"

"Let us go straight back to Oban, and from there perhaps Miss
Cassilis would prefer to go to Greenock by the steamer."

The skipper received his orders.  Fortunately, although the day was
lowering and dismal, the wind did not rise, and they had a
comparatively smooth voyage southwards.  The Minister remained on
deck, anxious and disturbed; Lady Drum was in attendance on Coquette.

The Minister grew impatient and a trifle alarmed when no news came
from his niece.  At last he went below and knocked at the door of her
state-room.  Lady Drum came out, shut the door behind her, and went
with the Minister along into the saloon.

"But how is she?" said he.  "Why does she keep to her room if she can
come out?"

Lady Drum was evidently annoyed and embarrassed by these questions,
and answered them in a hesitating and shuffling way.  At length she
said, somewhat insidiously--

"Ye do not understand French, Mr. Cassilis?"

"No," said the Minister; "I have never studied the language of a
nation whose history is not pleasant to me."

"I once knew plenty of French," said Lady Drum, "and oven now manage
to get through a letter to my friends in Paris; but her rapid
talk----"

"Whose rapid talk?" said the Minister.

"Why, your niece----"

"Is it French she is talking?" said he.

Lady Drum bit her lip and was silent; she had blurted out too much.

"You do not mean to say that Catherine is delirious?" said the
Minister, suddenly standing up with a pale face, as if to meet and
defy the worst news that could reach him.

Lady Drum hurriedly endeavoured to pacify him.  It was nothing.  It
was but a temporary excitement.  She would recover with a little
rest.  But this tall, sad-faced man would hear none of these
explanations; he passed Lady Drum, walked along and entered the
state-room, and stood by the little bed where his niece lay.

She saw him enter, and there was a smile of welcome on her pale face.
Perhaps it was the dim light, or the exceeding darkness and lustre of
the eyes which were fixed upon him, which made her look so pale; but
her appearance there, with her wild dark hair lying loosely on the
white pillow, struck him acutely with a sense of vague foreboding and
pain.

"Is it you, papa?" she said, quietly, and yet with a strange look on
her face.  "Since I have been ill I have been learning English to
speak to you, and I can speak it very well.  Only Nannette does not
seem to understand--she tires me--you must send her away----"

With a weary look she let her face sink into the pillow.

"Catherine," said the Minister, with a great fear at his heart,
"don't you know me?"

She did not answer or pay any attention for a few seconds, and then
she said:

"Yes, of course, I know.  But you must teach me how to sleep, papa,
for there is a noise all round me, and I cannot sleep.  It is like
waves, and my head is giddy and rocks with it and with the music.
You must keep Nannette from singing, papa--it vexes me--and it is
always the same--_trois ans d'absence--loin de France--ah, quel beau
jour!_--and I hear it far away--always Nannette singing----"

Lady Drum stole in behind the Minister, and laid her hand on his arm.

"You must not be alarmed," she whispered; "this is nothing but the
excitement of yesterday, and she may have caught a cold and made
herself subject to a slight fever."

The Minister said nothing, but stood in a dazed way, looking at the
girl with his sad grey eyes, and apparently scarcely able to realise
the scene before him.

"When shall we reach Tobermory?" he asked, at length.

"In about two hours," said Lady Drum.

The girl had overheard; for she continued to murmur, almost to
herself--

"Shall we be home again, papa, in two hours, and go up past St.
Nazaire?  It is a long time since we were there--so long ago it seems
a mist, and we have been in the darkness.  Ah!  the darkness of last
night out on the sea, with the wild things in the air--the wild
things in the air--and the waves crying along the shore.  It is three
years of absence, and we have been away in dreadful places, but now
there is home again, papa--home, and Nannette is singing merrily in
the garden, and my mamma does come to the gate.  But why does she not
speak?  Why does she turn from me?  Does she not know me any
more--not know Coquette?  And see!  sue!  papa, it is all going away:
the garden is going back and back--my mamma has turned her face away,
and I can scarcely see her for the darkness--have we not got home,
not yet, after all?--for it is away now in a mist, and I can see
nothing, and not even hear Nannette singing."

The Minister took the girl's hand in his; great tears were running
down his cheeks, and his voice was broken with sobs.

"My girl, we shall be home presently.  Do not distress yourself about
it; lie still, the boat is carrying you safely home."

He went on deck; he could not bear to look any more on the beautiful,
wistful eyes that seemed to him full of entreaty.  They carried a
cruel message to him--like the dumb look of pain that is in an
animal's eyes, when it seeks relief, and none can be given.
Impatiently he watched the yacht go down through the desolate waste
of grey sea, the successive headlands and bays slowly opening out as
she sped on.  He paced up and down the narrow strip of deck, wearying
for the vessel to get round Ardnamurchan.  It was clearly impossible
for them to reach Oban that night; but surely there would be a doctor
in Tobermory, who could give Lady Drum sufficient directions.

The evening was deepening into dusk as they got into the Sound of
Mull.  Coquette had fallen into a deep sleep, and her constant nurse
and attendant was rejoiced.  The Minister, however, was not a whit
less anxious; and it was with eager eyes that he scanned the
narrowing distance between the prow of the yacht and Tobermory Bay.
At length the _Caroline_ reached her berth for the night, and the
anchor was scarcely let go when the Minister got into the gig and was
rapidly rowed ashore.  A short time thereafter he had returned to the
yacht, bringing with him the doctor; while Lady Drum had gone on deck
to see that the sailors postponed the more noisy of their operations
until Coquette should have awakened from her slumbers.

The Minister's first notion had been that his niece should be taken
ashore so soon as they got near a habitable house.  But, apart from
the danger of the removal, could she be better situated in a
Tobermory inn than in this little cabin, where she could have the
constant care of Lady Drum?  The present consultation afforded him
some relief.  It was probably only a slight fever, the result of
powerful nervous excitement and temporary weakness of the system.
She was to remain where she was, subject to the assiduous attentions
of her nurse; a physician was to be consulted when they reached Oban;
and, if circumstances then warranted it, she might be gently taken
south in the yacht to her own home.

Next day, however, the fever had somewhat increased; and the wild
imaginings--the pathetic appeals--and the incoherent ramblings of the
girl's delirium grew in intensity.  The bizarre combinations of all
her recent experiences were so foreign to all probability that her
nurse paid but little attention to them, although she was sometimes
deeply affected by the pathetic reminiscences of her charge, or by
the lurid descriptions of dark sea scenes which were apparently
present to the girl's imagination with a ghastly distinctness.  Yet
through all these fantastic groupings of mental phenomena there ran a
series of references to Lord Earlshope, which Lady Drum was startled
to find had some consistency.  They occurred in impossible
combinations with other persons and things; but they repeated, with a
strange persistency, the same impressions.  On the afternoon of the
day on which hey arrived at Oban--the physician having come and
gone--Coquette beckoned her companion to sit down by her.  She
addressed her as Nannette, as she generally did, mistaking her
elderly friend for her old nurse.

"Listen, Nannette.  Yesterday I did see something terrible.  I cannot
forget it," she said, in a low voice, with her dark eyes apparently
watching something in the air before her.  "It was Lord Earlshope
coming over the sea to me--walking on the water--and there was a
glare of light around him; and he seemed an angel that had come with
a message, for he held something in his hand to me, and there was a
smile on his face.  You do not know him, Nannette--it is no matter.
All this happened long ago--in another country--and now that I am
home again it is forgotten, except when I dream.  Are you listening,
poor old Nannette?  As he came near the boat, I held out my hand to
save him from the waves.  Ah! the strange light there was.  It seemed
to grow day, although we were up in the north, under the black
mountains, and in the shadow of the night-clouds.  I held out my hand
to him, Nannette; and he had almost come to me--and then--and
then--there was a change--and all the light vanished, and he dropped
down into the sea, and in place of Lord Earlshope there was a fearful
thing--a devil--that laughed in the water, and swam round, and I ran
back for fear.  There was a red light around him in the sea, and he
laughed, and stretched up his hands.  Oh, it was
dreadful--dreadful--Nannette!" the girl continued, moaning and
shuddering.  "I cannot close my eyes but I see it--and yet, where is
the letter I got before he sank into the water?"

She searched underneath her pillow for the note which Earlshope had
left for her on the night before he went.  She insisted on Lady Drum
reading it.  The old lady opened the folded bit of paper, and read
the following words--"_I was mad last night.  I do not know what I
said.  Forgive me; for I cannot forgive myself._"

What should she do with this fragment of correspondence winch now
confirmed her suspicions?  If she were to hand it back to the girl it
was probable she might in her delirium give it to Mr. Cassilis, who
had enough to suffer without it.  After all, Lady Drum reflected,
this message criminated no one; it only suggested a reason for Lord
Earlshope's sudden departure.  She resolved to retain that note in
her possession for the meantime, and give it back to Coquette when
the girl should have recovered.

"May I keep this message for a little while?" she asked, gently.

Coquette looked at it, and turned away her head and murmured to
herself--

"Yes, yes, let it go--it is the last bit of what is now all past and
gone.  Why did I ever go away from France--up to that wild place in
the north, where the night has red fire in it, and the sea is full of
strange faces?  It is all past and gone.  Nannette, Nannette, have I
told you of all that I saw in Scotland--of the woman who did take my
mother's crucifix from me, and the old man I used to fear, and the
Highlander, and my brave cousin Tom, and my uncle, and--and another
who has got no name now!  I should not have gone there--away from
you, my poor old Nannette--but now it is all over, and I am come home
again.  How pleasant it is to be in the warm south again, Nannette!
I shall never leave France any more--I will stay here, under the
bright skies, and we will go down to the river, as we used to do, and
you will sing to me.  Nannette, Nannette, it is a pretty song--but so
very sad--do you not know that this is the day of our return to
France--that we are at home now--at home?"




CHAPTER XXVIII.

AFTER MANY DAYS.

It was a Sunday morning in winter.  For nearly a fortnight Airlie
moor had been lying under a black frost.  The wind that whistled
through the leafless woods and swept over the hard ground was
bitterly cold; the sky was grey and cheerless; the far stretch of the
sea was more than usually desolate.  The winter had come soon on the
heels of autumn; and already all the manifold signs of life which had
marked the summer were nipped off and dead.  The woods were silent;
the murmur of the moorland rivulet had been hushed, for its narrow
channel contained a mass of ice; and the stripped and bare fields
over which the piercing wind blew were hard as iron.

Then there was one night's snow; and in a twinkling the whole scene
was changed.  On the Saturday night a certain stranger had arrived in
Ardrossan, and put up at an inn there.  He had come down from Glasgow
in a third-class carriage, and had had a sufficiently cheerless
journey.  But now, on this Sunday morning, when he got up, and went
out, lo! there was a new world all around him.  The sun was shining
brightly over the great white fields; the trees hung heavy with the
snow; the straggling groups of men and women coming in from the
country to church, moved ghostlike and silent along the white roads;
and the sea outside had caught a glimmer of misty yellow from the
sunlight, and was almost calm.  The bright and clear atmosphere was
exhilarating, although yet intensely cold; and as this solitary
adventurer issued forth from the town, and took his way up to the
high country, the keen air brought a glow of colour into his young
and healthy face.  The frost had evidently neither stiffened his
limbs nor congealed his blood; and yet even when the brisk exercise
had made him almost uncomfortably warm, he still kept his Scotch cap
well down over his forehead, while the collar of his topcoat was
pulled up so as to conceal almost the whole of the rest of his face.

His light and springy step took him rapidly over the ground, and his
spirits rose with the fresh air and the joyous exercise.  He began to
sing "Drumclog," Sunday morning as it was.  Then, when he had gained
a higher piece of country, and turned to look round him on the
spacious landscape--when he saw the far hills and the valleys shining
in the sunlight, the snow lying thick and soft on the evergreens, and
the sea grown blue and silvery around the still whiteness of the
land--he drew a long breath, and said to himself:

"Wouldn't it be worth while to live twenty years in Glasgow to catch
a glimpse of such a picture as that, and get a mouthful of the clear
air?"

By-and-by he came in sight of Airlie, and then he moderated his pace.
Over the silence of the snow he could hear the sharp clanging of a
bell.  A dark line of stragglers was visible on the whiteness of the
moor, on their way to the small church, the roof of which sparkled in
the sunlight.  Beyond that again, and higher up, was the dusky wall
of the Manse, over which looked some of the windows of the house.
One of the panes caught the sun at an angle, and sent out into the
clear atmosphere a burning ray of light, which glittered over the
moor like a yellow star.

At last he came to a dead stop, by the side of a piece of coppice.
He heard voices behind him, and, turning, saw two or three people
coming up the road.  Evidently wishing to avoid them, he jumped over
the low hedge by the side of the path, and made his way a little
distance into the wood.  The thickness and softness of the feathery
snow deadened every sound.

But when he looked towards the road again, he saw that through the
leafless trees it might be possible for any one to descry him; and so
he went on again, gradually getting down into a hollow, until,
suddenly, he found himself confronted by a man.  The two looked at
each other; the one alarmed, the other annoyed.  At last, the elder
of the two called out:

"Cot pless me, is it you, indeed and mirover?"

The younger of the two men did not answer, but began to look about,
and, after a brief search, picked up a bit of string and wire which
lay plainly marked on the snow.

"Neil, Neil, is this how ye spend the Sabbath morning?" said he.

"And wass you thinking, sat bit o' string wass mine?" said Neil,
indignantly, "when it is John M'Kendrick will ask me to go out and
watch sa men frae the iron-works sat come up to steal sa rabbits!"

"Oh! ye were sent out to watch the poachers?"

"Jist sat," said Neil the Pensioner, looking rather uncomfortably at
the snare in the other's hands.

"Do ye ken where leears gang to?" said the Whaup--for he it was.

"Toots, toots, man!" said the Pensioner, insidiously, "what is sa
harm if a body rins against a bit rabbit?  There is mair o' them san
we can a' eat; and when ye stand in sa wood, wi' your legs close, sey
rin just clean against your feet, and it will pe no human man could
keep his fingers aff.  And what for are ye no at sa kirk yersel',
Maister Tammas?"

"Look here, Neil," said the Whaup, decisively, "I have come down from
Glasgow for an hour or so; and nobody in Airlie maun ken any thing
about it.  Do ye understand?  As soon as the folk are in church, I am
going up to the Manse; and I will make Leezibeth swear not to tell.
As for you, Neil, if ye breathe a word o't, I'll hae ye put in Ayr
jail for poaching.

"It wassna poaching," said Neil, in feeble protest.

"Now tell me all about the Airlie folk," said the Whaup.  "What has
happened?  What have they been doing?"

"Ye will ken sat nothing ever happens in Airlie," said Neil, with a
slight touch of contempt; "there hassna been a funeral or any
forgatherin' for a lang time, and there is mair change in you,
Maister Tammas, than in Airlie.  You will have pecome quite
manly-like, and it is only sa short while you will pe away.  Mirover,
sare is more life going on in Glasgow--eh, Maister Tammas?"

The old Pensioner spoke wistfully about Glasgow, which he knew had
plenty of funerals, marriages, and other occasions for dram-drinking.

"Is my cousin as much better as they said?"

"Oh, she will pe much petter, but jist as white as the snaw itsel'.
I wass up to see her on sa Wednesday nicht, and she will say to
me--'Neil, where iss your fiddle?' but who would ha' socht o' taking
up sa fiddle?  And I did have a dram, too."

"Probably," said the Whaup.  "Lord Earlshope--what has become of him?"

"Nobody will know what hass come to him, for he is not here since sey
all went away in sa yacht.  I tit hear, mirover, he wass in
France--and sare is no knowing what will happen to a man in sat
country, ever since Waterloo.  But Lord Earlshope will pe safer if he
will tell them sat he is English.  Sey canna bear sa Scotch ever
since what we did at Waterloo, as I will have told you often, but sa
English--I do not sink it will matter much harm to them in France."

"I should think not, Neil.  It was the Highlanders settled them that
day, wasn't it?"

"I will tell you," said Neil, drawing himself up to his full height.
"It wass Corporal Mackenzie said to me, at six o'clock in sa
morning--'Neil,' said he, 'sare will be no Bonypart at the end o'
this day, if I can get at him wis my musket.'  Now Corporal Mackenzie
was a strong, big man----"

"Neil, you have told me all that before," said the Whaup.  "I know
that you and Corporal Mackenzie took a whole battery captive--men,
horses, and guns.  You told me before."

"And if a young man hass no pride in what his country hass done; if
he will not hear it again and again," said Neil, with indignation,
"it is not my fault."

"Another time, Neil, we will go over the story from end to end.
There, the bells have just stopped.  I must get on now to the Manse.
Remember, if you let a human being know you saw me in Airlie this
day, it will be Ayr jail for ye."

The Pensioner laughed, and said:

"You wass always a goot hand at a joke, Maister Tammas."

"Faith, you won't find it any joke, Neil," said the Whaup, as he bade
good-bye to the old man, and went off.

As he crossed the moor--the white snow concealing deep ruts filled
with crackling ice, into which he frequently stumbled--he saw the
beadle come out and shut the outer door of the church.  Not a sign of
life was now visible as far as the eye could see--only the white
heights and hollows, with dark lines of hedges, and the grey twilight
of the woods.  The sun still shone on the Manse windows, and as he
drew near a thrush flew out of one of the short firs in front of the
house, bringing down a lot of snow with the flutter of its wings.

He lifted the latch gently, and walked into the front garden.  A
perfect stillness reigned around.  Everybody was evidently at
church--unless, indeed, Leezibeth might have been left with Coquette.
The Whaup looked over the well-known scene of many an exploit.  He
slipped round the house, too, to have a glimpse at the rest of the
premises.  A blackbird flew out of one of the bushes with a cry of
alarm.  A robin came hopping forward on the snow and cocked up its
black and sparkling eye at the intruder.  There were two or three
round patches of snow on the walls of the stable; and the Whaup,
recognising these traces, knew that his brothers must have been
having high jinks there this morning before the Manse had awoke.

Then he went back and cautiously entered the hall.  What was this low
and monotonous sound he heard issuing from the parlour?  He applied
his ear to the door, and heard Leezibeth reading out, in a measured
and melancholy way, a chapter of Isaiah.

"What does that mean?" thought the Whaup.  "She never used to read to
herself.  Can she be reading to Coquette; and is that the enlivening
drone with which she seeks to interest an invalid?"

It seemed to him, also, that if Leezibeth were reading to Coquette,
she was choosing passages with a sinister application.  He heard the
monotonous voice go on:--"_Come down, and sit in the dust, O virgin
daughter of Babylon; sit on the ground; there is no throne, O
daughter of the Chaldeans; for thou shalt no more be called tender
and delicate._"  The cheeks of the Whaup began to burn red with
something else than the cold.  He knew not that Leezibeth had
altogether overcome her old dislike for the girl, and waited on her
with an animal-like fondness and submissiveness.  The Whaup took it
for granted that these texts were chosen as a reproof and
admonition--part of the old persecution; and so, without more ado, he
opened the door brusquely, and walked in.

A strange scene met his eyes.  Coquette, pale and death-like, lay on
a sofa, with her large, dark eyes fixed wistfully on the fire.  She
evidently heard nothing.  Leezibeth sat on a chair at the table, with
a large Family Bible before her.  There was no trace of a sick room
in this hushed and warm apartment, in which the chief light was the
red glow of the fire; and yet it was so silent, save for the low
murmuring of these texts, and the girl looked so sad and so
phantom-like, that a great chill laid hold of his heart.  Had they
been deceiving him in their letters?




CHAPTER XXIX.

COQUETTE'S DREAMS.

The Whaup went over to the sofa, and knelt down on one knee, and took
Coquette's hand.

"Coquette," said he, forgetting to call her by any other name, "are
you ill yet?  Why are you so pale?  Why did they tell me you were
almost better?"

She was pale no longer.  A quick flush of surprise and delight sprang
to her face when she saw him enter; and there was a new life and
pleasure in her eyes as she said rapidly:

"You are come all the way from Glasgow to see me?  I was thinking of
you, and trying to make a picture of Glasgow in the coal and flames
of the fire; and I had begun to wonder when you would come back; and
whether it would be a surprise--and--and--I did think I did hear
something in the snow outside, and it was really you?  And how well
you look, Tom," she added, with her dark eyes full of a subtle
tenderness and joy regarding the young man's handsome and glowing
face; "and how big and strong you are; but, do you know, you seem to
be a great deal older?  You have been working very hard, Tom?  Ah, I
do know!  And you have come to stay for a while?  And what sort of a
house have you been living in?  And what sort of a place is Glasgow?
Sit down on the hearthrug and tell me all about it!"

She spoke quite rapidly, and, in her gladness and excitement, she
tried to raise herself up a bit.  The Whaup instantly offered her his
assistance, and propped up the cushions on which her head rested.
But why did he not speak?  He did not answer one of her questions.
He looked at her in a vague and sad way, as if she were somehow
remote, and she fancied she saw a tremor about his lips.  Then he
said suddenly, with a sharpness which startled her:

"Why was I not told?  Why did they make light of it?  What have they
been doing to let you get as ill as this?"

He rose and turned with a frown on his face, as if to accuse
Leezibeth of being the cause of the girl's illness.  Leezibeth had
quietly slipped out of the room.

"What does that woman mean by persecuting you with her texts?" he
asked.

Coquette reached out her hand, and brought him down to his old
position beside her.

"You must not say anything against Leesibess; she is my very good
friend, and so kind that she does not know how to serve me.  And you
must not look angry like that, or I shall be afraid of you; you seem
so much greater and older than you were, and I have no longer any
control over you, as I did use to have when you were a boy, you know."

The Whaup laughed, and sat down on the hearthrug beside her.  The
fire heightened the warm glow of his face, and touched here and there
the brown masses of curling hair; but it was clear that some
firmness, and perhaps a touch of sadness had been added to the lad's
expression during those few months he had been away from home.  There
was a gravity in his voice, too, which had replaced the buoyant
carelessness of old.

"It is comfortable to be near one's own fire, and to see you again,
Coquette," said he.

"It is miserable away in Glasgow?" she said.  "This morning, when I
saw the snow, I thought of you in the drear town, and did wonder what
you were doing.  It is Sunday, I said, he will go to church in the
morning, and then he will go outside the town for a walk all by
himself.  He will go through the great gate, and under the big walls.
All the trees on the side of the fortifications will be bare and
heavy with snow; and the people that pass along the boulevards
outside the walls will be muffled up and cold.  In the gardens of the
_cafés_ the wooden benches will be wet and deserted.  Then I see you
walk twice round the town, and go in again by the gate.  You go home,
you have dinner, you take a book--perhaps it is the French Testament
I gave you--and you think of us here at Airlie.  And when you sit
like that do you think of the sea, and the old church up here, and
the moor; and do you see us as clearly as I can see you, and could
you speak to me if only the words would carry?"

He listened as if he were listening to the record of a dream; and,
strangely enough, it coincided with many a dream that he had dreamt
by himself in the solitude of his Glasgow lodgings.

"What a curious notion of Glasgow you have," he said.  "You seem to
think it is like a French town.  There are no fortifications.  There
are no walls, no boulevards round the place, nor public gardens with
benches.  There is a close network of streets in the middle, and
these lose themselves, on the one side, in great masses of public
works and chimneys that stretch out into dirty fields that are sodden
with smoke, and, on the other side, into suburbs where the rich
people have big houses.  There is nothing in the way of ramparts, or
moats, or fortifications; but there is a cannon in the West-End Park."

"There is a park, then?  It is not all houses and chimneys?"

"There are two parks that let you see nearly down to Airlie.  On the
clear days I go up to the highest point and look away down here, and
wonder if I could call to Coquette, and if she would hear."

"You do think of me sometimes, then?" said she, with the dark eyes
grown wistful and a trifle sad.

Had he not thought of her!  What was it that seemed to sweeten his
life in the great and weary city but tender memories of the girl away
down in that moorland nook?  In the time of constant rain, when the
skies were dark, and the roaring traffic of the streets ploughed its
way through sludge and mud, he thought of one spot over which, in his
imagination, there dwelt perpetual sunshine and a blue sky.  When he
was sick of the noise and the smoke--sick, too, of the loneliness of
the great city--he could think of the girl far away, whose face was
as pure and sweet as a lily in springtime; and the very memory of her
seemed to lighten his dull little room, and bring a fragrance to it.
Did not Airlie lie in the direction of the sunset?  Many a time, when
he had gone out from the town to the heights of Maryhill or Billhead,
the cloudy and wintry afternoon broke into a fierce mass of fire away
along the western horizon; and he loved to think that Coquette was
catching that glare of yellow light, and that she was looking over
the moor towards Arran and the sea.  All the sweet influences of life
hovered around Airlie; there seemed to be always sunshine there.  And
when he went back into the gloom of the city it was with a glad
heart; for he had got a glimpse of the favoured land down in the
west; and if you had been walking behind a tall and stalwart lad,
whose shoulders were as flat as a board, and whose brown hair was in
considerable profusion round a face that was full of courage, and
hope, and health, you would have heard him sing, high over the roar
of the carts and the carriages, the tune of "Drumclog"--heeding
little whether any one was listening to his not very melodious voice.

"You must have been much worse than they told me," he said gravely.

"But I am getting very well now," said Coquette, with a smile, "and I
am anxious to be quite better, for they did spoil me here.  I do not
like to be an invalid."

"No," said the Whaup, "I suppose you'd rather be scampering about
like a wild pony over the moor, flinging snowballs, and shouting with
laughter."

"I did not know that the wild pony was good at snowballs or at
laughing," said Coquette.  "But you have not told me anything about
Glasgow.  What you do there?  Have you seen Lady Drum since she went
away from here, after being very kind to me?  How do you like the
college?"

"All that is of no consequence," said the Whaup.  "I did not come
here to talk about myself.  I came to see you, and find out for
myself why you were remaining so long indoors."

"But I do desire you to talk about yourself," said Coquette, with
something of her old imperiousness of manner.

"I shan't," said the Whaup.  "I have grown older than you since I
went to Glasgow, and I am not to be ordered about.  Besides,
Coquette, I haven't above half an hour more to stay."

"You do not go away to-day?" said Coquette, with alarm in her face.

"I go away in less than half an hour, or my father will be home.  Not
a human being must know that I have come to Airlie to-day.  I mean to
exact a solemn vow from Leezibeth."

"It is wicked--it is wrong," said Coquette.

"Why not say it is a beastly shame, as you used to do?" asked the
Whaup.

"Because I have been reading much since I am ill, and have learned
much English," said Coquette; and then she proceeded with her prayers
and entreaties that he should remain at least over the day.

But the Whaup was inexorable.  He had fulfilled the object of his
mission; and would depart without anybody being a bit the wiser.  He
had seen Coquette again; had listened to her tender voice; and
assured himself that she was really convalescent and in good spirits.
So they chatted in the old familiar fashion--as if they were boy and
girl together.  But all the time Coquette was regarding him, and
trying to say to herself what the inexpressible something was which
had made a difference in the Whaup's manner.  He was not downcast--on
the contrary, he talked to her in the frank, cheerful, abrupt way
which she knew of old; and yet there was a touch of determination, of
seriousness, and decision which had been quite recently acquired.  In
the mere outward appearance of his face, too, was there not some
alteration?

"Oh, Tom!" she cried, suddenly, "you have got whiskers."

"What if I have?" he said coolly.  "Are you sorry, Miss Coquette,
that nature has denied to woman that manly ornament?"--and he stroked
with satisfaction the dusky golden down which was on his cheeks.

"I do believe," said Coquette, "you did come from Glasgow to show me
your whiskers."

"You don't seem to admire them as much as you ought to," he remarked.
"Yet there are many men would give something for these, though they
are young as yet."

"Oh, you vain boy!" said Coquette.  "I am ashamed of you.  And your
fashionable cuffs, too--you are not a proper student.  You ought to
be pale, and gloomy, with shabby clothes, and a hungry face.  But you
have no links in your cuffs, Tom," she added, rather shyly.  "Would
you let me--would you accept from me as a present a pair I have got?"

"And go back to college with a pair of girl's links in my sleeves!"
said the Whaup.

"But they are quite the same," said Coquette.  "It will give me great
pleasure if you will take them."

She rang for Leezibeth, and bade her go up to her room and fetch
those bits of jewellery; and when Leezibeth came back with them
Coquette would herself put them in her cousin's sleeves--an operation
which, from her recumbent position, she effected with a little
difficulty.  As the Whaup looked at these pretty ornaments--four
small and dark-green cameos set in an old-fashioned circle of
delicately twisted gold wire--he said--

"I wonder you have left yourself anything, Coquette.  You are always
giving away something or other.  I think it is because you are so
perfect and happy in yourself, that you don't need to care for
anything else."

The girl's face flushed slightly with evident pleasure; but she said--

"If you do call me 'Coquette,' I will call you 'The Whaup.'"

"Who told you to call me that?"

"I have heard it often.  Yet it is not fair.  You are not any more a
wild boy, but a student and a man.  Neither am I 'Coquette.'"

Yet at this very moment the deceitful young creature was trying her
best to make him forget the peril he was in.  She knew that if the
people returning from church were to find him in the house, his
secret would be lost, and he would be forced to remain.  So she
talked and questioned him without ceasing, and had made him
altogether forget that time was passing rapidly, when suddenly there
was a noise somewhere.

"By Jove!" said the Whaup, "they have come back.  I must bolt out by
the garden and get over the wall.  Good-bye, Coquette--get well soon,
and come up to see me in Glasgow!"

He darted out, and met Leezibeth in the passage.  He had only time to
adjure her not to say he had been there, and then he got quickly
through to the back-door.  In rushing forth he fairly ran against his
brother Wattie, and unintentionally sent him flying into an immense
heap of soft snow which Andrew had swept along the path; but the
Whaup did not pause to look at his brother wriggling out, blinded and
bewildered, from the snowdrift.  He dashed through the garden, took
hold of a pear-tree, clambered on to the wall, and dropped into the
snow-covered meadow outside.  He had escaped.

But Wattie, when he came to himself, was struck with a great fear.
He ran into the house, and into the parlour, almost speechless
between sobbing and terror, as he blurted out--

"Oh, Leezibeth! oh, Leezibeth! the deil has been in the house.  It
was the deil himsel'--and he was fleeing out at the back-door--and he
flung me into the snaw--and then gaed up into the air, wi' a crack
like thunder.  It was the deil himsel', Leezibeth--what'll I dae?
what'll I dae?"

"Havers, havers, havers," cried Leezibeth, taking him by the
shoulders, and bundling him out of the room, "do ye think the deil
would meddle wi' you?  Gang butt the house, and take the snaw off
your claithes, and let the deil alane!  Ma certes--a pretty pass if
we are to be frightened out o' our senses because a laddie tumbles in
the snaw!"




CHAPTER XXX.

ON THE WAY.

The Whaup got clear away from the people coming out of church by
striking boldly across the moor.  His back was turned to the sea; his
face to the east; he was on his way to Glasgow.  Briskly and lightly
he strode over the crisp, dry snow, feeling but little discomfort,
except from some premonitory qualms of hunger; and at length he got
into the broad highway which follows the channel of the Ayrshire
lochs from Dairy on by the valley of the Black Cart towards Paisley.

It was a bright, clear day, and he was in the best of spirits.  Had
he not talked for a brief while with Coquette, and seen for himself
that there was a glimpse of the old tenderness, and sauciness, and
liveliness in her soft black eye?  He had satisfied himself that she
was really getting better; and that, on some distant day of the
springtime, when a breath of the new sweet air would come in to stir
the branches of the trees in the West-End Park, he would have the
honour and delight of escorting his foreign cousin towards that not
very romantic neighbourhood, and pointing out to her the spot on the
horizon under which Airlie was supposed to lie.

When would the springtime come?--he thought, as he began to munch a
biscuit.  Was it possible that his imaginative picture would come
true?  Would Coquette actually be seen in Glasgow streets--crossing
over in front of the Exchange--walking down Buchanan Street--and
perhaps up on the little circle around the flag in the South-Side
Park?  Would Coquette really and truly walk into that gloomy square
inside the old College, and look at the griffins, and perhaps shyly
steal a glance at the red-coated young students lounging round?
Glasgow began to appear less dull to him.  A glamour fell over the
grey thoroughfares; and even the dinginess of the High Street became
picturesque.

"Why, all the sparrows in the street will know that Coquette has
come; and the young men in the shops will brighten themselves up; and
Lady Drum will take her to the theatre, in spite of my father; and
all the bailies will be asking Sir Peter for an introduction.  And
Coquette will go about like a young princess, having nothing in the
world to do but to look pleased!"

So he struck again with his stick at the snow on the hedge, and
quickened his pace, as though Glasgow were now a happy end to his
journey.  And he lifted up his voice, and sang aloud, in his joy, the
somewhat desolating tune of "Coleshill"--even as the Germans, when at
their gayest, invariably begin to sing--

  "Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten
  Dass ich so traurig bin."

The Whaup had not the most delicately modulated voice, but, such as
it was, he had plenty of it.

Presently, however, he stopped, for right in front of him there
appeared a solitary horseman.  There was something in the rider's
figure familiar to him.  Who was this that dared to invade the quiet
of these peaceful districts by appearing on horseback on a Sunday
morning?  As he drew near, the Whaup suddenly remembered that not a
word had been said by Coquette of Lord Earlshope.

The sunlight faded utterly out of the landscape.  All the joyous
dreams he had been dreaming of Coquette coming to Glasgow grew faint,
and vanished.  He had quite forgotten Lord Earlshope; and now, it
became evident, here he was, riding along the main road in the
direction of Airlie.

As Earlshope came near, he drew up his horse.  He was clad, the Whaup
observed, in a large Russian-looking overcoat, which had plenty of
warm fur round the neck of it.  He looked, indeed, more like a
foreigner than a country gentleman riding along an Ayrshire road
towards his own estates.

No less surprised was Lord Earlshope to meet his boon companion of
old.

"Why," he said, "I thought you had left Airlie."

"I thought the same of you," said Mr. Tom.

Earlshope laughed.

"I am obeying a mere whim," he said, "in riding down to Earlshope.  I
shall probably not stay an hour.  How are all the people in Airlie?"

"I don't know," answered the Whaup, "I have myself been there for
about an hour, and no more."

"At least you know how your cousin, Miss Cassilis, is?" said he, in a
grave tone of voice.

"Yes," said the Whaup, "she is still an invalid, you know, but she is
on the fair way to a complete recovery."

"I am glad of that," said Earlshope, hastily.  "I am glad of that,
for I may not be able to call to see how she is.  In fact, I am
rather pressed for time this morning.  You are sure she is getting
well?"

"Yes, I hope so," said the Whaup.

"And will soon be about again?"

"Yes, I hope so," repeated the Whaup, regarding with some curiosity
the engrossed and absent way in which the other put his rapid
questions.

Earlshope turned round his horse.

"Look here," he said, "I don't wish to be seen about this place, and
I don't think I shall go on to Airlie.  I only wanted to make some
inquiries about your cousin.  What you tell me has satisfied me that
she is not so ill as I had feared.  Where are you going?"

"I am walking to Glasgow," said the Whaup.

"To Glasgow?" said the other.  "You won't be there before night!"

"That is not of much consequence."

"I will go to Glasgow with you, if you like.  We can take the horse
alternately."

"The horse would think you were mad if you were to walk him all the
way up to Glasgow in this snow," said the Whaup.

"True, true," said Lord Earlshope, absently.  "I shall strike across
country for Largs, and put up there.  You saw your cousin to-day?"

"Yes."

"And she is not very much of an invalid?"

"Well, I hope she is getting better," said the Whaup.

"Thank you--thank you," said Lord Earlshope.  "You need not say you
have seen me.  Good day to you!"

So he turned his horse once more, and rode on, with an obviously
preoccupied air.

"There goes a man," said the Whaup, watching him disappear, "as mad
as a March hare, and madder."

Yet, as he walked on, he found that this brief interview had
strangely disquieted him.  What business had Earlshope to be asking
so particularly about Coquette?  Why was he riding down on this
Sunday morning for the professed purpose of making inquiries about
her?  Nay, why should he wish not to be seen?  It was evident that in
Airlie, where no one had seen his lordship for many a day, there was
no expectation of him.  The more Tom Cassilis considered the matter,
the more profound became his annoyance over the whole affair.

It now seemed to him--looking back over the brief time that he had
spent with Coquette--that the most grateful feature of the interview
was the fact that Lord Earlshope had not been mentioned.  He had been
quite forgotten, indeed.  There might have been no Lord Earlshope in
the world, so thoroughly had he been ignored in that quiet and
confidential chat which took place in the Minister's parlour.  Yet
here he was, riding down by himself within a few miles of Airlie, and
with his professed object the wish to see or hear something of
Coquette.

The rest of that long walk was not pleasant to the young man.  The
whole day seemed to have become sombre and gloomy.  Why was he
compelled to return like a slave to the labour and the loneliness of
a strange town, when others had the free country before them, to
choose their place of rest as they liked?  It seemed to him that he
was turning his back now on all that was beautiful and pleasant in
the world, and that Lord Earlshope had been left there with such
intentions in his heart as were still a mystery.  The Whaup began to
forget that he had fraternised with Lord Earlshope on board the
_Caroline_.  He remembered no longer that he had satisfied himself of
that gentleman's being a far more agreeable and honest person than
the popular voice of the district would admit.  Earlshope's kindness
to them all, and his excessive and almost distant courtesy to
Coquette and her uncle, were effaced from his recollection; and he
knew only that before him lay the long and winding and dreary road to
Glasgow, while behind him were the pleasant places about Airlie, and
Coquette, and the comfort of the Manse, towards which Lord Earlshope
was perhaps now riding.

It was late at night when the Whaup, footsore and tired, reached his
lodgings in George Street, Glasgow.  His landlady had not returned
from evening service; the solitary domestic of the house was also
absent; there was no one in the gaunt and dismal house, which he
entered by means of a latch-key.  He set to work to kindle a fire;
but the fire went out; and in the middle of his labours he dropped
into a chair and fell fast asleep.  The fatigues of the day caused
him to sleep on in the darkness and the cold; and the other people of
the house, coming in later on, knew nothing of his being in his room.

In the middle of the night he awoke.  He was stiff with cold.  He
sought for matches, and could not find them; so he tumbled into bed
in the dark, with his whole frame numbed and his heart wretched.  Nor
did he forget his miseries in sleep; there was no sleep for him.  He
lay through the night and tossed about; and if for a moment he fell
into a sort of doze, it was to start up again with a great fear that
something had happened at Airlie.  In these periods of
half-forgetfulness, and during the interval when he lay broadly
awake, the nightmare that haunted him was the figure of the solitary
rider he had met on the Dairy Road.  What was the meaning of those
anxious inquiries that Earlshope had then made?  Why was he
disinclined to go on to his own place, and be seen of the people of
Airlie?  Why go to Largs?  Largs--as the Whaup lay and
remembered--was not more than fifteen miles from Airlie.  Would
Earlshope loiter about there in the hope of seeing Coquette by
stealth?  And why should he wish to see her?  So the weary hours of
the night passed, and the grey and wintry dawn began to tell upon the
window of his room.  The questions, with all their anxieties and
doubts, remained unanswered; and there had come another gloomy day,
demanding its quota of work.




CHAPTER XXXI.

AN AWFUL VISITOR.

It became noised abroad that the devil had been seen in Airlie.  The
Minister's sons not only took up the story which had been told them
by their brother Wattie, but added to it and embellished it until it
assumed quite dramatic proportions, and was picturesquely minute in
detail.  The rumour that grew and widened in the village was that, on
the Sabbath forenoon, a black Something had been seen wandering about
in the snow round the Manse.  The boys, on returning from church, had
heard mysterious voices in the deep silence of the small garden.
Then Wattie, drawing near to the back-door, had suddenly been blinded
by a rush of wind; flames darted out from the house and surrounded
him; the current of air drove him into a snowdrift; and the awful
Something, with a shriek of fiendish laughter, had fled past him and
disappeared, and there was a low rumble, as of distant thunder
echoing along the hollow stillness of the sky.

That was the rumour of Sunday night and the following morning; but
during the day of Monday there were bruited round some strange
stories of mysterious footprints which had been perceived in the
snow.  A track had been observed leading over the moor towards the
garden-wall, and suddenly stopping there.  Now, not only was it
impossible for any being of mortal shape and limbs to leap that high
wall, but there was this further peculiarity remarked, that the
footprints formed but one line.  A slight fall of snow, it is true,
during the morning had somewhat blurred the outline of these marks;
but it was confidently asserted that they were not such as had ever
been made by the impress of a human foot.

Towards nightfall Mr. Gillespie, having finished off some parochial
business, deemed it his duty to go up to the Manse to communicate
these disturbing stories to the Minister.  The Schoolmaster had a
visitor that evening--Mr. Cruikshanks, the Tailor--who sometimes
dropped in to have a glass of toddy and a chat over public affairs.
The Tailor was a small, thin, black-a-vised man, of highly nervous
temperament, who was suspected of having been a Chartist, and who had
been known at a public meeting in Saltcoats--for he was a great
orator--to express views which were of a wild and revolutionary
nature.  Nevertheless, up here in Airlie he conducted himself in a
fitting manner; went regularly to church; observed the Communion;
never failed to have the mended pair of breeks or the new coat home
in good time; and, if he did sympathise with the French republicans,
said little about it.  Indeed, it was not to be controverted that the
Pensioner knew far more about France and the French than the
excitable little Tailor; for the former had driven whole regiments of
prisoners before him like sheep, and could tell you how the
contemptible and weakly things asked for water and bread, using
language of their own for want of a better education.

Mr. Cruikshanks had also heard the ugly rumours current in the
village, and quite agreed that the Schoolmaster should go up to the
Manse.

"Not," said he, with an oratorical gesture, "because ye believe in
them, sir; but because the Minister maun be warned to set his face
against the superstitions o' the vulgar.  The dawn o' leeberty, Mr.
Gillespie, though oft delayed, is never won; and the triumph o' the
great principles o' rationalism that is progressin' faur and wide----"

"Rationalism! rationalism!" said the Schoolmaster, in dismay.  "Do ye
ken what ye're sayin', man?"

"Which is not the rationalism o' the vulgar, sir," observed the
Tailor, calmly.  "'Tis of another complexion and pale cast of
thought.  It has naething to do wi' releegion.  It is the new
spirit--the blawin' up o' the auld fossils and formations--the light
that never was in poet's dream.  But I will gang wi' ye, sir, to the
Minister's, if ye are so minded."

The two went out together.  By the help of the yellow light from the
small windows, they picked their way through the muddy and half
melted snow of the village street.  When they had got clear of the
small houses, they found the snow lying thick and crisp and dry on
the highway; and it needed all their watchfulness to decipher, by the
aid of the starlight, the line of the moorland road.  There was no
one abroad at that hour.  The villagers had been glad to get into
their warm homes out of the cold and bitter wind that blew along the
white uplands.  From over the broad moor there came not the least
sound; and the only living thing visible seemed the countless myriads
of stars, which shone coldly and clearly through the frosty
atmosphere.  The Schoolmaster and his companion spoke but little as
they went; they were too much engaged in finding the path through the
snow.

Suddenly the Tailor stopped and involuntarily laid his hand on his
neighbour's arm.

"What is it?" said the Schoolmaster, with a start.

But he had scarcely uttered the words when he saw what had caused his
companion to stand still, with his face looking over the moor.
Before them--a dark mass in the starlight--stood Airlie Church; and
at one end of it--that farthest from the door--the windows seemed to
be lighted up with a dull red glow.

"Wha can be in the kirk at this time o' nicht?" said the
Schoolmaster, quite forgetting to choose proper English phrases.

The Tailor said nothing.  He was thinking of Alloway Kirk and the
wild revels that had been celebrated there.  His talk about the
superstitions of the vulgar had gone from his memory; he only saw
before him, over a waste of snow and under a starlit sky, a church
which could, for no possible reason, be occupied, but which had its
windows touched from the inside with a glow of light.

"Man and boy," said the Schoolmaster, "I have lived in Airlie these
twenty years, and never saw such a thing.  It is a fearsome licht
that.  It would be our duty to go and see what it means----"

"There I dinna agree wi' ye!" said the Tailor, angrily.  "What
business is it o' ours?  Folks dinna sweeten their ain yill by
meddlin' wi' other folk's barrels.  I am for lettin' the kirk alane.
Doubtless it is lichted up for some purpose.  Why, dinna ye ken that
the Minister's niece was brought up as a Roman; and that the
Catholics like to hae a' mainner o' mysterious services in the dead
o' nicht?"

This explanation seemed to afford the Tailor very great relief.  He
insisted upon it even to the point of losing his temper.  What right
had the Schoolmaster to interfere with other people's religion?  Why
didn't he do as he would be done by?

"But we ought to see what it is," said the Schoolmaster.

"Ye may gang if ye like," said the Tailor, firmly.  "Deil the bit o'
me 'll steer!"

The Schoolmaster drew back.  He was not going to cross the moor
alone--especially with those rumours of mysterious footprints about.

"Perhaps ye are right, Mr. Cruikshanks," he said.  "But we maun gang
on and tell the Minister."

"Surely, surely," said the Tailor, with eagerness.  "We hae a sacred
duty to perform.  We maun get a lamp to see our way, and the keys o'
the kirk, and the Minister and Andrew Bogue will come wi' us.  The
notion o' its being witches--ha! ha!--it is quite rideeklous.  Such
superstitions, sir, have power wi' the vulgar, but wi' men like you
and me, Mr. Gillespie, wha have studied such things, and appeal to
the licht o' reason, it is not for us to give way to idle fears.  No;
we will go up to the door o' the kirk, and we will have the maitter
explained on rationalistic principles----"

"I wish, Mr. Cruikshanks," said the Schoolmaster, with a sort of
nervous anxiety and anger, "ye wouldna talk and talk about your
rationalism and your rationalistic principles.  I declare, to hear
ye, ane would think there wasna a heeven above us."

But the Tailor continued his discourse on the sublime powers of
reason, and waxed more and more buoyant and eloquent, until, the two
having reached the gate of the Manse, the Tailor turned upon his
companion, and with scorn hinted that he, the Schoolmaster, had
succumbed to childish fears on seeing the kirk windows lit up.

"What more simple," said the Tailor, in his grandest manner, "than to
have walked up to the door, gone in, and demanded to know what was
the reason o' the licht?  That is what common sense and reason would
dictate; but when fears and superstitions rise and dethrone the
monarch from his state, the lord of all is but a trumpery vassal--a
trumpery vassal, Mr. Gillespie!"

The Schoolmaster was too indignant--and perhaps too much relieved on
finding himself within the shelter of the Manse wall--to reply.  The
two neighbours walked up to the door of the Manse--looking rather
suspiciously at the gloomy corners around them, and the black shadows
of the trees--and knocked.  The door was opened half an inch.

"Who's there?" said Leezibeth.

"Me," said the Schoolmaster.

"Who's me?" said the voice from within--the door being still kept on
the point of shutting.

"Bless my life and body!" cried the Schoolmaster, provoked out of all
patience.  "Is this a night to keep a human being starving in the
snaw?  Let us in, woman!"

With which he drove the door before him and entered the passage,
confronting the terrified Leezibeth, who dropped her candle there and
then, and left the place in darkness.

The Minister opened the parlour door, and the light streamed out on
the strangers.  Without being asked, the Schoolmaster and the Tailor
stumbled into the room, and stood, with dazed eyes, looking
alternately at the Minister and at Coquette, who lay on the sofa with
an open book beside her.

"What is the matter?  What is the matter?" said the Minister; for
both the men seemed speechless with fear.

"Has she no been at the kirk the nicht?" said the Tailor.

"Who?" said the Minister, beginning to think that both of his
visitors must be drunk.

"Her," said the Tailor--"your niece, sir--Miss Cassilis."

"At the kirk?  She has not been out of the house for months."

"But--but--but there is somebody in the kirk at this present
meenute," said the Tailor, breathlessly.

"Nonsense!" said the Minister, with some impatience.  "What do you
mean?"

"As sure as daith, sir, the kirk's in a lowe!" blurted out the Tailor
again, though he still kept his eyes glaring in a fascinated way on
Coquette.

To tell the truth, Coquette began to laugh.  The appearance and talk
of the two strangers--whether the result of drink or of fright--were
altogether so abnormal and ludicrous that, for the life of her, she
could not keep from smiling.  Unfortunately, this conduct on her
part, occurring at such a moment, seemed to confirm the suspicions of
the two men.  They regarded her as if she were a witch who had been
playing pranks with them on the moor, had whipped herself home, and
was now mocking them.  Vague recollections of "Tam o' Shanter" filled
their minds with forebodings.  Who knew but that she was connected
with these mysterious things of which the village had been talking?
Why should the stories have centred upon the Manse?  Was she not a
Roman, and a foreigner--a creature whose dark eyes were full of
concealed meaning--of malicious mischief--of unholy laughter?  No
wonder there were strange footprints about, or that the kirk was "in
a lowe" at midnight.

The Minister abruptly recalled them from their dazed and nervous
speculations by demanding to know what they had seen.  Together they
managed to produce the story in full; and the Minister said he would
himself at once go over the moor to the kirk.

"Micht not Andrew Bogue come wi' a lantern?" said the Tailor; and the
Minister at once assented.

With that, the spirits of the two heroes rose.  They would inquire
into this matter.  They would have no devilish cantrips going on in
the parish, if they could help it.  And so they once more sallied out
into the cold night air; and, with much loud talking and confident
suggestion, struck across the snow of the moor.

As they drew near to the small church the talking died down.  The red
light was clearly seen in the windows.  Andrew Bogue, who had been a
few steps ahead of the party, in order to show them the way,
suggested that he should fall behind, so that the light would shine
more clearly around their feet.  Against this both the Schoolmaster
and the Tailor strongly protested; and the discussion ended by the
Minister impatiently taking the lamp into his own hand and going
forward.  The _posse comitatus_ followed close, and in deep silence.
Indeed, there was not a sound heard, save the soft yielding of the
crisp snow; and in the awful stillness--under the great canopy of
sparkling stars--the red windows of the small and dark building
glimmered in front of them.

The Minister walked up to the door, the others keeping close behind
him.  He endeavoured to open it; it was locked.

"The keys, Andrew," he said.

"I--I--I didna bring any keys," said Andrew, testily.  He was angry
with his tongue for stammering, and with his throat for choking.

"And how did ye expect us to get in?" asked the Minister.

"Why, I thocht--I thocht that if there was anybody in the kirk, the
door would be open," answered Andrew, querulously.

"Go back to the Manse and get them," said the Minister perhaps with
concealed irony.

"By mysel'?" quoth Andrew.  "Across the moor by mysel'?  What for
does any human being want to get into the kirk?  Doubtless there are
some bits o' wanderin' bodies inside; would ye turn them out in the
cauld?  If ye do want to look into the kirk, there is a ladder 'at ye
can pit against the wa'."

Andrew was ordered to bring the ladder; but he professed his
inability to carry it.  The Schoolmaster and the Tailor went with him
to a nook behind some back-door; and presently reappeared--walking
stealthily and conversing in whispers--with the ladder, which they
placed against the wall.  The Schoolmaster, with a splendid
assumption of bravery, clambered up the steps, and paused when the
tip of his nose received the light from the panes.  The others
breathlessly awaited his report.

"I canna see any thing," he whispered, coming down rather rapidly.

But where the Schoolmaster had gone, the Tailor would go.  Mr.
Cruikshanks went, bravely up the ladder, and peered in at the window.
What could be the meaning of this ghastly stillness, and the yellow
light burning somewhere in the church?  He had heard of awful scenes,
in which corpse-lights had come forth all over a churchyard, with
vague forms flitting about, in the midst of peals of demoniac
laughter.  But here was no sound--no movement--only the still glare
of a ruddy light, coming from whence he knew not.

But what was this that suddenly echoed along the empty church?  The
Tailor grasped the top rung of the ladder.  He would have given
worlds to have got down; but if he had let go, his trembling legs
would have thrown him backward.  Something was moving in the dim and
solitary building--his breath came and went--his head swam round--the
ladder trembled within his grip.  And at the same moment there was a
startling cry, a smothered shriek from the Schoolmaster, as he turned
to find in the darkness a figure approaching him.  Andrew fell back
from the foot of the ladder; and therewithal down came the ladder and
the Tailor together with a crash upon Andrew and his lamp, burying
the one in the snow, and smashing the other to pieces.  A succession
of piteous cries from the Tailor broke the silence of the moor; until
the Minister, dragging him out of the snow, bade him cease his
howling.  The Schoolmaster had abruptly retreated; and now the group
of explorers, partly on the ground and partly upright, was approached
by this dusky figure.

"What is that?" said the Schoolmaster, in an agonised whisper.  "Oh,
what is't?--what is't?  What can it be, sir?  Speak till't!"

The Minister having put the Tailor on his legs--though they were
scarcely able to support him--turned to the newcomer, and said--

"Well, who are you?"

"Me, sir?  Me?" said a deep bass voice, in rather an injured tone,
"I'm Tammas Kilpaitrick."

"What!  Kilpaitrick the joiner?" said the Schoolmaster.

"Well, I hope sae," said the man; "and I dinna ken what for ye should
run away frae a body as though he was a warlock."

"But how came ye in the kirk at this time o' night?" said the
Minister.

"Deed, ye may well ask," said the worthy joiner; "for it's little my
maister allows me for overtime; and if he will put me to jobs like
this after my day's work is done, I hope he'll gie me some fire and
better company than a wheen rats and mice.  Will Mr. Bogue take hame
the keys that my maister got frae his wife this afternoon?"

But Mr. Bogue was still in the snow, groaning.  When they picked him
up they found that the lantern had severely cut his nose, which was
bleeding freely.  Whereupon the Sehoolmaster waxed valiant, and
vouchsafed to the joiner an explanation of the panic, which, he said,
was the work "o' that poor body, the Tailor.  And, mark me, Mr.
Kilpaitrick," he added, "it is not every man that would have insisted
on seeing to the bottom o' this maitter, as I did this night.  It was
our duty to investigate--or, as I might say, to examine--into what
might have raised superstitious fears in Airlie, especially as
regards the stories that have been about.  It shames me that, as we
were proceeding in a lawful--or, I might say, legitimate--manner, to
inquire, that poor body, the Tailor, should have set up an eldritch
screech, as if he was possessed.  He is a poor body, that Tailor, and
subject to the fears of the vulgar.  If ye hear the neighbours talk
o' this night's doings, ye will be able, Mr. Kilpaitrick, to say who
behaved themselves like men; and I'm thinking that we will be glad o'
your company across the moor, and ye will then come in and hae a
glass o' toddy wi' us, Mr. Kilpaitrick.  As for the Tailor there, the
poor craytur has scarcely come to his senses yet; but we maun take
him safe hame."




CHAPTER XXXII.

IN THE SPRINGTIME.

Why was there no mention of Lord Earlshope in the letters from Airlie
which reached the Whaup in his Glasgow lodgings?  The Whaup was too
proud to ask; but he many a time wondered whether Earlshope was now
paying visits to the Manse, as in the bygone time, and watching the
progress of Coquette's restoration to health.  Indeed, the letters
that came up from the moorland village were filled with nothing but
Coquette, and Coquette, and Coquette.  The boys now openly called her
by this familiar name; and her sayings and doings, the presents she
made them, and the presents she promised to give them when she should
go to Glasgow, occupied their correspondence almost to the exclusion
of stories of snow-battles with the lads of the neighbourhood.

At last the Whaup wrote and asked what Lord Earlshope was doing.

The reply came that he had not been in Airlie since the previous
autumn.

"Why, he must be mad!" said the Whaup to himself.  "Not go on to his
own house, when he was within two or three miles of it!  These French
novels have turned his head; we shall have him presently figuring as
the hero of a fine bigamy case, or poisoning himself with charcoal
fumes, or doing something equally French.  Perhaps he has done
something desperate in his youth, and now reads French novels to see
what they have to say on the subject."

Among other intelligence sent him by his correspondents during the
winter was that on the morning of New Year's Day (Coquette had been
astonished to find that Christmas was held of no account in Airlie)
there had arrived at the Manse, directed to that young lady, a large
and magnificent volume of water-colour sketches of the Loire.  The
grandeur of this book--its binding and its contents--was all a marvel
at the Manse; and the youngest of the Whaup's brothers expressed his
admiration in these terms:

"It is most wonderful.  The boards is made of tortis-shell, with
white saytin and wreaths of silk roses and flowers in different
colours all round it.  There is a back of scaurlet marrocca leather,
with gilt.  And she put it on the table, and when she began to turn
it over she laughed, and clapped her hands thegither, and was fair
daft with looking at it; but, as she went on, she stopped, and we all
saw that she was greetin'.  I suppose it was some place she kenned."

No one knew definitely who had sent this gorgeous book--not even
Coquette herself; but the popular opinion of the Manse determined
that it must have been Lady Drum.  There were only two people, widely
apart, who had another suspicion in the matter; and these two were
Coquette and the Whaup.  Meanwhile, if the book had come from Lord
Earlshope, it was accompanied by no sign or token from him; and,
indeed, his name was now scarcely ever mentioned in the Manse.

And so the long and hard winter passed away: and there came at last a
new light into the air, and soft and thawing winds from over the sea.
The spring had arrived, with its warm and sweet breezes; and all over
the countryside there began to peep out tiny buds of brown and green,
with here and there, in many a secret nook and corner, the wonder of
a flower.  And at last, too, Coquette got out of the house, and began
to drink in new life from the mild odours and the clear blue-white
air.  Her eyes were perhaps a trifle wistful or even sad when she
first got abroad again; for the springtime revives many memories, and
is not always a glad season; but in a little while the stirring of
new health and blood in Coquette's pale cheeks began to recall her to
her usual spirits.  The morning was her principal time for going out;
and, as the boys were then at Mr. Gillespie's school, she learned to
wander about alone, discovering all manner of secret dells about the
woods where the wild flowers were sure to be found.  Many and many a
day she came home laden with hyacinths, and violets, and anemones,
and the white stars of the stitch wort; and she brought home, too, a
far more valuable and beautiful flower in the bloom which everyone
saw gathering on her cheek.  Sometimes she prevailed on her uncle to
accompany her; and she would take the old man's arm and lead him into
strange woodland places of which he had but little knowledge.
Leezibeth was so delighted to see the girl become her former self,
that she was more than ordinarily pugnacious towards Andrew, as if
that worthy but sour-tempered person had been harbouring dark
projects against the girl's health.  Leezibeth, indeed, had wholly
gone over to the enemy; and Andrew sadly shook his head and comforted
himself with prophecies of evil and lamentation.

One day Coquette had wandered down to the very wood in which the
Whaup had caught Neil Lamont poaching.  She had been exceptionally
lucky in her quest for new flowers; and had got up a quite
respectable bouquet for the study mantel-piece.  Then she had that
morning received from France a little song of Gounod's, which was
abundantly popular there at the time.  So, out of mere lightness of
heart, she came walking through the wood, and sang to herself
carelessly as she went--

  La voile ouvre son aile
  La brise va souffler--er--er--er--

when suddenly her voice died down.  Who was that going along the road
in the direction of Airlie?  A faintness came over her--she caught
hold of a branch of a fir--and then with a half instinctive fear she
drew back within the shelter of a few tall stems.  It was Lord
Earlshope who was passing along the road--walking slowly and
idly--and apparently taking no notice of the objects around him.

Her heart beat quickly, and her whole frame trembled, as she remained
cowering until even the sound of his footsteps had died away.  Then
she stole out of the wood, and hurriedly followed a circuitous route
which landed her breathless, and yet thankful, within the safety of
the Manse.  He had not observed her.

But he was in the neighbourhood.  He had returned from abroad.
Perhaps he would go away again without even seeing her and speaking
to her for a moment--unless, indeed, she happened to be out the next
morning and so might chance to meet him!

"You must not fall back into any of your dull moods, Catherine," said
the Minister, in a cheerful way, to her that evening, as he happened
to perceive her unwonted silence, and the pensive look of her eyes.




CHAPTER XXXIII.

OVER THE MOOR.

Coquette's sleep that night was full of dreams of a meeting with Lord
Earlshope; and in the morning she awoke with a confused sense of
having been wandering with him in a strange land, which had a
threatening sky over it, and all around it the moaning of the sea.
She seemed to have a notion that the place was familiar to her; and
gradually out of her memory she was able to recall the features of a
certain gloomy loch, overshadowed by sombre mountains.

"I will remember no more of it," she said to herself.  "That
island--is it always coming back?"

Yet those dreams left a troubled impression behind them; and she
began to think with some foreboding of a possible encounter with Lord
Earlshope if she went out for her accustomed walk.  Dared she meet
him?  Or what if he were here only for a brief time, and went away
without a word?  As she lay calculating anxiously these
probabilities, and trying to decide whether she should go or not, a
great dash of rain smote on the windows of the Manse, a glimmer of
morning sunlight also struck the panes, and a blustering April wind
blew about the chimneys.

"Rain!" she cried, as though she was glad of anything to resolve her
anxious doubts.  "Then I do not go!"

Nevertheless she rose and dressed quickly.  There were no blinds
needed for the small windows that looked across the moor.  During the
progress of her toilette she could see the wild glare of the spring
sunshine that chased the rapid and riven clouds which the wind was
blowing over the sea.  On they came in thunderous masses and filmy
streaks--here dark and rainy, there struck into silver; while from
time to time there was a period of menacing gloom, followed by the
heavy rattle of a shower on roof and windows; then the sudden yellow
light again shining out on the dripping trees, on the wet moor, and
on the far blue sea-plain that lay around Arran.

"You are in much better spirits this morning," said the Minister at
breakfast, after Coquette had been lecturing the boys in a very grand
and mock-heroic fashion.

"Yes, in spite of your abominating weather," she replied.  "Last
night, still and clear--this morning a hurricane!  Why is your
weather so wild, and your Scotch people so quiet?  They are not
stormy--no bad temper--no fits of passion--all smooth, and serious,
and solemn, as if they did go to a churchyard."

"And that is where we all of us are going, whether in Scotland or
France," said the Minister, with a serious smile.

"Yet why always think of it?" said Coquette, lightly.  "Why you make
the road to the churchyard a churchyard also?  No--it is not
reasonable.  We should have a little gaiety, and amuse ourselves in
the meantime.  Ah I now do look at the faces of all those boys; do
they think me wicked?"

Indeed, the row of solemn and awe-struck faces which listened to
Coquette's Sadduceeism provoked her into a fit of laughter, which
Leezibeth checked by coming into the room and asking abruptly if more
tea were wanted.

Coquette had apparently forgotten that she had been troubled that
morning about Lord Earlshope.  The boisterous weather had prevented
her going out, so that no choice remained to her.  But when after the
boys had been despatched to school, she was left to herself and her
solitary employment at the piano, her vivacity died away.  Without
any intention she wandered into melancholy strains, and played
half-forgotten ballad-airs which she had heard among the peasantry of
Morbihan.  She began to cast wistful glances towards the changeable
landscape outside.  At last she gave up the piano, and went to one of
the windows, and took a seat there.  The intervals of sunlight were
growing longer.  The clouds seemed more light and fleecy.  There was
a grey mist of rain down in the south, over Ayr; but all around her
the wet landscape was shining in its young spring greens; while the
gusty west-wind, that blew a warm and moist fragrance about the
garden, could not quite drown the music of the thrushes and
blackbirds.  The sky cleared more and more.  Even in the south, the
rain-mist lifted, and the sunlight shone on the far promontory.
Finally, the wind moderated; and eventually over all the land there
seemed to prevail the fresh clear brightness and sweetness of an
April morning.

Coquette put on her small hat (with its dash of sea-bird plumage) and
a warm grey woollen shawl, and went out.  Her light foot was not
heard leaving the house; and in a few minutes she was on the moorland
road--all around her the shining beauty of the spring day, and the
glistening of the recent rain.  At another time she would have
rejoiced in the clear light and the genial warmth of the western
breezes: to-day she seemed thoughtful and apprehensive, and dared
scarcely look over the moor.  She wandered on--her head somewhat
downcast; and when she paused, it was merely to pick up some tiny
flower from amongst the wet grass.  It was only by a sort of instinct
that she avoided the red pools which the rain had left in the road;
she seemed to walk on--in the opposite direction from Airlie--as if
she were in a dream.

She became aware that there was some one crossing over the moor on
her right; still she did not look up.  Indeed, before she could
collect herself to consider how she should speak to Lord Earlshope,
supposing he were to meet her, the stranger had overtaken her, and
pronounced her name.

She turned--a trifle pale, perhaps, but quite self-possessed and
regarded him for one brief second.  Then she stepped forward and
offered him her hand.  During that instant he, too, regarded her, in
a somewhat strange way, before meeting her advances; and then he
said--

"Have you really forgiven me?"

"That is all over," she said, in a low but quite distinct voice--"all
over and forgotten.  It does do no good to bring it back.  You--have
you been well?"

He looked at her again, with something of wonder in the admiration
visible in his eyes.

"How very good you are!  I have been wandering all over Europe,
feeling as though I had the brand of Cain on my forehead.  I come
back to hear that you have been dangerously ill, without my having
had any knowledge of it.  I hang about, trying to get a word of
explanation said to you personally before calling at the Manse; and
now you come forward, in your old straightforward way, as if nothing
had happened, and you offer me your hand just as if I were your
friend."

"Are you not my friend?"

"I do not deserve to be anybody's friend."

"That is nonsense," said Coquette.  "Your talk of Cain--your going
away--your fears--I do not understand it at all."

"No," said he.  "Nor would you ever understand how much I have to
claim forgiveness for without a series of explanations which I shall
make to you some day.  I have not the courage to do it now.  I should
run the risk of forfeiting the right ever to speak another word to
you."

Coquette drew back, and regarded him steadfastly.

"There," said he, "did I not tell you what would happen?  You are
becoming afraid of me.  You have no reason."

"Yes, perhaps," she said; "but I do not understand why all this
secrecy--all this mystery.  It is very strange to me--all your
actions; and you should be more frank, and trust that I will not make
bad interpretation.  You wish to be my friend?  I am well pleased of
that--but why you make so many secrets?"

"I cannot tell you now," he said, hurriedly.  "I am too anxious to
believe that you have forgiven me for what happened on that hideous
night.  I was mad--I was beside myself--I don't know what possession
I laboured under to make a proposal----"

"Ah, why bring it all back?" said Coquette.  "Is it not better to
forget it?  Let us be as we were before we went away in the yacht.
You shall meet me.  I shall speak to you as usual.  We shall forget
these old misfortunes.  You will come to the Manse sometimes--as you
did before.  You must believe me, it will be very simple and natural
if you do try; and you shall find yourself able to be very good
friends with all of us, and no more brands of Cain on your forehead."

He saw in her soft eyes that she faithfully meant what she said; and
then, with a sort of effort, he said--

"Come, let us walk along, and I will talk to you as you go.  There is
a path along here by which you can cross the moor, and get back to
the Manse by Hechton Mains."

How glad she was to walk by his side in the old fashion!  It was so
pleasant to hear his voice, and to have the grave kindliness of his
eyes sometimes meeting hers, that she did not stop to ask whether it
was merely as friends they were walking together.  Nor did she
notice, so glad was she, how constrained was his talk; how he was
sometimes, in moments of deep silence, regarding her face with a look
which had the blackness of despair in it.  She chatted on, pleased
and happy; breaking imperiously away from all mention of what had
happened in the north whenever that became imminent.  She did not
even perceive whither she was going; she submitted to be led; and
even lost sight of the familiar features of the landscape surrounding
her own home.

"I wonder if there was ever a woman as unselfish as you are," he
said, abruptly and morosely.  "I know that you are pretending to be
glad only to make our meeting pleasant and spare me the pain of
self-accusation."

"How can you think such morbid things on such a beautiful morning?"
she asked.  "Is it not a pleasure to be in the open air?  Is it not a
pleasure to meet an old friend?  And yet you stop to pull it all to
pieces, and ask why, and what, and how.  You--who have been
abroad--are not thankful for this bit of sunshine--perhaps that is
the reason."

"There is something almost angelic--if we knew anything about
angels--in the way you have of forgetting yourself in order to make
other people feel at ease."

"And if you are not cheerful this morning, you have not forgotten how
to pay compliments," she said, with a smile.

Presently he said--

"I am afraid you must consider me a very discontented fellow.  You
see, I don't wish just at present to interrupt our new friendliness
by explaining why I am not cheerful--why I owe you more contrition
than you can understand--why your kindness almost makes me suspicious
of your good faith.  You don't know----"

"I know enough," she said, with a pretty gesture of impatience.  "I
wish not to have any more whys, and whys, and whys.  Explanations,
they never do good between friends.  I am satisfied of it if you come
to the Manse, and become as you were once.  That is all--that is
sufficient.  But just now--when you have the pleasant morning before
you--it is not good to torment yourself by doubts, and suspicions,
and questions."

"Ah, well," he said, "I suppose I must suffer you to consider me
discontented without cause.  It will be of little consequence a
hundred years hence."

Coquette laughed.

"Even in your resignation you are gloomy.  Why you say that about a
hundred years?  I do not care what happens in a hundred years: but
just now, while we are alive, we ought to make life pleasant to each
other, and be as cheerful as we can."

So they wandered on, Coquette not paying particular heed to the
direction of their walk.  Her companion was not very talkative; but
she was grateful for the new interest that had been lent to her life
by his arrival at Airlie, and was in very good spirits.  All her
fears of the morning had vanished.  It seemed a comparatively easy
thing for her to meet him; there could apparently be no recurrence of
the terrible scene which was now as a sort of dream to her.
Suddenly, however, her companion paused; and she, looking up, saw
that they were now at the corner of the Earlshope grounds, where
these joined the moor.  There was a small gate in the wall fronting
them.

"Will you come into the grounds?" he said, producing a small key.
"You need not go up to the house.  There is a sort of grotto, or
cavern, which I had constructed when I was a lad, at this end of the
copse.  Will you go in and see it?"

Coquette hesitated only for a moment, and then she said--"Yes."  He
opened the small gate; they both passed through; and Coquette found
herself at the extremity of a small path leading through a belt of
larches.




CHAPTER XXXIV.

LORD EARLSHOPE'S CAVE.

She now recollected that long ago the Whaup had told her of some
mysterious place which Lord Earlshope had built within his grounds;
and when her companion, begging her to excuse him for a few minutes,
passed into what was apparently a cleft in a solid mass of earth or
rock, and when she heard the striking of a match, she concluded that
he was lighting up the small theatrical scene for her benefit.  Nor
was she mistaken; for presently he came out and asked her to return
with him through this narrow aperture.  He led the way; she followed.
If the cavern into which they entered were of artificial
construction, considerable pains had been taken to make it look
natural.  At first the cleft was open to the sky, and the sides of
the passage were covered with ferns and weeds growing in considerable
profusion; but by-and-by she came in front of a large recess,
apparently dug out of the solid rock, and involuntarily a cry of
wonder escaped her.  The walls of this tolerably spacious cave were
studded here and there by curiously shaped and pendent lamps of
various hues; and right at the back was a Chinese stove, on the
polished surface of which the coloured lights threw faint
reflections.  Down one side of the cave a stream trickled; dropping
over bits of rock, and wetting the masses of fern which grew in their
clefts.  The space in front of the stove was perfectly dry; and there
stood two cane easy-chairs, fitted with small reading-desks, and
candles.  The whole place looked like a bit cut out of a pantomime;
and Coquette, suddenly finding herself in this strange place, with
its dusky corners and its coloured lamps, wholly forgot that outside
there reigned the brightness of a spring day.

"What do you think of my boyish notions of the marvellous?" he said,
with a smile.

"It is wonderful," said Coquette, who fancied she had been
transferred to a fairy palace.

"There are incongruities in it," said he; "for I changed my hobbies
then as rapidly as now.  It was begun in imitation of a cavern I had
read of in a novel; it was continued as a mandarin's palace; and
finally finished up in imitation of the Arabian Nights.  But you can
imagine it to be what you like, once you have taken off your boots,
which must be damp, and put on that pair of Russian slippers which
you will find in front of the stove.  I shall leave you to complete
your toilette, while I go up to the house for some biscuits and wine."

With which he left, before Coquette could utter a word of protest.
She now found herself alone in this extraordinary place.  Had he
brought her there intentionally?  She had looked at the
slippers--they were lady's slippers, and new.  He had evidently,
then, anticipated that he would meet her, walk with her, and bring
her thither?  She knew not what to do.  Yet the slippers were very
pretty--curiously wrought with coloured beads, and deeply furred all
round.  They were seductively warm, too, from having been lying
before the stove.  So, with a curtain defiant air, she sat down,
pulled off her tiny boots, and placed them before the stove; and
presently her small feet were encased in the warm and furred
slippers, which had apparently been left for her by the genii of the
cave.

Then she sat down in one of the easy-chairs; took off her gloves; and
extended just so much of the slippers that she could admire their
rose-coloured tips.  All this conduct on her part she knew to be
dreadfully and desperately wrong; but she was very comfortable, and
the place was very pretty.  As for the slippers, they were simply not
to be refused.  Indeed, the whole thing hovered in her mind as half a
dream and half a joke; and when, at length, Lord Earlshope appeared
with his stock of provisions, the adventure looked remarkably like
one of those house-keeping games familiar to children.  As for any
apprehension of her indiscreet behaviour being a subject of after
annoyance, she felt none whatever.  Had not Lord Earlshope and
herself quite got back to their old friendly terms; and what harm was
there in her joining in this piece of amusement?  If she had any
doubts or misgivings, they were swallowed up in the sensation of
warmth lent by the Russian slippers.

Coquette ate one or two of the small biscuits, and drank half a glass
of the yellow-white wine, which Earlshope poured out for her.  Then
she said--

"I do not know how you can go away from this place.  I should live
here always.  Why did you go away?"

"I am going away again," he said.  She looked up with some
surprise--perhaps with a shadow of disappointment, too, on her face.

"How can I stay here?" he said, suddenly.  "I should be meeting you
constantly.  I have no right to meet you.  I am satisfied, now that I
know you are well, and that you have forgiven me; and I do not wish
to repeat a bygone error.  You--who are always so pleased with
everything around you--I see you have forgotten that witchery that
seemed to have fallen over us both last summer.  You are again
yourself--calm, satisfied with yourself--on excellent terms with
everybody and everything.  But I have not been cured by my few
months' absence.  Now that I see you again----  Bah! what is the use
of annoying you by such talk?  Tell me, how is your cousin in
Glasgow?"

Coquette remained quite silent and thoughtful, however, with her eyes
fixed on the stove before her.  After a little while, she said--

"I have not forgotten--I can never forget.  I have been so pleased to
see you this morning that perhaps I have appeared light--fickle--what
you call it?--in your eyes, and not mindful of your trouble.  It is
not so.  I do remember all that happened; it is only I think it
better not to bring it back.  Why you should go away?  If you remain,
we shall learn to meet as friends, as we are now, are we not?"

"Do you think that is possible?" he asked, gravely looking at her.

Coquette dropped her eyes; and said, in a low voice--

"It may be difficult just a little while; yet it is possible.  And it
seems hard that if we do enjoy the meeting with each other, we must
not meet--that I drive you away from your own home."

"It is odd--is it not?" he said, in rather an absent way.  "You have
made me an exile, or, rather, my own folly has done that.  No,
Coquette; I am afraid there is no compromise possible--for me, at
least--until after a few years; and then I may come back to talk to
you in quite an off-hand fashion, and treat you as if you were my own
sister.  For I am a good deal older than you, you know----"

At this moment there was a sound of footsteps outside; and Coquette
hurriedly sprang to her feet.  Earlshope immediately went out to the
entrance of the place; and Coquette heard some one approach from the
outside.  She hastily abandoned her small furred slippers, and drew
on her damp boots; then she stood, with a beating heart, listening.

"I am sorry to have alarmed you," said Earlshope, returning.  "It was
only a servant with some letters that have arrived."

But the sound of those footsteps had suddenly awakened Coquette to a
sense of the imprudence, and even danger, of her present position,
and she declined to resume her comfortable seat before the fire.

"I must go now," she said.

"Let me show you the way then, if you must," said he; and so he led
her along the winding path, and through the shrubbery to the small
gate that opened out to the moor.  She had reached the limit of
Earlshope; in front of her stretched the undulating plain leading up
to Airlie; she was free to go when she pleased.

"I dare not see you home," he said, "or the good people who may have
noticed us an hour ago would have a story to tell.'

"I shall find my way without trouble,'' said Coquette, and she held
out her hand.

"Is it to be good-bye, then?" he said, looking wistfully at her.

"Not unless you please," Coquette answered, simply, although she bent
her eyes on the ground.  "I should like you to remain here, and be
friends with us as in long ago; it is not much to ask; it would be a
pleasure to me, and I should be sorry and angry with myself if I
thought you had again gone away because of me.  It is surely no
reason you should go; for I should think of you far away, and think
that it is I who ought to go away, not you; for I am a stranger come
to Airlie, and sometimes I think I have come only to do harm to all
my friends----"

"My darling!" he said, with a strange and inexpressibly sad look on
his face, as he caught her to him, and gazed down into the clear,
frightened eyes.  "You shall not accuse yourself like this!  If there
is blame in my staying I will bear it; I will stay, whatever happens;
and we shall meet, Coquette, shall we not, even as now, in this
stillness, with no one to interrupt our talk?  Why do you look
frightened, Coquette?  Are you afraid of me?  See, you are free to
go!"

His arms released their hold; and for an instant she stood, with
downcast eyes, alone and trembling.  But she did not move; and so
once again he drew her towards him; and then, ere she knew, his arms
were around her, and she was close to his breast, and kisses were
being showered on her forehead and on her lips.  It was all so
sudden, so wild and strange, that she did not stir; nor was she but
half-conscious of the fetters of iron which these few swift seconds
were fastening down on her life.  It was very terrible, this crisis;
but she vaguely felt that there was the sweetness of despair and
utter abandonment possessing her; that the die had been cast for good
or evil, and the old days of doubt and anxiety were over.

"Let me go--let me go!" she pleaded, piteously.  "Oh, what have we
done?"

"We have sealed our fate," said he, with a haggard look which she did
not sec.  "I have fought against this for many a day--how bitterly
and anxiously no one knows, Coquette.  But now, Coquette, but
now--won't you look up and let me see that love is written in your
eyes?  Won't you look up, and give me one kiss before we part?--only
one, Coquette?"

But her downcast face was pale and deathlike; and for a moment or two
she seemed to tremble.  Finally she said--

"I cannot speak to you now.  To-morrow or next day--perhaps we shall
meet.  _Adieu!_--you must leave me to go alone."

And so she went away over the moor; and he stood looking after her
for some time, with eyes that had now lost all their wild joy and
triumph, and were wistful and sad.

"She does not know what has happened to her to-day," he said to
himself, "and I--I have foreseen it, and striven to guard against
it--in vain."




CHAPTER XXXV.

THE NEMESIS OF LOVE.

"At last--at last--at last!"  The words rang in her ears as she
hurried across the moor--seeing nothing--heeding nothing--her face
turned away from the clear blue-white of the spring sky.  She was
only anxious to get within the shelter of her own home, to resolve
those wild doubts and fears which were pressing upon her.  In many
and many a story of her youth--in many a ballad and song she had sung
long ago in the garden overlooking the Loire--she had heard tell of
happy lovers and their joy; and, with the careless fancies of a girl,
she had looked forward to the time when she, too, might awake to find
her life crowned by those sweet experiences that fall to the lot of
young men and maidens.  And was this love that had come to her at
last--not in the guise of an angel, with a halo around his head and
mildness in his face, but in the guise of a sorcerer, who had the
power to turn the very sunlight into blackness?

Yet, when she had reached the solitude of her own chamber, she asked
herself the reason of this sudden dread.  What made her heart beat
and her cheek grow pale as she looked back to that phantasmal evening
in Loch Scavaig?  Was not that all over and gone--forgotten and
buried in the past?  Indeed, she began to reason with herself over
the injustice of recalling it.  Had not Lord Earlshope sufficiently
endeavoured to atone for--what?

That was the mystery which was confronting her with a terrible
pertinacity.  She had been oppressed with an unnameable dread during
that memorable evening; but what had Lord Earlshope done, beyond talk
wildly and almost fiercely for a few minutes?  She had almost
forgotten the substance of what he had then said.  And now that he
had expressed his penitence for that strange appeal to her--since he
had even punished himself with six months' exile on account of
it--why should the memory of it interfere between them as a gloomy
phantom, voiceless, but yet holding up a warning finger?

"I do not understand it," she murmured to herself in French.  "There
is something he will not tell me; and yet why should he be afraid?
Does he fear that I shall be unjust or merciless--to him who has
never a hard word or a suspicion for any one?  Why should he not tell
me?--it cannot be anything wrong of himself--or I should see it in
his eyes.  And whatever it is, it separates us; and I have given my
life to a man who seems to stand on the other side of a river from
me; and I can only hold out my hands to him; and wish that the river
were the river of death, so that I could cross over, and fall at his
feet, and kiss them."

She took out a little book of devotions which had been given her by
one of her companions on leaving France, and sat down at the small
window-table, and placed it before her.  A few moments thereafter,
Lady Drum, coming into the room, found the girl's head resting on the
table covered by her hands.

"Asleep in the middle o' the day!" said the visitor, who had
unceremoniously come up-stairs.

Coquette hastily rose, and would have hidden her face by turning
aside and going into her bed-room, but that Lady Drum stopped her,
and took hold of her.

"What!  No rosier than that?  And fast asleep in the middle o' such a
beautiful day!  Dear me, lassie!" she added, looking more narrowly at
her, "what are your een so big, and wild, and wet for?"

Lady Drum walked to the table, and took up the small book.  She
turned over its pages, and the contempt visible on her face grew fast
and fierce.

"Saints--crosses--mealy-faced women wi' circles round their
heads--men in blue gowns wi' a lamp by their side--is this the trash
ye spend your days over, when ye should be in the open air?"

Lady Drum clasped the book again; put it in the drawer of the table;
and shut the drawer with somewhat unnecessary vehemence.

"Phew!  I have no patience wi' the folk that would make every young
lass a nun.  Come here, my young princess wi' the pale face: are you
no a staunch, earnest, indomitable Presbyterian?"

"I am what you please," said Coquette, timidly.

"Are you, or are you not, a Presbyterian?"

"Perhaps I am," said Coquette.  "I do not know what it is--this
Presby--I do not know what you say.  But I do keep my books that
belonged to me in France.  That is a good book--it can do no harm to
any one----"

"My certes! here is a pretty convert!  It can do no harm to any
one?--and I find ye in the middle o' the day, greetin' ower its
palaverins, and with a face that would suit a saint better than a
brisk young creature o' your age.  Ayrshire is no the place for
saints--the air is over healthy.  Come here, and I will show ye the
book that ye must read."

She led Coquette to the window, and began to expatiate on the
enjoyments of being out walking on such a day--with the spring winds
stirring the young corn, and ruffling the distant blue of the sea.
Alas! all that Coquette saw was the beginning of the line of trees
that led down to Earlshope.

"Listen now," said Lady Drum, "I have come here on an errand.  Ye
have never seen Glasgow.  I am going up to-morrow morning; can you
come wi' me--stay two or three weeks--and cheer your cousin's exile a
bit?"

Coquette's conscience smote her hard; and it was with a quick feeling
of pain and remorse that she thought of the Whaup.  She had almost
forgotten him.  Far away in the great city of which she knew so
little, he was working hard, buoyed up by some foolish and fond
notion that he was pleasing her.  All at once her heart turned
towards him with a great affection and yearning.  She would make
amends for the wrong which he had unwittingly suffered.  She would go
at once to Glasgow: and would shower upon him every token of
solicitude and kindness that she could devise.

"Oh, yes, Lady Drum!" she said, with evident eagerness in her face.
"I will go with you as soon as you please.  Have you seen my cousin?
Is he well?  Is he tired of his hard work?  Does he speak of us
sometimes?  He does not think we have forgotten him?"

"Hoity toity!  Twenty questions in a breath!  Let me tell you this,
my young lady, that your cousin, though he says nothing, is doing
wonders; and that Dr. Menzies, to whom the Minister confided him, is
fair delighted wi' him, and has him at dinner or supper twice or
thrice a week; and your cousin is just petted beyond measure by the
young leddies o' the house; and bonnier lasses there are none in
Glasgow."

Coquette clasped her hands.

"Perhaps he will marry one of them!" she exclaimed, with a wonderful
gladness in her eyes.

Lady Drum looked at her.

"Marry one o' them?  Would ye like to see him marry one o' them?  Has
that daft picture-book turned your head and made ye determined to go
into a nunnery?"

"It is not necessary he marries me," said Coquette in a tone of
protest.  "A young man must choose his own wife--it is not pleasant
for him to be made to marry by his friends."

"Ah, well!" said Lady Drum, with a sigh.  "Young folks are young
folks; and they will pretend that the marmalade they would like to
steal is nothing but down-right medicine to them.  Ye had better
begin to think about packing up for to-morrow morning."

"To-morrow morning!" said Coquette, with a sudden tremor of
apprehension.

"Yes."

"Oh, I cannot go to-morrow--I cannot go to-morrow: will not the next
day do, Lady Drum?  May I not have one day more?"

Astonished by the sudden alteration in the girl's manner--from
delight at the prospect of going to an almost agonising entreaty to
be left alone for another day--Lady Drum did not reply for a second.

"What have you to do to-morrow?" said the elderly lady, at last,
regarding the girl.

"It is nothing--it is not much," stammered Coquette, with her eyes
bent on the ground.  "Only I do wish to remain at Airlie to-morrow.
It is only one day longer, Lady Drum."

"Why, you plead as if I were to take ye out for execution the day
after.  If it will serve ye, I will wait for another day; and on
Friday morning, at ten meenutes to ten, ye must be at the station,
wi' a' your trunks and things in good order."

"But I have not asked my uncle yet," said Coquette.

"I have, though," said Lady Drum, "and I'm thinking he'll no miss ye
except at breakfast.  Since he began to get up that Concordance o'
the Psalms, he seems to have withdrawn himself from the world round
aboot him, and he's just as it were dead to his friends."

"It is very kind of you to ask me to go with you," said Coquette,
suddenly remembering that she had not thanked Lady Drum for her offer.

"Na, na," said her elderly friend, "what would a big house be without
a young leddy in it to bring visitors about?  And this time, I must
tell ye, a friend o' Sir Peter's has given us the loan o' his house
until he comes back from Italy; and it is a big house overlooking the
West End Park; and I'm thinking we'll find it more comfortable than a
hotel.  And we will have some company; and it will no be amiss if ye
bring wi' ye such French ornaments or dresses as might be rather out
o' place in the Manse o' Airlie.  And I am sure ye will be quite
surprised to see your cousin--looking a fine, strapping, well-set-up
young gentleman, instead o' a lang-leggit laddie; and it is just
possible Lord Earlshope may pay us a visit some evening."

Did Lady Drum throw out this hint as a vague feeler?  She had never
penetrated the mystery which had seemed to surround the relations
between Coquette and Lord Earlshope during their voyage in the
Highlands.  She had, indeed, destroyed the scrap of writing handed to
her by Coquette when the girl was delirious, unwilling to bother
herself with a secret which did not concern her.  Still, Lady Drum
was just a trifle curious.  There was something very peculiar and
interesting in the odd notions which this young French creature
appeared to have acquired about love and marriage.  Lady Drum had
never met with any one who held but the ordinary and accepted
theories on that attractive subject.  Yet here was a young lady who
calmly contemplated the possibility of loving some one whom
circumstances might prevent her marrying; and at the same time seemed
in no wise disinclined to accept the recommendations of her relatives
and friends as to her choice of a husband.  Were these French notions
of the duty of daughters to their parents?  Or had they been picked
up in idle speculation, and not yet driven away--as Lady Drum felt
certain they would be driven away by a real love affair?  At all
events, the mention of Earlshope's name at once arrested Coquette's
attention.

"Does Lord Earlshope ever go to Glasgow?" she asked.

"What for no?"

"And is he likely to meet my cousin at your house?"

"Assuredly.  Why not?  Why not?"

"I did merely ask a question," said Coquette, with thoughtful eyes.

Then Lady Drum bade her come down-stairs.  The Minister was brought
out of his study; and they had a little talk over Coquette's
projected trip.  At length, Lady Drum sent to see if her coachman was
ready; and, finally, with a pleasant "_au revaur, ma fee! au
revaur!_" the old lady walked in her grand and stately fashion across
the small garden, got into her carriage, and was driven away from
Airlie Manse.

There remained to Coquette but one day on which she had the chance of
seeing Lord Earlshope; and how was she to bring about a meeting which
she half feared, yet could not wholly forego?




CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE LAST DAY AT AIRLIE.

All during that evening, and in thinking of the next morning, she
nursed a sweet and strange poison at her heart.  Love seemed no
longer to be so terrible as on that ghostly evening in Loch Scavaig;
and she grew accustomed to the danger; and she was glad that, come
what might, this flower of life had at length fallen upon her and she
knew its fragrance.  Had she not been told, in many of those old
stories, that love for love's sake was enough?  She did not care to
count its cost.  She scarcely paid any heed as to how it might end.
Sufficient to know that now, at this moment, her heart was beating
wildly against its prison-bars; and would fain have taken wings and
flown over the moor towards Earlshope, if only to die on finding a
haven.

Nor was there much disquiet in her look the next morning when she
rose and discovered that another bright and clear day had come to
mark her farewell to Airlie.  She was hurried and excited, perhaps,
in preparing to go out, but she was joyful, too; and the early
morning sunshine, streaming in through the small window, found her
eyes full of gladness and hope.

Yet how was she to communicate with Lord Earlshope, and let him know
that she wished to say good-bye to him?  Clearly, neither her uncle
nor Lady Drum knew that he had returned.  She dared not send him a
message; and equally impossible was it for her to go up alone to the
house.  Her hope was that he would be on the watch for her; and that
another stolen interview would mark the last day she had for the
present to spend at Airlie.

She was not mistaken in that vague surmise.  When she went out for
her accustomed stroll, she had wandered but a little way when she
found him approaching her.  His look was anxious; but hers was full
of affection and trust.

"You are no longer alarmed to see me?" he asked, wondering.

"No," she said.  "Why should I?  Perhaps I ought not to meet you in
this way; but it will not be for long.  And you--you seem to have
dropped from the clouds."

"I was on my way to the Manse."

"To the Manse!" she repeated, in some dismay.

"Yes.  Do you know any reason why I should not call upon your uncle?
I dared not go near the place until I had assured myself I should not
be annoying you.  And now I hope to be able to call and see you
there, instead of inveigling you into these surreptitious meetings,
even although they have the charm of secrecy--and of Russian
slippers."

He had caught some faint reflex of cheerfulness from the gladness of
her face; but there was still about him a look of constraint and
anxiety.

"It is too late to think of that," she said; "I go to Glasgow
to-morrow."

"Have they found out?  Are they sending you away?" he asked,
hurriedly.

"No; there is nothing to find out.  But Lady Drum, she is good enough
to ask me to go with her; and there I will see my cousin, whom I have
promised to visit often, yet have never been able.  And I am sorry
for him; alone in that great place, and the people here nearly
forgetting him.  Does he not deserve some reparation, some kindness
from me?"

She looked up into his face; and he knew that she meant more than
appeared in her words.

"I wonder," said Earlshope, after a little while, "if he does hope to
win your love; if he is working there with the far-off intention of
coming back here and asking you to be his wife?  If that is so, we
have acted very cruelly by him."

"Ah, not cruelly!" she said, as if begging him to reassure her.  "If
we have forgotten him, can I not make it up to him?  You will see,
when I go to Glasgow, I will be very kind to him--he will not think
that he has been ill-used."

"But he will think that you are still looking favourably on his vague
hopes--he will be all the more assured that, some day or other, you
will become his wife."

"And if that will make him happy," she said, slowly and with absent
eyes, "there is nothing I will not do to make him happy."

Earlshope regarded her with a strange look.

"You would become his wife?"

"If that only would make him happy--yes.  He deserves so much from
me--I will do that, if he demands it."

"You will marry him, and make him fancy that you love him?"

"No," she said, simply.  "I should tell him everything.  I should
tell him that he deserves to marry a woman who has never loved any
one but himself; and yet that I--if his marrying me will alone make
him happy--I will do what I can, and be his wife."

"So the world goes," said her companion, with a sudden bitterness in
his tone; "and it is the good, and the true, and the noble that
suffer.  You are far too unselfish to lead a happy life, Coquette.
You will sacrifice yourself, sooner or later, for the sake of some
one you love; and the reward you will get will be reprobation and the
outcry of the crowd.  And I--I have so far paved the way for all this
that if I could free you at this moment by laying down my own life,
you would find it no vain boast when I say now that I would do it
willingly."

"But you have not made me suffer," she said, gently.  "Look now and
see whether I am sad or miserable.  I have been so happy all this
morning, merely to think I should see you--that is enough; and now
you are here I am content.  I wish no more in the world."

"But Coquette--don't you see?--it cannot end here," he said, almost
desperately.  "You do not know the chains in which I am bound.  I--I
dare not tell you--and yet, before you go to Glasgow----"

"No," she said, in the same gentle voice.  "I do not wish to know.
It is enough for me to be beside you as now--whatever is in store for
us.  And if it should all be bad and sorrowful, I shall remember that
once I was satisfied--that once I walked with you here one morning,
and we had no thought of ill, and we were for a little while happy."

"But I cannot stop there," said he.  "I must look at the future.  Oh,
my poor girl, I think it would have been better for us both had we
never been born!"

She drew back from him amazed and alarmed.  All the grave kindliness
of his face had gone, and he was regarding her with eyes so full of
pity and of love that her heart grew still with fear.  Why was it
that, at the very moment when they were most peaceful and happy--when
she merely wished to enjoy the satisfaction of being near him,
leaving the future to take care of itself--why was it that this
unnameable something should come in between them, and bid her begone
from a man who had that to say which he dared not tell her?  Yet her
hesitation lasted but a moment.  After all, she thought, what was her
happiness in comparison with that of the man she loved?  She saw the
pain and the despair written on his face, and she drew nearer to him
again, and took his hand in hers.

"I shall never wish that I had not been born," she said, "for I have
known you a little while, and I have walked with you here.  The rest
is nothing.  What can harm us, if we are true to ourselves, and do
what we think is right?"

"That is possible to you--who are as clear-souled as an angel," he
said.

Now what could ail two lovers who were walking thus in the happy
spring-time--alone together--with youth in their eyes, and all the
world before them?  Was it not enough for them to be?  All things
around them were peaceful in the sunlight; the fields lay still and
warm in their coating of young green; the birds were busy in the
leaves of the hedges; and there was many a jubilant note in the
woods.  Far away in the south there lay a faint blue smoke over the
houses of Ayr; but no murmur of toil and struggle reached them up on
these moorland heights.  The moor itself, and the fields, and the
valleys were as still as the sea; which shone and trembled a pure and
pale azure until it was lost in the white of the horizon.  They only
seemed out of consonance with the peace of this mild and clear spring
day, in which the world lay and basked.

They strolled on together--Coquette sometimes picking up a
flower--until they had got down to that corner of the Earlshope
grounds where the small gate was.  They had come thither
unintentionally.

"Shall we go in?" said her companion.

"No," said Coquette.  "It is too beautiful outside to-day.  Why
cannot we be away yonder on the sea, and sail along the coast of
Arran, and on and up Loch Fyne, where the still blue lake is?  I do
remember it was so pleasant there--but afterwards----"

A cloud fell over her face, and Earlshope hastened to change the
subject.  He spoke of her going to Glasgow; of the chances of his
seeing her there; of the time she would be likely to stay.  By this
time they had turned again, and were walking in the direction of the
Manse.  Somehow or other, Coquette seemed unwilling to speak of
Glasgow, or to admit that she hoped to meet him.  When, indeed, they
had come within sight of the house, Coquette stopped, and said she
would bid him good-bye there.

"But why are you so sad, Coquette?" he said.  "This is no farewell;
most likely I shall be in Glasgow before you."

"I am sorry for that," she said, with her eyes fixed on the ground.

"Why?  What hidden notion of self-sacrifice have you adopted now?"

"You do not seem to know what reparation I do owe to my cousin.  It
is for him I go to Glasgow.  You must not come if it will annoy
him--the poor boy! who has not much to comfort him except--except----"

"Except the thought of marrying you, Coquette," said Earlshope; "and
you--you seem to think nothing of yourself, if only you can secure
the happiness of everybody else.  Ah, well, if you wish me not to see
you while you are in Glasgow, I will remain away.  Let your cousin
have that brief time of enjoyment.  But for us two, Coquette--for us
two there is no hope of this separation being final."

"Hope?" she said.  "Why do you hope it?  Is it not pleasant for us to
see each other, if only we do no harm or pain to our friends?  Why do
you speak in that way, as if some great trouble was about to befall
us?  Sometimes I do fear what you say; and I think of it at night;
and I tremble; for I have no one that I can speak to; but in the
morning these fears go away; for I look out of the window, and I know
you are near Earlshope, and I am only anxious to see you."

"My darling!" he said, with a look of great compassion and tenderness
in his eyes.  "You deserve the happiest life that ever a true-hearted
woman enjoyed; and when I think what I have done to make you
miserable--

"Ah, not miserable!" she said.  "Do I look miserable?  You must not
think that; nor that I am at all miserable in Glasgow.  No,
good-bye--good-bye----"

"For how long?" said he, taking both her hands in his.

With that she looked down, and said in a very low voice--

"If you are weary here--you may come to see me in Glasgow--once,
twice, but not often----"

The rest of her words were lost, for she found herself once more
folded in his arms, as he bade her good-bye, and kissed her.

"Good-bye, Coquette, good-bye!" he said, tenderly; and when she had
gone some way across the moor, and turned and saw him still standing
there, it seemed to her that she still heard him say "Good-bye."  He
waved a handkerchief to her; it was as if he were on board a vessel
standing out to sea, and that soon a great and desolate ocean would
roll between them.  When she got home, and went up into her own room,
and looked out of the window, there was no figure visible on the wide
expanse of the moor.  There was nothing there but the sunshine and
the quiet.

This was the first day that Coquette had known the joy of being
loved; and lo! it was already empty.  Fair and beautiful the morning
had been--a day to be marked with a white stone in her memory; but it
was already numbered with the times that were.  And the love that
filled her heart--it was no gay and happy thing, to make her laugh
and sing out of pure delight; but an unrest and a care she was now to
carry always with her, wondering whether its sweetness were as great
as its pain.




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.




CHAPTER XLI.

THE WHAUP BECOMES ANXIOUS.

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.




CHAPTER XLII.

AT THE THEATRE.

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.




CHAPTER XLIII.

COQUETTE IS TOLD.

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.




CHAPTER XLIV.

COQUETTE'S FOREBODINGS.

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."




CHAPTER XLV.

A LEGEND OF EARLSHOPE.

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.




CHAPTER XLVI.

THE MINISTER'S PUBLISHER.

On the morning of the day on which Lord Earlshope paid this sudden
visit to Airlie, the Minister came down into the parlour of the
Manse, where Leezibeth was placing the breakfast things.

"Miss Cassilis is coming home to-day," he said.

"Atweel, I'm glad to hear't," said Leezibeth, uttering that peculiar
sigh of resignation with which most elderly Scotchwomen receive good
news.

The boys were all rejoiced to hear that Coquette was coming; for they
had not forgotten the presents she had promised them; and they knew
from of old that she was as little likely to forget.  This being
Saturday, and a wet Saturday, too, they unanimously resolved to stay
at home, and play at "bools" in the lobby until Coquette should
arrive from Glasgow.  But the restraint of this form of amusement
became insufferable.  Leezibeth's remonstrances about their
noise--the Minister being then engaged with his sermon--at last drove
them out of the house and up into the hay-loft, where they had
unlimited freedom of action and voice.

When Leezibeth delivered to Andrew the necessary orders about the
dog-cart it was in a somewhat defiant way--she knew he would not
regard very favourably the return of the young lady.  But Andrew kept
most of his grumbling to himself; and Leezibeth only overheard the
single word "Jezebel!"

"Jezebel!" she cried, in a sudden flame of anger.  "Wha is Jezebel?
Better Jezebel than Shimei the Benjamite, that will be kenned for
ever by his ill-temper and his ill-tongue."

Leezibeth stood there, as if daring him to say another word.  Andrew
was a prudent man.  He began to tie his shoe, and as he stooped he
only muttered--

"H'm!  If Shimei had had a woman's tongue, David micht hae suffered
waur.  And it's an ill time come to us if we are a' to bend the knee
to this foreign woman, that can scarcely be spoken o' withoot
offence.  Better for us a' if the Minister's brither had been even
like Coniah, the son of Jehoiakim.  As it was said o' him, 'I will
cast thee out, and thy mother that bare thee, into another country,
where ye were not born, and there shall ye die.  But to the land
whereunto they desire to return, thither shall they not return.'"

"Od, I wish Maister Tammas could hear ye!" said Leezibeth, in
desperation at being out-talked.

"Ay, ay, Maister Tammas; it was an ill day for him that she came to
the Manse.  Mark my words, the Minister 'll repent him o't when he
sees his auldest son a wreck and a ruin, and a by-word i' the
country-side.  Ay, indeed: when the young man turns away from his ain
folk, Leezibeth, to marry ane o' the daughters o' Heth."

"What for no?" cried Leezibeth, boldly.  "Where could he wale out a
bonnier lass?  I wish ye'd stop yer yaumering, and look oot some
plaids and rugs for the dog-cairt, for there's wind and rain enough
to last us for the rest o' the year."

A very surly man was Andrew Bogue when he set out at mid-day to drive
over to the station.  He was enveloped so that only the tip of his
nose could be seen; for the wind was dashing heavy showers over the
moor, and the sea was white with the breaking of the great waves.  It
was not a day to improve a man's temper; and when, at last, Coquette
arrived, Andrew was not the most pleasant person to bid her welcome.

Coquette was alone.  Sir Peter was for accompanying her on the brief
railway journey; but she would not hear of it, as she knew that the
dog-cart would await her arrival.  Coquette came out into the little
station.  She asked Andrew to get her luggage; and while he was gone
she turned and looked up to the high country beyond which Airlie lay.
How dismal it looked!  The wind was moving heavy masses of dull grey
cloud across the sky; and between her and the gloomy landscape
hovered the mist of the rain, underneath which the trees drooped, and
the roads ran red.  She had no view of the sea; but the plain of
tumbling waves would not have brightened the prospect much.  And so
at last she took her seat on the dog-cart; and hid herself in thick
shawls and rugs; and was driven away through the dripping and
desolate country.  It was so different from her first coming hither!

"They are all well at Airlie?" she said.

"Weel aneuch," said Andrew; and that was all the conversation which
passed between them on the journey.

They drew near Earlshope, and Coquette saw the entrance to the park,
and the great trees hanging wearily in the rain.  There was the strip
of fir-wood, too, near which she had parted with Lord Earlshope but a
short time ago, on that pleasant summer morning.  The place looked
familiar, and yet unfamiliar.  The firs were almost black under the
heavy sky; and there was no living creature abroad to temper the
loneliness of the moor which stretched beyond.  It seemed to Coquette
that she was now coming back to a prison, in which she must spend the
rest of her life.  Hitherto all had been uncertainty as to her
future, and she had surrendered herself to the new and sweet
experiences of the moment with scarcely a thought.  But now all the
past had been shut up as if it were a sealed book, and there remained
to her--what?  Coquette began to think that she had seen the best of
life; and that she would soon feel old.

She went into the Manse.  It did not look a cheerful place just then.
Outside, damp and cold; inside, the wind had blown the smoke down one
of the chimneys, and the atmosphere of the house was a dull blue.
But Leezibeth came running to meet her; and overwhelmed her with
fussy kindness about her wet garments; and hurried her upstairs; and
provided her with warm slippers, and what not; until Coquette--who
had abandoned herself into her hands--became aware that she was
ungratefully silent about those little attentions.

"You are very kind to me, Leesiebess," she said.

"'Deed no, I'm fair delighted to see ye back, miss," said Leezibeth,
"for the Manse has been like a kirkyaird since the day ye left it.
The Minister has been shut up in the study from mornin' till nicht;
the laddies at the schule; and that cantankerous auld Andrew
grumbling until a body's life was like to be worried out.  And I'm
thinking Glasgow doesna agree wi' ye, miss.  Ye are looking a wee bit
worn and pale; but running about the moor will soon set ye up again."

"It is not pleasant to go on the moor now," said Coquette, as she
looked out of the window on the dreary prospect.

"But it canna be aye rainin'--though it seems to try sometimes," said
Leezibeth.  "I wish it had been ordained that we should get nae mair
weet than the farmers want--it is just a wastery o' the elements to
hae rain pourin' down like that."

Then Coquette began to inquire why her uncle had not yet come to see
her; and Leezibeth explained that the Minister was fairly buried
alive in his books ever since he had began seriously to work at his
Concordance.  So she ran downstairs, and went into the study, and
went up to him and dutifully kissed him.

The Minister looked up with dazed eyes, and a pleased look came into
the sad grey face.

"You have come back, my bairn?  And you are well?  And you have
enjoyed yourself in Glasgow?"

He failed to notice the somewhat tired air that had not escaped
Leezibeth's keen scrutiny.

"You have been hard at work, uncle, I can see; and I am come back to
interrupt it."

"Why?" said the Minister, in some alarm.

"Because I cannot let you kill yourself with your books.  When the
weather does become fine again, you will go out with me, and leave
your books alone for a time."

"I cannot do that," he said, looking at the sheets before him.  "I
have purposed having this work finished by the end o' the year, so
that, if I am spared and in health, I might even undertake another
with the incoming o' the new year.  But sometimes I fear my labour
will be thrown away.  I am not familiar wi' the booksellers and such
persons as undertake to bring out new works.  The expense of it would
be far too great for my own means, and yet I do not know how to
recommend it to the notice of those whose business it is to embark
money in such enterprises.  I do not desire any profit or proceeds
from the sale of the book, but I am not sufficiently acquainted with
such things to know whether that will be an inducement.  The cost of
bringing out such a work must be great--Mr. Gillespie, the
schoolmaster, did even mention so large a sum as one hundred pounds,
but I am afraid not with sufficient caution or knowledge."

Coquette knelt down beside the old man, and took his hand in both of
hers.

"Uncle," she said, "I am going to ask you for a great favour."

"And what is it?"

"No, you must promise first."

"It is impossible--it is contrary to the teaching of Scripture to
promise what it may be impossible to perform," said the Minister, who
was perhaps vaguely influenced by the story of the daughter of
Herodias.

"Ah, well, it does not matter.  Uncle, I want you to let me be your
publisher."

"What do you mean, Catherine?"

"Let me publish your book for you.  You know my papa did leave me
some money; it is useless to me; I do nothing with it; it becomes
more and more every year, and does nothing for anybody.  This would
be an amusement for me.  I will take your book, uncle; and you shall
have no more of bother with it; and I will get it printed; and my
Cousin Tom--he will send me word how the people do buy it in Glasgow."

"But--but--but--" stammered the Minister, who could scarcely
understand at first this astounding proposal, "my child, this
generosity you propose might entail serious loss, which I should feel
more than if it were my own.  It is a grave matter, this publishing
of a book--it is one that young people cannot understand, and is not
lightly to be undertaken.  We will put aside this offer of yours,
Catherine----"

"No, uncle, you must not," she said, gently, as she rose and put her
hand on his shoulder.  And then she drooped her head somewhat, as if
in shame, and said to him in a low voice, quite close to his ear: "If
my mamma were here, she would do it for you, uncle, and so you must
let me."

And then she kissed him again, and went away to call the boys, who
were rather anxiously awaiting that summons.  They were taken up to
her sitting-room, and thither also came Leezibeth, partly to preserve
order, and partly to open one of Coquette's boxes, which was placed
on a side-table.  Coquette, by this time, had plucked up her spirits
a little bit.  The fire was burning more brightly in the room; and
Leezibeth had prepared some tea for her.  And so, when this box was
finally opened, she proceeded to display its contents in the fashion
of a small show-woman; delivering a grave lecture to the circle of
boys, who looked on as hungry-eyed as hawks.  That decorum did not
last long.  In a very little while there was a turmoil in the room,
and boyish shrieks of laughter over Coquette's ironical jokes went
pealing all over the house.  For she had brought this for that
cousin, and that for the other one; and there was a great deal of
blushing, of confused thanks, and of outrageous merriment.  Coquette
seemed to have purchased an inexhaustible store of presents; and what
astonished them more than all was the exceeding appropriateness and
exceptional value of those gifts.

"Look here, Coquette," said Dugald, "who told you I lost that knife
with the corkscrew and the gimlet and the file in it--for this ane is
jist the same?"

"Look here, Dugald," remarked the young lady, standing before him.
"Will you please to tell me how you addressed me just now?"

"Oh," said Dugald, boldly, "the Whaup never called ye anything else,
and ye seemed well enough pleased."

Here there was some covert laughter at Coquette's expense; for these
young gentlemen had formed their own notion of the relations between
their brother and Coquette.

"Then," she said, "when you are as tall as the Whaup, and as
respectful to me as he is, you may call me Coquette; but not till
then, Master Dugald."

In the midst of all this noise, a sudden lull occurred.  Coquette
turned and saw the tall, spare figure of her uncle at the half-opened
door, where he had been for some time an unperceived and amused
spectator of the proceedings.  One or two of the boys had caught
sight of him, and had instantly curbed their wild merriment.  But
even although this was Saturday, it was clear the Minister was not in
an impatient mood with their uproar.  On the contrary, he walked into
the room, and over to Coquette, and put his hand affectionately on
her head.

"You are a very good girl, Catherine," he said.

The boys looked on this demonstration of kindliness with the utmost
surprise.  Seldom, indeed, had they seen their father forget that
rigour of demeanour which the people in many parts of Scotland retain
as the legacy of Puritanical reticence in all matters of the feelings
and emotions.  And then the compliment he paid to her!

"I hope you are not being troubled by those unruly boys, who have
much to learn in manners," said the Minister, with a tranquil
gravity.  "But Leezibeth must see to that; and so, since you are come
home, Catherine, I begin to think I should like to hear the sound of
music again.  I think the Manse has not been quite so cheerful since
you left, somehow; and I have missed you much in the evenings.  As
for music, I have had occasion lately to notice how much King David
was in the habit of speaking of it, and of musical instruments, and
the singing of the voice.  Perhaps we in this country have an
unwarrantable prejudice against music--an exercise that we know the
chosen people of the Lord prized highly."

It was now Leezibeth's turn to be astonished.  To hear the Minister
ask for music on a Saturday--the day of his studying the sermon; and
to hear him disagree with the estimation in which that godless
pastime was held by all decent, sober-minded, responsible folk, were
matters for deep reflection to her, and not a little surprise and
pain.  Yet in her secret heart she was not sorry that Coquette sat
down to the piano.  Had she dared, she would have asked her to sing
one of the old Scotch songs that had first drawn her towards the
young French girl.

But Coquette, also remembering that it was Saturday, began to play
"Drumclog;" and the beating of the wind and rain without was soon
lost in the solemn and stately harmonies of that fine old air.  And
then, as in days gone by, she played it sharply and triumphantly; and
a thrill went through the Minister's heart.  He drew his chair nearer
to the piano; and heard the close of the brief performance with a
sigh.

"Catherine," he said, rather absently, "was there not a song you used
to sing about returning to your home after being away from it for a
time?  It was a French song, I think; and yet the music of it seemed
to me praiseworthy."

"I do know that song," said Coquette, in a low voice, "But--but--I
cannot sing it any more."

The Minister did not notice the distress that was visible on her face.

"Yet perhaps you remember the music sufficiently to play it on the
instrument without the help of the voice," said the grey-haired old
man--apparently forgetting altogether that the boys were in the room,
and Leezibeth at the door.

Coquette began to play the air.  It was the song that told of the
happy return to France after three long years of absence.  She had
returned to her home, it is true--leaving behind her many wild, and
sad, and beautiful memories; and now that she was back at Airlie, it
seemed as though the desolate wind and rain outside were but typical
of the life that awaited her here.  Coquette played the air as if she
were in a dream; and, at last, her cousin Dugald, standing at the end
of the piano, was surprised to see her face get more and more bent
down, and her fingering of the keys more and more uncertain.

"What for are ye greetin'?" he said to her, gently; but Coquette
could make no answer.




CHAPTER XLVII.

AN APPARITION.

Coquette had never got accustomed to the depressing stillness and
gloom of the Sabbath as it was kept at Airlie; and on this, the first
morning of what seemed to be the beginning of a new era of her life,
she almost feared what she would have to encounter.  She dreaded the
death-like silence of the neighbourhood; the sombre procession of the
people to church; the sharp, imperative jangle of the bell; and then
the long, drowsy, monotonous day spent indoors, with the melancholy
sound of Leezibeth reading aloud to herself in the kitchen.  Once, as
she lay ill, she talked to Leezibeth about the pleasant Sundays she
had learnt to love in her youth--the cheerful gathering of friends
and acquaintances at the small church in the early morning--the
mysterious music--the solemn lights in the recesses of the building:
then out into the clear air again, and home to meet all manner of
relatives and friends who had come to spend a quiet holiday.  Against
all this, Leezibeth naturally protested strongly; and even warmed
into poetic language, as elderly Scotchwomen will, who have been
familiar all their life with the picturesque phraseology of the Bible.

"It is the day set apart," she said; "it is the day of the Lord; and
He walks about on that day, and looks on what He has made, as it was
efter a new creation."

"And are you afraid of Him," said Coquette, as she lay half-dreaming
on the sofa; "are you afraid of Him, that you all keep indoors on
that day, and scarce speak to each other, and let no sound be heard?"

On this particular morning the whole world was steeped in gloom.  The
storm had so far abated that the trees no longer bent before the
wind, and there was no rain; but overhead and stretching far to the
horizon was a pall of thick, lurid, steel-blue cloud; and the
mountains of Arran threw sombre shadows deep down into the cold grey
of the sea.  The fir woods near at hand seemed almost black; those on
the slopes going southward lay as a series of dusky and
indistinguishable patches on the misty greys and greens of the
landscape.  The road going across the moor had been washed red; and
the rapid and drumly stream had overflown its narrow banks.

The boys were in their Sunday clothes, and were secretly caressing in
their pockets during the time of family worship the presents Coquette
had brought them from Glasgow.  Leezibeth was particular that
Coquette should put on thick boots, as the roads were so wet; and
by-and-by, after much hurrying, and whispering, and admonition, they
all set out for church.

It was a cheerless day, cold and damp; and the wind had a raw feeling
about it.  The cracked bell of the old church was pealing out its
summons, and up from Airlie came the struggling and solemn procession
of people, seemingly afraid to speak to each other, nearly all of
them dressed in stiff and ungainly black garments.  Fortunately for
Coquette, she was overtaken by an old friend of hers; and she
welcomed him gladly; for she knew that he would talk to her even to
the church door.  It was the Pensioner.

"And I wass told you would pe pack, Miss Cassilis," said Neil, "and
richt glad was I to hear't; and how is that you will like Glasgow?"

"I did like it very much," said Coquette.

"Oh, it is sa grand place--but you will need to know where to go for
sa goot whisky before you will go to Glasgow."

Coquette hinted that she had not discovered the pet public-house that
Neil evidently had in his mind's eye; whereupon the old Highlandman
was profuse and earnest in his apologies--he had not "meant it was
for sa likes o' her to think o' a public-house," and so forth.

Just at this moment, when the party from the Manse had nearly reached
the path across the moor to the church, and were therefore on the
point of joining the slow stream of people that came up from the
village, the noise of a carriage was heard behind them.  Instantly
all the faces of the people were turned.  Such a sound had rarely
indeed been heard at Airlie on a Sunday morning; and there was a
manifest lingering on the moorland road to see who this might be that
was outraging the solemn and decorous gravity of the Sabbath.

Coquette, the Pensioner, Leezibeth, and the boys, stepped to one
side, to let the carriage pass.  But it had not passed them when the
loud voice of a woman was heard ordering the driver to stop.  The
vehicle, indeed, halted close by the party from the Manse; and
Coquette found to her astonishment and dismay that she was confronted
by the woman who had walked up to Lord Earlshope and herself in the
Park.

"What!  The little Spanish princess!" cried the woman, with her bold,
black eyes fixed on the girl with a look of impudent merriment.  "So
this is where you come from, is it?  Here, won't you shake hands with
me?"

She sat round in the carriage, and put her hand over the side.
Coquette shrank back a step, and inadvertently caught hold of Neil's
arm.

"She is afraid of me," said the woman in the carriage to her
companion--another woman, less gaudily dressed, who sat opposite her.
"She cuts me!  Our country beauties are proud!  But you were not born
and bred in this desolate hole, were you?" she added, addressing
Coquette.

The girl was too much alarmed to reply.  The whole scene was visible
to the people, who made no pretence of walking on to the church, but
stopped and stared at the strange spectacle of a bold, red-faced,
impudent woman addressing the Minister's niece, and breaking the
stillness of the Sabbath morning with her loud talking and her
indecent laughter.

The scene only lasted for a couple of seconds, however.  The
Pensioner walked boldly up to the side of the carriage, and said--

"What is it you will want wis sa Minister's niece?"

For reply, he got a handful of raisins and almonds tossed into his
face; and then, with another shriek of laughter, in which her
companion joined, the woman called aloud to her coachman--

"Drive on to Earlshope."

"To Earlshope!" whispered the villagers among themselves; and then
they looked at Coquette, who, pale and yet apparently self-possessed,
had crossed into the path with Leezibeth, and was already walking
slowly towards the church.

For an instant or two the Pensioner stood looking at the retreating
carriage, his whole frame trembling with rage at the insult he had
received.  Of the rapid Gaelic he uttered there and then it was
fortunate the villagers could overhear or understand but little.
Then, with a proud and dignified air, he drew up his shoulders, and
marched in military fashion after Coquette, whom he overtook.

"Earlshope!  Earlshope!" said the old man, puffing and snorting with
indignation.  "It will be no Earlshope she will see sa day.  Oh, I
will know all apout it.  We wass warned--and when his lordship did
ride away this morning, his last words was apout this leddy that
might be for coming to look at sa house."

"Was Lord Earlshope here this morning?" said Coquette, quickly.

The Pensioner was startled to find what he had done.  In his
indignation, he had told not only what he knew himself, but also that
which had been given him as a profound secret by the housekeeper.
Never in his life before had he been so indiscreet; and in his
perplexity and consternation he made wild and desperate efforts to
recover the ownership of these mysteries.

"No, no, no!" he said, hurriedly, and with every token of vexation.
"It will pe all nonsense that sa woman has put into my head.  His
lordship at Earlshope?  He hassna been sare for many and many's sa
day, as sure as I will pe porn!"

The Pensioner gave this last assurance with a downcast head and in a
sort of anxious whisper; for they were now near the church door,
where outspoken lies might be dangerous cattle to deal with.
Coquette's calm eyes looked at the old man, and saw his perturbation.
She perceived that he had unintentionally revealed a secret.  Lord
Earlshope had left the neighbourhood only that morning; and with
that, and this wild escapade of his wife, to think over--even if she
had nothing of her own to trouble her mind--she entered the small
building.  For a moment she could not help reflecting that if,
instead of listening to the harsh psalm-singing, she could have gone
away and knelt down all by herself in one of the small, twilight
recesses in a certain little chapel on the Loire, she would have been
happy.  It would have been to her like bending down once more at her
mother's knee.




CHAPTER XLVIII.

EARLSHOPE IS INVADED.

Meanwhile the carriage had been driven to the gates of Earlshope.
The lodgekeeper came out, and naturally opened the gates, although
sufficiently surprised to see anybody arrive at such a time.  When,
at last, the landau arrived at the house, the occupants alighted.
The housekeeper was already standing there, in front of the open
door, glaring defiance.

The first of the two women walked up the stone steps in a slow and
pompous fashion, and, with an air of mock-heroic gravity, produced a
card, on which was printed Mrs. Smith Arnold.

"'Deed no!" said the housekeeper, rather incoherently.

Mrs. Arnold looked at her companion, and shrugged her shoulders.

"My good woman, I suppose you can't read.  That is not a begging
letter.  It is a card.  I have the permission of Lord Earlshope to
look over the house: I don't mean to steal anything, but you may come
with us wherever we go, if you please."

The housekeeper began to wax warm.

"Canna read!  I can read weel aneugh; and what I say is, that not one
step into this house will ye gang the day, his lordship's permission
or no permission."

"What do you mean, woman?" said Mrs. Arnold, with an assumption of
haughtiness.

"I mean what I say," said the Scotchwoman, doggedly.  "And I havena
been kept frae the kirk a' for nothing, as ye'll find out, gin ye
attempt ony o' your fine airs wi' me."

These latter words were spoken rather hotly; and both the women who
stood before her looked surprised.  However, the so-called Mrs.
Arnold picked up some temper, and merely exclaiming--"Oh, the
creature's mad!" brushed past into the house, along with her
companion.  Lord Earlshope's plenipotentiary was at once stupefied
and powerless.  In order to avoid a public scandal on the Sabbath
morning, she had sent the other servants to church, confident that
her own authority would be sufficient to repulse any casual visitor.
Now she found the house invaded by two strange women, and she was
placed in an awkward dilemma.  If she went through the house with
them, she would condone their offence, and be unable to eject them;
if she went for help to the lodge, they, in the meantime, might
pillage and plunder in every direction.  Eventually, after a moment
of incensed hesitation, she followed them.

And gradually she perceived that they were not thieves.  Indeed, Mrs.
Smith Arnold betrayed a singular acquaintance with many objects in
the house, particularly in a small drawing-room or morning-room which
Lord Earlshope was scarcely ever known to enter.

"But where is my portrait?" she said.

"_Your_ portrait!" repeated the housekeeper, with all her indignation
welling up again.

"Woman, you are an ass--a microcephalous idiot in fact; but you don't
know it, and it is no matter.  He might have brought my portrait
here; it is a dull hole, and it might have cheered him.  And this is
the place he used to talk about with something like rapture!  Good
heavens! it is dismal as a church.  Look at the deserted country and
the bare shore and the black sea.  What's the name of those mountains
over there?"

"Ye had better ask them," said the housekeeper, "since ye can make
free enough to come into a strange house, and talk as if everything
belonged to ye!"

"And so it does--so it does; that is the joke of it.  You would
understand it if you were not such an ass, my good woman; but I am
afraid you are a very stupid person."

"Are ye going to leave this house?" said the housekeeper, in a blaze
of anger.

But the temper of the housekeeper was nothing to the sudden passion
that shot into the black eyes of this woman, as she said--

"Don't talk to me!  I tell you, don't talk to me, or I will dash a
bottle of vitriol in your face, and blind you, blind you, blind you!"

Then she burst into an ironical laugh.

"What a fool you are--an ass--an idiot!  You haven't got the brains
of a slow-worm.  My good woman, believe me, you are an ass!"

She began to turn over the things on the table--books, photographs,
cards, and what not.  The housekeeper started and listened.  There
was a sound of footsteps on the stair.  In a minute or two, the
Pensioner made his appearance at the door, tall and erect.

At the sight of this ally, all the housekeeper's courage and anger
returned.  She denounced the strangers as thieves and pick-pockets.
She appealed to the Pensioner to help her.  She conjured him to turn
them out of the house.

"Sat is what I will do," observed Neil, advancing calmly, with the
sort of deferential and yet firm air of the private soldier.

"Please, mem, will ye go, or will I pit ye out o' sa house?"

"Lay a finger on me, and I will set fire to the place, and burn you
and it into cinders.  Savages that you are--and idiots!"

"You will say what you please," observed Neil, who probably
considered these phrases as rather feeble when compared with some
that he knew in his native tongue; "but I mean to put ye both out o'
sa house.  I will not strike you--Cootness knaws; but I will jist tek
ye up, one by one, and carry ye down sa stairs, and out into sa
gairden, and leave ye there.  Will ye go, or will ye not go?"

"Do you know who I am, you idiot?" cried the woman, with her face
grown purple with passion.

Her companion laid her hand on her arm; she shook her off.

"I do not care," said the Pensioner.

"I am Lady Earlshope, you ignorant brutes and beasts!" she cried.
"And I will have every one of you starved until a crow would not pick
your eyes out, and I'll have you whipped, and starved, you ignorant
hounds!"

"Lady Earlshope!" said the housekeeper, rather falling back.

The quieter of the two women again interposed and endeavoured to
pacify her companion.  She, indeed, seemed rather frightened.
Eventually, however, she managed to get her infuriated mistress
coaxed out of the room and down the stair; and as they were
descending they nearly stumbled over a third person--the lodgekeeper,
who, fancying that there was something amiss, had come along out of
curiosity.

"Who are you?" she asked.  "Oh, I remember.  I suppose you have been
listening.  Well, you can go and tell your babbling neighbours of the
reception Lady Earlshope met with in her own house."

And that is precisely what the man did.  He had overheard much of the
stormy scene in the drawing-room, and, being of a prudent
disposition, did not wish to have anything to do with it.  When the
carriage drove off, he went quietly back to the lodge, leaving the
housekeeper and the Pensioner under the delusion that they alone knew
the relationship of this woman to Lord Earlshope.  But the
lodgekeeper revealed the secret, in an awe-stricken way, to his wife;
who whispered it, in profound confidence, to one of the female
servants; who subsequently told it to her mother in the village.

There it ran the round, with such exaggerations and comments as may
be imagined; and if Coquette had been looked on rather askance from
the moment of her coming to Airlie, this news placed her under the
ban of a definite suspicion, and even horror.  What were her
relations with the drunken and passionate woman who had accosted her,
in the open face of day, on that memorable Sabbath morning?  What was
the meaning of her intimacy with Lord Earlshope, and the cause of his
visits to the Manse ever since she had come to live there?

Even the children caught the fever of distrust, and avoided Coquette.
That would have been a bitter thing for her to bear, had she noticed
it; but she was perhaps too much occupied then with her own sad
thoughts.  Nor was the Minister aware that his own conduct in
harbouring this girl was forming the subject of serious remark in the
village.  The excuses made for him were in themselves accusations.
He was withdrawn from worldly affairs.  He was engrossed in his
books.  He was liable to be imposed on.  All this was said; but none
the less was it felt that the duty of looking sharply after the
conduct of his household and the persons around him was specially
incumbent on one whose business it was to see narrowly to the
interests of the Church, and set an example to his Christian brethren.




CHAPTER XLIX.

COQUETTE'S SONG.

For a long period Coquette's life at Airlie was so uneventful that it
may be dismissed with the briefest notice.  It seemed to her that she
had passed through that season of youth and springtime when romance
and love and anticipation ought to colour for a brief while the
atmosphere round a human existence as if with rainbows.  That was all
over--if, indeed, it had ever occurred to her.  There was now but a
sad, grey monotony; a going by of the weeks and months in this remote
moorland place, where the people seemed hard, unimpressionable,
unfriendly.  She began to acquire notions of duty.  She began to
devise charitable occupations for herself.  She even began various
studies which could never by any chance be of use to her.  And she
grew almost to love the slow, melancholy droning by the old Scotch
folk of those desolating passages in the Prophets which told of woe
and wrath and the swift end of things, or which, still more
appropriately, dealt with the vanity of life, and the shortness of
man's days.

The Whaup would sometimes talk of marriage--she put it farther and
farther off.  He seldom indeed came to Airlie; his hospital-work kept
him busy; and he was eagerly looking forward to the junior
partnership that Dr. Menzies had promised him.  But on one of these
rare visits he said to his cousin--

"Coquette, you are growing very like a Scotch girl."

"Why?" she asked.

"In manner, I mean; not in appearance.  You are not as demonstrative
as you used to be.  You appear more settled, prosaic, matter-of-fact.
You have lost all your old childish caprices; and you no longer
appear to be so pleased with every little thing that happens.  You
are much graver than you used to be."

"Do you think so?" she said, absently.

"But when we are married I mean to take you away from this slow
place, and introduce you to lots of pleasant people, and brighten you
up into the old Coquette."

"I am very content to be here," she said, quietly.

"Content!  Is that all you ask for?  Content!  I suppose a nun is
content with a stone cell eight feet square.  But you were not
intended to be content; you must be delighted, and you shall be
delighted.  Coquette, you never laugh now!"

"And you," she said, "you are grown much serious too."

"Oh, well," he said, "I have such a deal to think about.  One has to
drop robbing people's gardens some day or other."

"I have some things to think about also," she said--"not always to
make me laugh."

"What troubles you, then, Coquette?" he demanded gently.

"Oh, I cannot be asked questions, and questions always," she said,
with a trace of fretful impatience, which was a startling surprise to
him.  "I have much to do in the village, with the children--and the
parents, they do seem afraid of me."

The Whaup regarded her silently, with rather a pained look in his
face; and then she, looking up, seemed to become aware that she had
spoken harshly.  She put her hand on his hand, and said--

"You must not be angry with me, Tom.  I do often find myself getting
vexed, I do not know why; and I ask myself, if I do stay long enough
at Airlie, whether I shall become like Leezibeth and her husband."

"You shall not stay long enough to try," said the Whaup, cheerfully.

Then he went away up to Glasgow, determined to work day and night to
achieve his dearest hopes.  Sometimes he reflected, when he heard his
fellow-students tell of their gay adventures with their sweethearts,
that his sweetheart, in bidding him good-bye, had never given him one
kiss.  And on each occasion that he went down to Airlie, Coquette
seemed to him to be growing more and more like the beautiful and sad
Madonnas of early Italian art, and he scarce dared to think of
kissing her.

So the days went by, and the slow, humdrum life of Airlie crept
through the seasons, bringing the people a little nearer to the
churchyard up on the moor that had received their fathers and their
forefathers.  The Minister worked away with a patient earnestness at
his Concordance to the Psalms; and had the pride of a young author in
thinking of its becoming a real, bound book with the opening of the
new year.  Coquette went systematically and gravely about her
charitable works in the village, and took no notice of the ill-favour
with which her efforts were regarded.  All that summer and winter
Earlshope remained empty.

One evening, in the beginning of the new year, Mr. Gillespie the
Schoolmaster came up to the Manse, and was admitted into the study,
where Coquette and her uncle sat together, busy with an array of
proof-sheets.  The Schoolmaster had a communication to make.  Mr.
Cassilis, enjoying the strange excitement and responsibility of
correcting the sheets of a work which would afterwards bear his name,
was forced to beg the Schoolmaster to be brief; and he, thus goaded,
informed them, after a short preamble, that Earlshope was to be sold.

The Schoolmaster was pleased with the surprise which his news
produced.  Indeed, he had come resolved to watch the effect of these
tidings upon the Minister's niece, so that he might satisfy his mind
of her being in secret collusion with the young Lord of Earlshope;
and he now glared at her through his gold spectacles.  She had
started on hearing the intelligence--so that she was evidently
unacquainted with it; and yet she showed no symptoms of regret over
an event which clearly betokened Lord Earlshope's final withdrawal
from the country.

"A strange, even an unaccountable thing, it may be termed," observed
the Schoolmaster, "inasmuch as his lordship was no spendthrift, and
had surely as much as could satisfy all his wants or necessities, as
one might say.  Yet he has aye been a singular young man--which may
have been owing, or caused by, certain circumstances, or
relationships of which you have doubtless heard, Mr. Cassilis."

"I have heard too much of the vain talking of the neighbourhood about
his lordship and his affairs," said the Minister, impatiently turning
to his proofs.

"I will venture to say, Mr. Cassilis," remarked the Schoolmaster, who
was somewhat nettled, "that it is no vain talking, as no one has been
heard to deny that he is a married man."

"Dear me!" said the Minister, looking up.  "Of what concern is it to
either you or me, Mr. Gillespie, whether he is a married man or not?"

The Schoolmaster was rather stunned.  He looked at Coquette.  She sat
apparently unimpressionable and still.  He heaved a sigh, and shook
his head; and then he rose.

"It is the duty o' a Christian--which I humbly hope that I am,
sir,--no' to think ill of his neighbours; but I confess, Mr.
Cassilis, ye go forward a length in that airt, or direction, I might
term it rather, which is surprising."

The Minister rose also.

"Let me see you through the passage, Mr. Gillespie, which is dark at
these times.  I do not claim for myself, however, any especial
charity in this matter; for I would observe that it is not always to
a man's disfavour to believe him married."

As the passage was in reality exceedingly dark, the Schoolmaster
could not tell whether there was in the Minister's eye a certain
humorous twinkle which he had sometimes observed there, and which, to
tell the truth, he did not particularly like, for it generally
accompanied a severe rebuke.  However, the Schoolmaster had done his
duty.  The Minister was warned; and if any of his household were led
astray, the village of Airlie could wash its hands of the matter.

At last there came people to make Earlshope ready for the
auctioneer's hammer; and then there was a great sale, and the big
house was gutted and shut up.  But neither it nor the estate was
sold; though strangers came from time to time to look at both.

Once more the still moorland neighbourhood returned to its quiet
ways; and Coquette went the round of her simple duties, lessening day
by day the vague prejudice which had somehow been stirred up against
her.  It was with no such intention, certainly, that she laboured; it
was enough if the days passed, and if the Whaup were content to cease
writing for a definite answer about that marriage which was yet far
away in the future.  Leezibeth looked on this new phase of the girl's
character with an esteem and approval tempered by something like awe.
She could not tell what had taken away from her all the old gaiety,
and wilfulness, and carelessness.  Strangely enough, too, Leezibeth
was less her confidante now; and on the few occasions that Lady Drum
came over to Airlie, the old lady was surprised to find Coquette
grown almost distant and reserved in manner.  Indeed, the girl was as
much alone there as if she had been afloat on a raft at sea.  All
hope of change, of excitement, of pleasure, seemed to have left her.
She seldom opened the piano; and, when she did, "Drumclog" was no
longer a martial air, but a plaintive wail of grief.

Perhaps, of all the people around her, the one that noticed most of
her low spirits was the Whaup's young brother Dugald, of whom she had
made a sort of pet.  Very often she took him with her on her missions
into the village, or her walks into the country round.  And one day,
as they were sitting on the moor, she said to him--

"I suppose you never heard of an old German song that is very strange
and sad?  I wonder if I can remember the words and repeat them to
you.  They are something like this--

  Three horsemen rode out to the gate of the town: Good-bye!
  Fine-Sweetheart, she looked from her window down: Good-bye!
          And if ill fate such grief must bring
          Then reach me hither your golden ring!
            Good-bye!  Good-bye!  Good-bye!
            Ah, parting wounds so bitterly!

  And it is Death that parts us so: Good-bye!
  Many a rose-red maiden must go: Good-bye!
          He sunders many a man from wife:
          They knew how happy a thing was life.
            Good-bye!  Good-bye!  Good-bye!
            Ah, parting wounds so bitterly!

  He steals the infant out of its bed: Good-bye!
  And when shall I see my nut-brown maid?  Good-bye!
          It is not to-morrow: ah, were it to-day,
          There are two that I know that would be gay!
            Good-bye!  Good-bye!  Good-bye!
            Ah, parting wounds so bitterly!


"What does it mean?" asked the boy.

"I think it means," said Coquette, looking away over the moor, "that
everybody in the world is miserable."

"And are you miserable, too?" he asked.

"Not more than others, I suppose," said Coquette.




CHAPTER L.

COQUETTE FORSAKES HER FRIENDS.

The dull, grey atmosphere that thus hung over Coquette's life was
about to be pierced by a lightning-flash.

Two years had passed away in a quiet, monotonous fashion; and very
little had happened during that time to the people about Airlie.  The
Minister, it is true, had published his Concordance to the Psalms;
and not only had he received various friendly and congratulatory
letters about it from clergymen standing high in the estimation of
the world, but notice had been taken of the work in the public
prints, and that in a manner to fill the old man's heart with secret
joy.  Coquette cut out those paragraphs which were laudatory
(suppressing ruthlessly those which were not) and placed them in a
book.  Indeed, she managed the whole business; and, especially in the
monetary portion of it, insisted on keeping her negotiations with the
publishers a profound secret.

"It is something for me to do, uncle," she said.

"And you have done it very well, Catherine," said the Minister.  "I
am fair surprised to see what a goodly volume it has turned out--the
smooth paper--the clear printing: it is altogether what I would call
a presentable book."

The Minister would have been less surprised had he known the reckless
fashion in which Coquette had given instructions to the publishers,
and the amount of money she subsequently and surreptitiously and
cheerfully paid.

"There are newspapers," said the Minister, "which they tell me deal
in a light and profane fashion wi' religious matters.  I hope the
editors will read my Concordance carefully, before writing of it in
their journals."

"I do not think it is the editor who writes about books," remarked
Coquette.  "An editor of a Nantes newspaper did use to come to our
house, and I remember his saying to my papa, that he gave books to
his writers who could do nothing else; so you must not be surprised
if they do make mistakes.  As for him, uncle, I am sure he did not
know who wrote the Psalms."

"Very likely--very likely," said the Minister.  "But the editors of
our newspapers are a different class of men, for they write for a
religious nation and must be acquainted wi' such things.  The
Schoolmaster thinks I ought to write to the editors, and beg them to
read the book wi' care."

"I wouldn't do that, uncle, if I were you," said Coquette; and
somehow or other, the Minister had of late got into such a habit of
consulting and obeying Coquette that her simple expression of opinion
sufficed, and he did not write to any editor.

At times during that long period, but not often, the Whaup came down
to Airlie, and stayed from the Saturday to the Monday morning.  The
anxious and troubled way in which Coquette put aside any reference to
their future marriage struck him painfully; but for the present he
was content to be almost silent.  There was no use, he reflected, in
talking about this matter until he could definitely say to her,
"Come, and be my wife."  He had no right to press her to give any
more definite promise than she had already given, when he himself was
uncertain as to time.  But, even now, he saw at no great distance
ahead the fortunate moment when he could formally claim Coquette as
his bride.  Every day that he rose, he knew himself a day nearer to
the time when he should go down to Airlie and carry off with him
Coquette to be the wonder of all his friends in Glasgow.

Sometimes, as he looked at Coquette, he felt rather anxious; and
wished that the days could pass more quickly.

"I am afraid the dulness of this place is weighing very heavily on
you, Coquette," he said to her one Saturday afternoon that he had got
down.

"You do say that often to me," she said, "and I find you looking at
me as if you were a doctor.  Yet I am not ill.  It is true, I think
that I am becoming Scotch, as you said once long ago; and all your
Scotch people at Airlie seem to me sad and resigned in their faces.
That is no harm, is it?"

"But why should you be sad and resigned?"

"I do catch it as an infection from the others," she said with a
smile.

Yet he was not satisfied; and he went back to Glasgow more impatient
than ever.

"For," he said to himself, "once I can go and ask her to fulfil her
promise, there will be a chance of breaking this depressing calm that
has settled on her.  I will take her away from Airlie.  I will get
three months' holidays, and take her down to see the Loire, and then
along to Marseilles, and then on to Italy, and then back through
Switzerland.  And only think of Coquette being always with me; and my
having to order breakfast for her; and see that the wine is always
quite sound and good for her; and see that she is wrapped up against
the cold; and to listen always to her sweet voice, and the broken
English, and the little perplexed stammer now and again--isn't that
something to work for?  Hurry on, days, and weeks, and months, and
bring Coquette to me!"

So the time went by, and Coquette had no news of Lord
Earlshope--there was not even the mention of his name.  But one dull
morning in March, she was walking by herself over the moor; and
suddenly she heard on the gravel of the path in front of her a quick
footstep that she seemed to recognise.  Her heart stood still, and
for a second she felt faint and giddy.  Then, without ever lifting
her head, she endeavoured to turn aside and avoid him.

"Won't you even speak to me, Coquette?"

The sound of his voice made the blood spring hotly to her face again,
and recalled the beating of her heart; but still she remained
immovable.  And then she answered, in a low voice--

"Yes, I will speak to you if you wish."

He came nearer to her--his own face quite pale--and said--

"I am glad you have nearly forgotten me, Coquette; I came to see.  I
heard that you looked very sad, and went about alone much, and were
pale; but I would rather hear you tell me, Coquette, that it is all a
mistake."

"I have not forgotten anything," said Coquette.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing at all."

"Coquette," he cried, coming quite close to her, "tell me this--once
for all--have you forgotten nothing as I have forgotten nothing?--do
you love me as if we had just parted yesterday?--has all this time
done nothing for either of us?"

She looked round, wildly, as if seeking some means of escape; and
then, with a sort of shudder, she found his arms round her as in the
olden time, and she was saying, almost incoherently--

"Oh, my dearest, my dearest, I love you more than ever--night and day
I have never ceased to think of you--and now--now my only wish is to
die--here, with your arms round me!"

"Listen, Coquette, listen!" he said.  "Do you know what I have done?
A ship passes here in the morning for America: I have taken two
berths in it, for you and for me: to-morrow we shall be sailing away
to a new world, and leaving all those troubles behind us.  Do you
hear me, Coquette?"

The girl trembled violently: her face was hidden.

"You remember that woman," he said, hurriedly.  "Nothing has been
heard of her for two years.  I have sought everywhere for her.  She
must be dead.  And so, Coquette, you know, we shall be married when
we get out there; and perhaps in after years we may return to Airlie.
But now, Coquette, this is what you must do; the _Caroline_ will be
waiting off Saltcoats to-night; you must go down by yourself; and I
will tell you how to have the gig come for you.  And then we are to
intercept the ship, darling; and to-morrow you will have turned your
face to a new world, and will soon forget this old one, that was so
cruel to you.  What do you say, Coquette?"

"Oh, I cannot, I cannot!" murmured the girl.  "What will become of my
uncle?"

"Your uncle is an old man.  He would have been as lonely if you had
never come to Airlie, Coquette; and we may come back to see him."

She looked up now, with a white face, into his eyes, and said slowly--

"You know that if we go away to-night I shall never see him
again--nor any one of my friends."

He shrank somehow from that earnest look; but none the less he
continued his eager and piteous pleadings.  "What are friends to you,
Coquette?" he said.  "They cannot make you happy."

It was but a little while thereafter that Coquette was on her way
back to the Manse, alone.  She had promised to go down to Saltcoats
that night, and she had sealed her sin with a kiss.

She scarcely knew what she had done; and yet there was a dreadful
consciousness of some impending evil pressing upon her heart.  Her
eyes were fixed on the ground as she went along; and yet it seemed to
her that she knew the dark clouds were glowing with a fiery crimson,
and that there was a light as of sunset glaring over the moor.  Then,
so still it was!  She grew afraid that in this fearful silence she
should hear a voice speaking to her from the sky that appeared to be
close over her head.

Guilty and trembling she drew near to the Manse; and, seeing the
Minister coming out of the gate, she managed to avoid him, and stole
like a culprit up to her own room.  The first thing that met her eyes
was a locket containing a portrait of her mother.  She took it up,
and placed it in a drawer, along with a crucifix and some religious
books to which Leezibeth had objected.  She put it beside them
reverently and sadly--as though she knew she never dared touch them
any more.  And then she sat down, and buried her face in her hands.

She was unusually and tenderly attentive to her uncle at dinner-time;
and in answer to his inquiries why she scarcely ate anything, she
said that she had taken her accustomed biscuit and glass of port
wine--which Dr. Menzies had recommended--later than usual.  The
answer did not quite satisfy the Minister.

"We must have Lady Drum to take ye away for a change," he said, "some
o' these days."

When she had brought her uncle the silk handkerchief with which he
generally covered his face in anticipation of his after-dinner nap,
Coquette went upstairs, and placed a few odd things in a small
reticule.  She came downstairs again, and waited patiently until tea
was over, and the boys sent off to prepare their lessons for the next
day.

Then Coquette, having put on her shawl and hat, stole out of the
house, and through the small garden.  She looked neither to the right
nor to the left.  Of all the troubles she had experienced in life,
the bitterest was nothing in comparison to the ghastly sense of guilt
that now crashed her down.  She knew that in leaving the Manse she
was leaving behind her all the sweet consciousness of rectitude, the
purity and innocence which had enabled her to meet trials with a
courageous heart.  She was leaving behind her the treasure of a
stainless name, the crown of womanhood.  She was leaving behind her
her friends, who would have to share her shame, who would have to
face on her behalf the cruel tongues of the world.  She was leaving
behind her even the treasured memories of her mother--for Heaven
itself would be closed against her, and she would be an exile from
all that a pure and true woman could hold dear.

There were no tears in her eyes; but there was a cold, dead feeling
at her heart; and she trembled at the slight sound she made in
closing the gate.

What a strange, wild evening it was, as she got outside, and turned
to cross the moor over to the west.  Through a fierce glare of
sunset, she could see that all along the horizon there stood a wall
of dense and mysterious blue cloud.  Underneath this the sea lay
black; the wind had not stirred the waves into breaking; and she
could only tell that the great dark plain moved in lines and lines,
as if it were silently brooding over the secrets down in its depths.
But above this dense wall of cloud flared the wild light of the
sunset, with long fierce dashes of scarlet and gold; while across the
blaze of yellow there drifted streaks of pure silver, showing the
coming of a storm.  Up here on the moor, the stretches of dry grey
grass which alternated with brown patches of heather had, as it were,
caught fire; and the blowing and gusty light of the west burned along
those bleak slopes until the eye was dazzled and pained by the glow.
Even in the far east the clouds had a blush of pink over them, with
rifts of green sky between; and the dark fir woods that lay along the
horizon seemed to dwell within a veil of crimson mist.

There was a strange stillness around, despite the fact that the wind
was sufficient to move the flaming clouds hither and thither, causing
now this and now that stretch of the grey moor to burn red under the
shifting evening sky.  There was quite an unusual silence, indeed.
The birds seemed to have grown mute; not even the late blackbird sang
in the hawthorn bushes by the side of the moorland stream.  Coquette
hurried on, without letting her eyes wander this way or that; there
was something in the appearance of the moor and in the wild light
that alarmed her.

Suddenly she was confronted by some one; and, looking up with a
stifled cry, she found the Pensioner before her.

"I hope I hefna frichtened ye, Miss Cassilis," he said.

"No," said Coquette.  "But I did not expect to meet any one."

"Ye will pe going on a veesit; but do not go far, for it iss a
stormy-looking nicht, and you will maybe get ferry wet before sat you
will be home again."

"Thank you.  Good-night," said Coquette.

"Good-night," said the Pensioner.

Then he turned, and said, before she was out of hearing--

"Miss Cassilis, maype now you will know if his lordship iss never
coming back to Earlshope any more, not even if he will pe unable to
let sa house?"

"How should I know?" said Coquette, suddenly struck motionless by the
question.

"Oh, indeed, now," said the Pensioner, in a tone of apology.  "It
wass only that some o' the neebors wass seeing you speaking to Lord
Earlshope this morning, and I wass thinking that very likely he wass
coming back to his own house."

"I know nothing about it," said Coquette, hurrying on, with her heart
overburdened with anguish and dread.

For now she knew that all the people would learn why she had run away
from her uncle's house; and they would carry to the old man the story
of their having seen her talking to Lord Earlshope.  But for that,
the Minister might have thought her drowned or perished in some way.
That was all over; and her shame would be publicly known; and he
would have to bear it in his old age.

Down at the end of the moor, she turned to take a last look at the
Manse.  Far up on the height, the windows of the small building were
twinkling like gleaming rubies; the gable and the wall round the
garden were of a dusky red colour; overhead the sky was a pure, clear
green, and the white sickle of a new moon was faintly visible.  Never
before had Airlie Manse seemed to her so lovable a place--so still,
and quiet, and peaceful.  And when she thought of the old man who had
been like a father to her, she could see no more through the tears
that came welling up into her eyes, and she turned and continued on
her way with many bitter sobs.

The wind had grown chill.  The wall of cloud was slowly rising in the
west, until it had shut off half of the glowing colours of the
sunset; and the evening was becoming rapidly darker.  Then it seemed
to Coquette that the black plain of the sea was getting strangely
close to her; and she began to grow afraid of the gathering gloom.

"Why did he not come to meet me?" she murmured to herself.  "I have
no courage--no hope--when he is not near."

It grew still darker; and yet she could not hurry her steps, for she
trembled much, and was like to become faint.  She had vague thoughts
of returning; and yet she went on mechanically, as if she had cast
the die of her fate, and could be no more what she was.

Then the first shock of the storm fell--fell with a crash on the fir
woods, and tore through them with a voice of thunder.  All over now
the sky was black; and there was a whirlwind whitening the sea, the
cry of which could be heard far out beyond the land.  Presently came
the rain in wild, fierce torrents that blew about the wet fields and
raised channels of water in the roads.  Coquette had no covering of
any sort.  In a few minutes she was drenched; and yet she did not
seem to care.  She only staggered on blindly, in the frantic hope of
reaching Saltcoats before the night fell.  She would not go to meet
Lord Earlshope.  She would creep into some hovel; and then, in the
morning, send a message of repentance to her uncle; and go away
somewhere; and never see any more the relations and friends whom she
had betrayed and disgraced.

Nevertheless, she still went recklessly on, her eyes confused by the
rain, her brain a prey to wild and despairing thoughts.

The storm grew in intensity.  The roar of the heavy surf could now be
heard far over the cry of the wind; and the rain-clouds came across
the sea in huge masses, and were blown down upon the land in hissing
torrents.  And still Coquette struggled on.

At last she saw before her the lights of Saltcoats.  But the orange
points seemed to dance before her eyes.  There was a burning in her
head.  And then, with a faint cry of "Uncle, uncle!" she sank down by
the roadside.

Almost at the same moment there was a sound of wheels.  A waggonette
was stopped just in front of her, and a man jumped down.

"What is the matter wi' ye, my lass?  Bless me, is it you, Miss
Cassilis!"

The girl was quite insensible, however; and the man, who happened to
know Miss Cassilis, lost no time in carrying her to the waggonette,
and driving her to his own house, which was but a few hundred yards
farther on, at the entrance to the town.  There his wife and one of
the servants restored Coquette to consciousness, and had her wet
clothes taken off, and herself put to bed.  The girl seemed already
feverish, if not delirious.

"But what does she say of herself?" asked this Mr. M'Henry, when his
wife came down.  "How did she come to be on the way to Saltcoats a'
by herself?"

"That I dinna ken," said his wife; "but the first words she spoke
were, 'Take me back to Airlie, to my uncle.  I will not go to
Saltcoats.'

"I would send for the Minister," said the husband, "but no human
being could win up to Airlie on such a nicht.  We will get him down
in the morning."

So Coquette remained in Saltcoats that night.  Under Mrs. M'Henry's
treatment, the fever abated; and she lay during the darkness, and
listened to the howling of the storm without.  Where was Lord
Earlshope?

"I hope he has gone away by himself to America, and that I will never
see him again," she murmured to herself.  "But I can never go back to
Airlie any more."




CHAPTER LI.

A SECRET OF THE SEA.

Next morning there was a great commotion in Saltcoats.  Despite the
fierce gusts of wind that were still blowing, accompanied by squally
showers of rain, numbers of people were out on the long stretch of
brown sand lying south of the town.  Mischief had been at work on the
sea overnight.  Fragments of barrels, bits of spars, and other
evidences of a wreck were being brought in by the waves; and two
smacks had even put out to look around for any larger remains of the
lost vessel or vessels.  Mr. M'Henry was early abroad; for he had
gone into the town to get a messenger; and so he heard the news.  At
last, amid the gossiping of the neighbours, he learned that a lad had
just been summoned by a certain Mrs. Kilbride to go up on an errand
to Airlie, and he resolved to secure his services to carry the
message.

Eventually, he met the lad on his way to the moorland village; and
then it turned out that the errand was merely to carry a letter to
Miss Cassilis, at the Manse.

"But Miss Cassilis is at my house," said Mr. M'Henry.  "Give me the
letter, and gang you on to the Manse and ask Mr. Cassilis to come
down here."

So the lad departed, and the letter was taken up and placed on the
table where Coquette was to have her breakfast.

She came down, looking very pale; and she would give no explanation
of how she came to be out on such a night.  She thanked them for
having sent for her uncle, and sat down at the table, but ate nothing.

Then she saw the letter, and with a quick, pained flush of colour
leaping to her cheeks, she took it up and opened it with trembling
fingers.  She read these words--


"Dearest,--I cannot exact from you the sacrifice of your life.
Remorse and misery for all the rest of our years would be the penalty
to both of us by your going with me to-night, even though you might
put a brave face on the matter, and conceal your anguish, I cannot
let you suffer that, Coquette.  I will leave for America by myself;
and I will never attempt to see you again.  That promise I have
broken before; but it will not be broken this time.  Good-bye,
Coquette.  My earnest hope is that you will not come to Saltcoats
to-night; and, in that case, this letter will be forwarded to you in
the morning.  Forgive me, if you can, for all the suffering I have
caused you.  I will never forget you, my dearest love, but I will
never see England or you again.

"EARLSHOPE."


There was almost a look of joy on her face.

"So I did not vex him," she thought, "by keeping him in anxiety and
fear?  And he has conquered too; and he will think better of himself
and of me away over there, for many years to come, if he does not
forget all about Airlie."

But that reference to Airlie recalled the thought of her uncle, and
of his meeting with her.  As the time drew near for his approach, she
became more and more downcast.  When, at last, the old man came into
the room, where she was sitting alone, her eyes were fixed on the
ground, and she dared not raise them.

He went over to her, and placed his hand on her head.

"What is all this, Catherine?  Did you miss your way last night?
What made ye go out on such a wild evening, without saying a word to
any one?"

She replied in a low voice, which was yet studiously distinct--

"Yesterday afternoon I went away from the Manse, not intending to go
back."

The Minister made a slight gesture as if some twinge had shot across
his heart; and then, looking at her in a sad and grave way, he said--

"I did not think I had been unkind to you, Catherine."

This was too much for Coquette.  It broke down the obduracy with
which she had been vainly endeavouring to fortify herself; she fell
at the feet of her uncle; and, with wild tears and sobs, told him all
that had happened, and begged him to go away and leave her, for she
had become a stranger and an outcast.  Stunned as the old man was by
these revelations, he forgot to express his sense of her guilt.  He
saw only before him the daughter of his own brother--a girl who had
scarce a friend in the world but himself--and she was at his feet in
tears, and shame, and bitter distress.  He raised her, and put her
head on his breast, and tried to still her sobbing.

"Catherine," he said, with his own voice broken, "you shall never be
an outcast from my house, so long as you care to accept its shelter."

"But I cannot go back to Airlie--I cannot go back to Airlie!" she
said, almost wildly.  "I will not bring disgrace upon you, uncle; and
have the people talk of me, and blame you for taking me back.  I am
going away--I am not fit to go back to Airlie!  You have been very
good to me--far better than I deserve; but I cannot tell you now that
I love you for all your kindness to me--for now it is a disgrace for
me to speak to any one----"

"Hush, Catherine," he said.  "It is penitence, not despair, that must
fill your heart.  And the penitent has not to look to man for pardon,
nor yet to fear what may be said of him in wrath.  They that go
elsewhere for forgiveness and comfort have no reason to dread the
ill-tongues of their neighbours.  'They looked unto Him, and were
lightened; and their faces were not ashamed.  This poor man cried,
and the Lord heard him, and saved him out of all his troubles.'  Out
of all of them, Catherine.  You will go back to Airlie with me, my
bairn.  Perhaps you do not feel at home there yet--three years is not
a long time to get accustomed to a new country.  I am told ye
sometimes cried in thinking about France, just as the Jews in
captivity did, when they said, 'By the rivers of Babylon, there we
sat down; yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion.'  But maybe I have
erred in not making the house lichtsome enough for ye.  I am an old
man; and the house is dull, perhaps.  But if ye will tell me how we
can make it pleasanter to ye----"

"Oh, uncle, you are breaking my heart with your kindness!" she
sobbed; "and I deserve none of it--none of it!"

It was with great difficulty that the Minister persuaded her to go
back with him to the Manse.  At length, however, a covered carriage
was procured, and Coquette and her uncle were driven up to Airlie.
The girl sat now quite silent and impassive; only when she saw any
one of the neighbours coming along the road, she seemed nervously
anxious to avoid scrutiny.  When they got up to the gate of the
Manse, which was open, she walked quietly and sadly by her uncle's
side across the bit of garden into the house, and was then for going
upstairs by herself.  Her uncle prevented her.

"Ye must come and sit wi' me for a little while, until Leezibeth has
got some breakfast ready for ye."

"I do not want anything to eat," said Coquette; and she seemed afraid
of the sound of her own voice.

"Nevertheless," said the Minister, "I would inquire further into this
matter, Catherine.  It is but proper that I should know what measure
of guilt falls upon that young man in endeavouring to wean away a
respectable girl from her home and her friends."

Coquette drew back, with some alarm visible on her face.

"Uncle, I cannot tell you now.  Some other time perhaps; but not
now--not now.  And you must not think him guilty, uncle--it is I who
am guilty of it all--he is much better than any of you think--and now
he is away to America, and no one will defend him if he is accused."

At the moment that she spoke, Lord Earlshope was beyond the reach of
accusation and defence.  The Saltcoats people, towards the afternoon,
discovered the lid of a chest floating about, and on it was painted
in white letters the word _Caroline_.  Later, there came a telegram
from Greenock to the effect that during the preceding night the
schooner yacht _Caroline_ had been run down and sunk in mid-channel,
by a steamer going to Londonderry; and that, of all on board the
yacht, the steamer had been able to pick up only one of the crew.
And that same night the news made its way up to Airlie, and
circulated through the village, and at length reached the Manse.
Other rumours accompanied it.  For the moment, no one dared to tell
Coquette of what had happened; but none the less was her flight from
the Manse connected with this terrible judgment; and even Leezibeth,
struck dumb with shame and grief, had no word of protest when Andrew
finished his warnings and denunciations.

"There is no healing of thy bruise," said Leezibeth to herself sadly,
in thinking of Coquette.  "Thy wound is grievous: all that hear the
bruit of thee shall clap the hands over thee."




CHAPTER LII.

CONSENT.

Sharp and bitter was the talk that ran through Airlie about the
Minister's niece; and Coquette guessed at it; and shrank away from
the people; and would fain have hidden herself from the light, as one
accursed.  Now indeed she knew what it was to have a ban placed upon
her; and all the old fearless consciousness of rectitude had gone; so
that she could no longer attempt to win over the people to her by
patience, and sweetness, and the charm of her pleasant ways.  She had
fallen too far in her own esteem; and Leezibeth began to be alarmed
about the effects of that calm and reticent sadness, which had grown
to be the normal expression of Coquette's once light and happy face.

It was Leezibeth who unintentionally confirmed the worst surmises of
the villagers, by begging the Minister to conceal from Coquette the
knowledge of Earlshope's tragic death.  The Minister, anxious above
all things for the girl's health, consented; and it then became
necessary to impose silence on those who were likely to meet Coquette
elsewhere.  So it became known that mention of Lord Earlshope was not
to be made to this quiet and pale-faced girl, who still, in spite of
her sadness, had something of a proud air, and looked at people with
dark and troubled eyes, as though she would ask them what they
thought of her.

Whether this policy of silence were advisable or not, it was
certainly not very prudent to conceal from the Whaup likewise all
intelligence of what had happened.  He had heard of Lord Earlshope's
death, of course; and was a little surprised to be asked not to
mention the matter in his letters to Coquette; but, beyond that, he
was in complete ignorance of all that had occurred at Airlie.
By-and-by however rumours came to him.  He began to grow uneasy.
Finally, he saw Lady Drum; and she, seeing the necessity of being
explicit, told him everything in as gentle a way as she could.

"And so," he said, "my cousin is looked upon as an outcast; and the
good people of Airlie say evil things of her; and I suppose wonder
why she dares go into the church?"

Lady Drum made no reply; he had but described the truth.

Then the Whaup rose up, like a man, and said--

"Lady Drum, I am going down to Airlie to get Coquette to marry me;
and I will take her away from there; and the people may talk then
until their rotten tongues drop out."

Lady Drum rose too, and put her hand on his shoulder, and said
gently--

"If I were a man that is what I would do.  Off wi' ye to Airlie
directly, and whether, she say yes or no, bring her away wi' ye as
your wife.  That will mend a great many matters."

So the Whaup went down to Airlie; and all the way in the train his
heart was on fire with varied emotions of pity, and anger, and love;
and his brain was busy with plans and schemes.  He would have liked
another year's preparation, perhaps; but his position now with regard
to Dr. Menzies was fully secured; and his income, if not a very big
one, sufficient for the meantime.  And when he arrived at Airlie, and
reached the Manse, he made no inquiries of anybody; he went at once,
in his old straightforward way, into the room where he expected to
find Coquette.

Coquette was alone; and, when he opened the door, he found her eyes
fixed on him.

"Oh, Coquette, you are ill!" he said, seizing both her hands and
looking into her face.

"No," she said, "I am not ill.  You must not vex yourself about
me--it is only I have not been much out of late."

"Ah, I know why you have not been out," he said; "and I am come down
to put all these things straight.  Coquette, you must marry me now.
I won't go away unless you go with me as my wife.  That is what I
have come down for."

The girl started, as though a whip had stung her; and now a flush of
shame and pain was visible in her face.  She withdrew her hands from
his, and said, with her eyes cast down--

"I understand why you have come.  You know what they say of me.  You
wish to marry me to prove it is not true, and give me some better
opinion of myself.  That is very good of you--it is what I did expect
of you--but--but I am too proud to be married in that way, and I do
not wish any sacrifice from anybody."

"What is the use of talking like that, Coquette?" he said,
impetuously.  "What has sacrifice or pride got to do between you and
me?  Why need you care what the people at Airlie, or the people all
over the world, think of you?  I am going to take you away from here,
Coquette.  I will teach you what to think of yourself, and then you
will talk no more of sacrifice.  Sacrifice!  If there is any
sacrifice, it is in your thinking of marrying a good-for-nothing
fellow like me.  It is like a princess marrying a gamekeeper, or
something like that; and you talk of sacrifice, and what the wretched
idiots of a ridiculous little village think of you!  It is absurd,
Coquette!  It all comes of your being shut up here, and seeing
nothing, and being left to your own dreams.  You are getting
distorted views of everything in this dismal place.  It's like
conducting experiments in a vacuum: what you want is to get braced up
by the actual atmosphere of the world; and learn how things work
there; and discover the value that people will put upon you.  What
can the croaking frogs of a marsh like this know of your value,
Coquette?  Don't you remember how you went about Lady Drum's rooms
like a queen; and everybody waited on you; and I scarcely dared come
near you?  Sacrifice!  You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Coquette!"

He spoke in the old and rapid fashion with which she used to be
familiar; and his cheeks were flushed with enthusiasm; and his
handsome face full of daring and confidence, as though he would have
laughed at her scruples and defied the world for her sake.  Perhaps
he did not despise Airlie altogether as much as he said; but in the
hot haste of his eloquence there was no time to be particular, or
even just.

"You are as impetuous as ever; and you are as generous as ever; but
you are grown no wiser," she said, looking at him in a kindly way.
"For me, I have grown much older than when we went about here.  I do
see many things differently; and just now I must tell you what is
right and best for both of us.  You must not say any more about our
marriage; but go up to Glasgow again, and forget all about me.  If it
is painful for you in the meantime, I am sorry; it will be better for
you by-and-by.  If you did marry a wife who had not a good name among
all people--strangers as well--you might not care for a little while;
but you would remember of it afterwards; and that would be very
sorrowful for both."

With that she rose and would have passed him, and gone to the door.
But he stood in her way, and confronted her, and said, with a certain
formality of tone--

"You must answer me one question, Coquette, clearly and truthfully.
Is all that you say merely an excuse for breaking off our marriage
altogether?"

She looked surprised.

"Then you do no longer believe I speak the truth?  An excuse--that is
something untrue.  No--I have no need of excuses."

She would have left the room then; but he caught her hand and said--

"We are no longer children, Coquette.  This is too serious a matter
to be settled by a mere misunderstanding or a quarrel.  I want to
know if you have no other reason to postpone our marriage, or break
it up altogether, than the foolish talk that prevails in the village?"

"You do forget," she said, evidently forcing herself to speak in a
cold and determined manner, "that the people have some right to
talk--that I did go away from the Manse, expecting----"

She could get no further.  She shuddered violently; and then, sitting
down, covered her face with her hands.

"I know all about that, Coquette," he said, sadly.  "It was very
bitter for me to hear it----"

"And then you did come here, despising me, and yet wishing to marry
me, so that I might not be too cast down.  It is very generous--but
you see it is impossible."

"And you mean that as a final answer, Coquette?"

She looked up into his face.

"Yes," she said, with her eyes fixed on his.

"Good-bye, then, Coquette," said he.

Anxious as was her scrutiny, she could not tell how he received this
announcement; but the tone in which he bade her good-bye went like a
knife through her heart.  She held out her hand and said, or was
about to say, "Good-bye," when, somehow, she failed to reach his
hand, and the room swam round her.  Then there was a space of blank
unconsciousness; followed by the slow breathing of returning life;
and she knew that he was bathing her forehead with a handkerchief and
cold water.

"You must not go away like that," she said to him, when she had
somewhat recovered; "I have not many friends."

And so, sitting down beside her, he began to tell her, in a gentle
and, at times, somewhat embarrassed voice, the story of his love for
her, and all the plans he had formed, and how his only hope in the
world was to marry her.  He did not care what lay in the past; the
future was to be theirs; and he would devote himself to making her
once more the light-hearted Coquette of former days.  He spoke to her
as if afraid to disturb her even by the urgency of his affection; and
while he talked in this low and earnest fashion, the girl's eyes were
wistful and yet pleased, as if she were looking at the pictures he
drew of a happy future for both of them, and beginning to believe in
their possibility.

"People have sorrows and disappointments, you know, Coquette," he
said; "and yet they forget them in great measure, for it is useless
to spend a lifetime in looking back.  And people do weak things and
wrong things that haunt their conscience and trouble them bitterly;
but even these are lightened by time.  And the ill opinion of the
world--that, too, gets removed by time; and all the old years, with
their griefs, and their follies, and mistakes, get wiped out.  You
are too young to think that life has been irretrievably spoiled for
you.  You have got another life to set out on; and you may depend on
my making it as pleasant and as happy as possible if you will only
give me the chance."

"You do talk as if it was my pleasure and happiness I did think of,"
said Coquette.  "No--that is not so.  When I did say I would not
marry you--it was for your sake; and then, when you seemed to be
going away estranged from me, I thought I would do anything to keep
you my friend.  So I will now.  Is that all true you say, my poor
boy, about your caring only for one thing in the world?  Will your
life be wretched if I am not your wife?  Because then I will marry
you, if you like."

"Ah! do you say that, Coquette?" he said, with a flash of joy in his
eyes.

There was no such joy visible on her face.

"If you could say to yourself," she added, calmly, "after a little
time, 'I will keep Coquette as my friend--as my best friend--but I
will marry some other one,' that would be better for you."

"It would be nothing of the kind," he said, cheerfully, "nor for you
either.  I am about to set myself the task of transforming you,
Coquette; and in a year or two you won't know yourself!"

"In a year or two," she repeated, thoughtfully.

"You know I am a doctor now; and I am going to become your attendant
physician; and I will prescribe for you, Coquette, plenty of
amusement and holidays; and of course I will go with you to see that
my orders are obeyed.  And you will forget everything that is past
and gone; for I will give you plenty to think about in managing the
details of the house, you know, and arranging for people coming to
see you in the evenings.  And then, in the autumn-time, Coquette, you
will get as brown as a berry among the valleys and the mountains of
Switzerland; and if we come through France, you shall be interpreter
for me, and take the tickets, you know, and complain to the
landlords.  All that, and ever so much more, lies before you; and
what we have to do in the meantime is to get you away from this
melancholy place, that has been making you wretched, and pale, and
sad.  Now, Coquette, tell me when I am to take you away!"

She rose with almost an expression of anguish on her face.

"Ah, not yet, not yet!" she said.  "You will think over it
first--perhaps you will alter your intentions."

"I shan't do anything of the kind, Coquette, unless you alter yours.
Mind you, I don't mean to goad you into marrying me; and if you say
now that it vexes you to think of it----"

"It does not vex me, if it will make you happy," she said.

"Then you don't wish to rescind your promise?"

"No, I do not wish it."

"And you will really become my wife, Coquette?"

She hesitated for a moment; then she said, in a low voice--

"I will be your wife if you wish it, and make you as happy as I can;
but not yet, Tom--not yet; and you must not be vexed if I cannot set
a time."

With that she left the room; and he flung himself into a chair to
ponder over his recollections of an interview which seemed very
strange and perplexing to him.  "It does not vex me, if it will make
you happy"--that was all he could get her to say.  No expression of
interest--no hopeful look--such as a girl naturally wears in talking
of her coming marriage.  And these moods of fear, of despondency,
even bordering on wild despair, what did they mean?

"There is something altogether wrong in her relations with the people
around her," he said.  "She seems to labour under a burden of
self-constraint and of sadness which would in another year kill a far
stronger woman than she is.  The place does not suit her--the people
don't suit her.  Everything seems to have gone wrong; and the
Coquette I see bears no resemblance to the Coquette who came here a
few years ago.  Whatever it is that is wrong, our marriage will solve
the problem, and transfer her to a new sphere and new associations."

The Whaup endeavoured to reassure himself with these anticipations;
but did not quite succeed, for there was a vague doubt and anxiety
hanging about his mind which would not be exorcised.




CHAPTER LIII.

THE PALE BRIDE.

The Whaup telegraphed to Dr. Menzies for permission to remain in
Airlie another couple of days, and received it.  He made good use of
his time.  Some brief conversation he had with Leezibeth in regard to
Coquette quickened his resolve.  He went to his father, too, and told
him of his wishes.

The old man could at first scarce credit this strange announcement.
He had never even suspected his son of being particularly fond of
Coquette; and now his first idea was that the Whaup, in an
exceptionally chivalrous fashion, had proposed to marry her as an
answer to the evil rumours that were afloat.  He was soon disabused
on this point.  Confidences at such a crisis, between father and son,
are somewhat embarrassing things, particularly in most Scotch
households, where reticence on all matters of the affections is the
established law; but the Whaup was too deeply in earnest to think of
himself.  With a good deal of rough eloquence, and even a touch of
pathos here and there, he pleaded the case of Coquette and himself;
and at the end of it the Minister, who was evidently greatly
disturbed, said he would consider the subject in privacy.  The Whaup
left his father's study with a light heart; he knew that the
Minister's deep-seated tenderness for his niece would carry the day,
were all Airlie to sign a protest.

The Whaup was in the garden.  His brothers were at school; Coquette
had disappeared, he knew not whither; and he was amusing himself by
whistling in reply to a blackbird hid in a holly tree.  The Minister
came out of the house, and gravely walked up to his son, and said--

"You have done well in this matter.  I do not say that, under other
circumstances, I might not have preferred seeing you marry a wife of
your own country, and one accustomed to our ways and homely fashion
of living, and, above all, one having more deeply at heart our own
traditions of faith.  But your duty to your own kinswoman--who is
suffering from the suspicions of the vulgar--must count for
something----"

"But what counts most of all, father," said the Whaup--who would not
have it thought he was conferring a favour on Coquette--"is her own
rare excellence.  Where could I get a wife like her?  I don't care
twopence-farthing for all that Airlie, and a dozen neighbouring
parishes, may think or say of her, when I know her to be what she is.
And you know what she is, father; and the best thing you can do for
her is to persuade her to be married as soon as possible--for I mean
to take her away from here, and see if I cannot break that sort of
dead calm that seems to have settled over her."

"The Manse will be very lonely without her," said the Minister.

"Look here, father," said the Whaup, with a great lump rising in his
throat, "the Manse would be very lonely if she were to remain as she
is much longer.  Leezibeth says she eats nothing--she never goes
out--only that dull, uncomplaining monotony of sadness, and the
listless days, and the reading of religious books.  I know how that
would end if it went on--and I don't mean to let Coquette slip out of
our fingers like that--and I----"

The Whaup could say no more.  He turned aside, and began to kick the
gravel with his foot.  The Minister put his hand on his son's
shoulder and said--

"My boy, you may have more watchful eyes than mine in such matters;
and, if this be as you suspect, I will use all my influence with her,
although her marriage will make a great difference to me."

The Whaup, however, was not one to have his wooing done by proxy.
During the remainder of his brief stay in Airlie, he urged Coquette
with gentleness, and yet with earnestness, to fix a time for their
marriage.  At first she was startled by the proposal, and avoided it
in a frightened way; but at length she seemed to be won over by his
representations and entreaties.  He did not tell her his secret
reason for thus hurrying on her departure from Airlie.  It was
entirely as securing his own happiness that he drew pleasant pictures
of the future; that he sat and talked to her of all she would see
when they went away together; that he endeavoured to win her consent.
Then, on the last evening of his visit, they were in a corner of the
hushed parlour, speaking in low tones, so as not to disturb the
reading of the Minister.

"I do think it is a great misfortune that you are so fond of me," she
said, looking at him with rather wistful eyes; "but it seems as if
the world were all misfortune; and if it will make you happy for me
to marry you, I will do that; for you have always been very kind to
me; and it is very little that I can do in return; but if this will
please you, I am glad; and I will make you as good a wife as I can."

That was her reply to his entreaties; and, in token of her obedience,
she took his hand and pressed it to her lips.  There was something in
this mute surrender that was inexpressibly touching to the Whaup; and
for a moment his conscience smote him; and he asked himself if he
were not exacting too much of a sacrifice from this tender-hearted
girl, who sat pale and resigned even in the moment of settling her
marriage day.

"Coquette," said he, "am I robbing you of any other happiness that
you could hope for?  Is there any other prospect in life that you are
secretly wishing for?"

"There is not," she said, calmly.

"None?"

"None."

"Then I will make this way of it as happy for you as I possibly can.
And when, Coquette?  You have never named a time yet."

"Let it be whenever you please," she answered, looking down.

The Whaup rose, and pulled himself up to his full height, as if, for
the first time, he could breathe freely.

"Father," said he, "have you any objection to my going across the
moor and ringing the church bell?"

The Minister looked up from his MSS.

"We are going to have a wedding in the Manse in two or three weeks,"
said the Whaup.

Coquette went over to the old man's chair, and knelt down by his
side, and took his hand in hers.

"I shall be sorry to lose you, Catherine; but I trust you will be
more cheerful and happy in your new home than you could be in this
dull house."

"You have been very kind to me, uncle," she said.

With that, the Whaup went outside, and clambered up into the hayloft,
and roused his brothers, who were in bed, if not all asleep.

"Get up, the whole of you!" he said; "get on your clothes, and come
into the house.  Look sharp--there's something for you to hear."

Leezibeth was alarmed by the invasion of the Manse which took place
shortly thereafter; and came running to what had brought the boys in
at that time of night.  The Whaup bade Leezibeth come into the
parlour to witness the celebration; and they were introduced by the
Whaup--who made a pretty speech--to their future sister-in-law; and
they were ordered to give her good wishes; and then they all sat down
to a sumptuous, if hastily prepared, banquet of currant bun, with a
glass of raspberry wine to each of them.  Coquette was pleased; and
the tinge of colour that came to her cheeks made the Whaup think she
was beginning to look like a bride.  As for the boys, they expressed
their delight chiefly by grinning and showing their white teeth as
they ate the cake; one of them only remarking confidentially--

"We a' kenned this would be the end o't."

The chorus of laughter which greeted this remark showed that it
expressed a general sentiment.  Nor was their merriment lessened when
the Whaup cut off a very small piece of cake, and said to Leezibeth--

"Take this to Andrew, with my compliments.  He will be delighted with
the news."

"Andrew or no Andrew," said Leezibeth, who seemed rather inclined to
cry out of pure sympathy; "ye may be a proud man on your wedding day,
Maister Tammas; and ye'll take good care o' her, and bring her
sometimes down to Airlie, where there's some maybe that likes her
better than they can just put into words."


And so it was that, on a fresh June morning, when the earth lay warm
and silent in the bright sunshine, and the far sea was as blue and
clear as the heart of a sapphire, Coquette arrayed herself in white
garments.  There was a great stir about the Manse that morning; and
the boys were dressed in their Sunday clothes.  Flowers were all
about the place; and many innocent little surprises in the way of
decoration had been planned by the Whaup himself.  The Manse looked
quite bright, indeed; and Leezibeth had assumed an unwonted
importance.

Coquette's bridesmaids were the Misses Menzies; and the Doctor was
there too; also Lady Drum and Sir Peter.  According to the custom of
the country, the marriage was to take place in the house; and when
they had all assembled in the largest room, the bride walked slowly
in, followed by her bridesmaids.

In a church, amid a crowd of spectators, there would have been a
murmur of wonder and admiration over the mysterious and pensive
beauty of this delicately modelled girl, whose dark and wistful eyes
seemed all the darker by reason of the snowy whiteness of her dress,
and the paleness of the pearls that shone in the splendid luxuriance
of her hair.  But her friends there almost forgot how beautiful she
was in regarding the expression of her face--so immovably calm it
was, so strangely sad.  Lady Drum's heart was touched with a sudden
fear.  This was not the look of a bride; but the look of a woman--far
too young to have any such expression--who seemed to have abandoned
all hope in this world.  She was not anxious, or perturbed, or pale
through any special excitement or emotion; she stood throughout the
long and tedious service as though she were unconscious of what was
happening; and, when it was over, she received the congratulations of
those around her as though she had awakened out of a dream.

The Whaup, too, noticed this look; but he had seen much of it lately;
and was only rendered the more anxious to take her away and lighten
her spirits by change of scene.  And now that he found himself able
to do so, he was full of confidence.  There was no misgiving in his
look.  As he stood there, taller by a head than his own father, with
his light-brown hair thrown carelessly back from a face bright with
health and the tanning of the sun, it was apparent that the
atmosphere of the great city had not had much effect on the lithe,
and stalwart, and vigorous frame.  And his voice was as gentle as
that of a woman when he went forward, for the first time after the
ceremony, and said to Coquette--

"You are not tired with standing so long, Coquette?"

She started slightly.  Then--perhaps noticing that the eyes of her
bridesmaids were upon her, and recollecting that she ought to wear a
more cheerful expression--she smiled faintly, and said--

"You must not call me that foolish name any more.  It is part of the
old time when we were girl and boy together."

"But I shall never find any name for you that I shall like better,"
said he.

About an hour thereafter all preparations had been made for their
departure; and the carriage was waiting for them.  There was a great
shaking of hands, and kissing, and leave-taking; and then, last of
all, the Minister stood by the gate as Coquette came out.

"Good-bye, my dear daughter," he said, placing his hand on her head;
"may He that watched over Jacob, and followed him in all his
wanderings with blessings, watch over and bless you at all times and
in all places!"

Coquette's lips began to tremble.  She had maintained her composure
to the last; but now, as she kissed her uncle, she could not say
farewell in words; and when at length she was driven away, she
covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.

"Coquette," said her husband, "are you sorry, after all, to leave
Airlie?"

There was no answer but the sound of her sobbing.




CHAPTER LIV.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

So blinded by his exceeding happiness was the Whaup, that for a
little time he could scarcely tell how the rapid change of scene and
incident following their marriage was affecting Coquette's health and
spirits.  He was so near her now, tending her with an extreme and
anxious care, that he could not regard her critically and judge
whether the old sad look was leaving her eyes.  Did she not express
her pleasure at the various things she saw?  Was she not so very kind
and affectionate towards him that he had to protest against her
little submissive attentions, and point out that it was his business
to wait upon her, not hers to wait upon him?

They went to Edinburgh first; and then to Westmoreland; and then to
London, which was in the height of the season.  And they strolled
into the Park on the summer mornings and on the busier afternoons;
and sat on the little green chairs under the lime-trees; and looked
at the brilliant assemblage of people there--Cabinet Ministers,
actresses, Gun-club heroes, authors, artists, and all the rank and
file of fashion.  So eager was the Whaup to interest his companion,
that it is to be feared he made rather random shots in identifying
the men and women who were cantering up and down, and conferred high
official dignities on harmless country gentlemen who were but simple
M.P.'s.

"There are many pretty ladies here," said Coquette, with a smile,
"and yet you do not seem to know one."

"I know one who is prettier than them all put together," said the
Whaup, with a glow of pride and admiration in his face; and then he
added, "I say, Coquette, how did you manage to dress just like those
people when you lived away down in Airlie?  I think you must have
sent surreptitiously to London for the dresses that used to astonish
the quiet kirk-folk.  Then you always had the knack of wearing a
flower or a rosebud here or there, just as those ladies do, only I
don't think any flowers are so becoming as those little yellow
blossoms that are on a certain little white bonnet that a particular
little woman I know wears at this moment."

"Ah, it is of no use," said Coquette, with a sigh of resignation.  "I
have tried--I have lectured--I have scolded--it is of no use.  You do
not know the rudeness of talking of people's dresses, and paying them
rough compliments about their prettiness, and making inquiries which
gentlemen have nothing to do with.  I have tried to teach you all
this--and you will not learn--and you do not know that you have very
savage manners."

"Coquette," said he, "if you say another word I will kiss you."

"And I should not be surprised," she answered, with the slightest
possible shrug.  "I do not think you have any more respect for the
public appearances than when you did torment the people at Airlie.
You are still a boy--that is true--and I do wonder you will not sing
aloud now, 'Come lasses and lads,' or some such folly.  You have
grown--yes.  You wear respectable clothes and a hat,--but it is I who
have made you dress like other people instead of the old careless
way.  You do know something more--but it is all got out of books.
What are you different from the tall, big, coarse, rude boy who did
break windows, and rob gardens, and frighten people at Airlie?"

"How am I different?" said the Whaup.  "Well, I used to be bullied by
a schoolmaster; but now I'm bullied by a schoolmistress; and she's
the worse of the two.  That's all the change I've made."

And sometimes, when they had gone on in this bantering fashion for a
while, she would suddenly go up to him--if they were indoors, that is
to say--and put her hand on his arm and timidly hope that she had not
annoyed him.  At first the Whaup laughed at the very notion of his
being vexed with her, and dismissed the tender little penitent with a
rebuke and a kiss; but by-and-by he grew to dread these evidences of
a secret wish to please him and be submissive.  He began to see how
Coquette had formed some theory of what her duties were, and
continually referred to this mental table of obligations rather than
to her own spontaneous impulses of the moment.  She seemed to
consider that such and such things were required of her; and while
there was something to him very touching in her mute obedience, and
in her timid anticipation of his wishes, he would rather have beheld
her the high-spirited Coquette of old, with her arch ways, and her
fits of rebellion and independence.

"Coquette," he said, "I will not have you wait upon me like this.  It
is very kind of you, you know; but it is turning the world upside
down.  It is my business to wait on you, and see that everything is
made nice for you, and have you treated like a queen.  And when you
go about like that, and bother yourself to serve me, I feel as
uncomfortable as the beggars in old times must have felt who had
their feet washed by a pious princess.  I won't have my Coquette
disguised as a waiting-maid."

"You are very good to me," she said.

"Nonsense!" he replied.  "Who could help being good to you, Coquette?
You seem to have got into your head some notion that you owe kindness
and thoughtfulness to the people around you; whereas you are
conferring a benefit on everybody by being merely what you are, and
showing those around you what a good thing is a good woman.  Why
should you have this exaggerated humility?  Why should you play the
part of a penitent?"

Was she playing the part of a penitent? he sometimes asked himself.
Had she not forgotten the events of that bygone time which seemed, to
him at least, a portion of a former existence?  When the Whaup and
his young wife returned to Glasgow, he had more leisure to speculate
on this matter; and he came to the conclusion that not only had she
forgotten nothing, but that a sombre shadow from the past was ever
present to her and hung continually over her life.

In no way did she lessen her apparent desire to be dutiful and
submissive and attentive to him.  The Whaup, who could have fallen at
her feet and kissed them in token of the love and admiration he felt
for the beautiful young life that was only now revealing to him all
its hidden graces of tenderness, and purity, and rectitude, could not
bear to have Coquette become his slave.

"And may I not show to you that I am grateful to you for all your
kindness ever since I did come to this country?" she said.

"Grateful to me!" he cried.  "Coquette, you don't know your own
value!"

"But if it pleases me to be your servant?" she said.

"It does not please me," he retorted; "and I won't have it."

"Voyez un peu ce tyran!" said Coquette, and the Whaup laughed and
gave in.

It may be supposed that that was not a very unhappy household in
which the only ground of quarrel between husband and wife was as to
which should be the more kind and attentive to the other.  And
indeed, to all outward semblance, the Whaup was the luckiest of men;
and his friends who did not envy him rejoiced at his good fortune;
and bore unanimous testimony to the sweetness and gentleness and
courtesy of the small lady who received them at his house.  It was
noticed, it is true, that she was very quiet and reserved at times;
and that occasionally, when she had somehow withdrawn out of the
parlour circle, silent and _distraite_, her husband would follow her
with anxious looks, and would even go to her side and endeavour to
wean her back into the common talk.  As for his affection for her,
and pride in her rare beauty and accomplishments, and devotion to
her, all were the subject of admiration and encomium among the women
of many households.  He never sought to conceal his sentiments on
that score.  On the rare occasions when he visited a friend's house
without her, all his talk was of Coquette, and her goodness, and her
gentle ways.  Then he endeavoured to draw around her as many friends
as possible, so that their society might partly supply the void
caused by his professional absences; but Coquette did not care for
new acquaintances, and declared she had always plenty of occupation
for herself while he was away, and did not wish the distraction of
visits.

Down in the old Manse of Airlie the Minister heard of his son and of
Coquette through various channels; and he was rejoiced beyond
measure.  Lady Drum was so affected by her own description of the
happiness of these two young people, that in the middle of her
narration she burst into tears; and a sort of sob at the door might
have let the Minister know that Leezibeth had been listening.  The
Minister, indeed, paid a brief visit to Glasgow some few weeks after
Coquette's return, and was quite overwhelmed by the affectionate
attentions of his daughter-in-law.

"Surely," he said to Lady Drum, the evening before he set out for
home again, "surely the Lord has blessed this house.  It has never
been my good fortune to dwell under a roof that seemed to look down
on so much of kindliness, and charitable thoughts, and well-doing;
and it would ill become me not to say how much of this I attribute to
her who is now more than ever a daughter to me."

"When I come to speak of her," said Lady Drum, "and of the way she
orders the house, and of her kindness to every one around her, and of
her conduct towards her husband, I am fair at a loss for words."

The bruit of all these things reached even down to Airlie; and the
Schoolmaster was at length induced, being in Glasgow on a certain
occasion, to call on the Minister's son.  The Whaup received his
ancient enemy with royal magnanimity; compelled him to stop the night
at his house; gave him as much toddy as was good for an elder; while
Coquette, at her husband's request, left her fancy-work and played
for them some old Scotch airs.  By-and-by she left them to
themselves; and, warmed with the whisky, the Schoolmaster imparted a
solemn and mysterious secret to his remaining companion.

"You are a young man, sir, and have no knowledge, or, as I may term
it, experience, of the great and wonderful power of public opeenion.
Nor yet, considering your opportunities, is it likely, or, as one
might say, probable, that ye pay sufficient deference to the
reputation that your neebors may accord ye.  Nevertheless, sir,
reputation is a man's public life, as his own breath is his private
life.  Now, I will not conceal from ye, Mr. Thomas, that evil
apprehensions have been entertained, or even, one might say,
expressed, in your native place, regarding one who holds an important
position as regards your welfare----"

With which the Whaup bounced up from his chair.

"Look here!" said he.  "Do you mean my wife, Mr. Gillespie?  Don't
think I care a rap for the drivelling nonsense that all the old women
in Airlie may talk; but if a man mentions anything of the kind to me,
by heavens, I'll throw him out of the window!"

"Bless me!" cried the Schoolmaster, also rising, and putting his
hands before him as if to defend himself.  "What's the use o' such
violence?  I meant no harm.  On the contrary, I was going to say,
man, that it would be my bounden duty when I get back to Airlie to
set my face against all such reports, and testify to the great
pleasure I have experienced in seeing ye mated wi' such a worthy, and
amiable, and----"

Here the Schoolmaster's encomium was cut short by the entrance of
Coquette herself, who had returned for something she had forgotten;
and a more acute observer might have noticed that no sooner was her
footfall heard at the door than all the anger fled from the Whaup's
face, and he only laughed at Mr. Gillespie's protestations of
innocence.

"You must forgive me," said the Whaup, good-naturedly.  "You know, I
married one of the daughters of Heth; and so I had to expect that the
good folks at Airlie would be deeply grieved."

"A daughter of Heth!" said Mr. Gillespie.  "Indeed, I remember that
grumbling body, Andrew Bogue, makin' use o' some such expression on
the very day ye were married; but if the daughters o' Heth were such
as she is, Rebekah need not have put herself about, or, in other
words, been so apprehensive of her son's future."

And the Schoolmaster was as good as his word; and took down to Airlie
such a description of the Whaup and his bride as became a subject of
talk in the village for many a day.  And so the patience and the
gentleness of Coquette bore their natural fruit, and all men began to
say all good things of her.

There was one man only who regarded this marriage with doubt, and
sometimes with actual fear, who was less sure than all the others
that Coquette was happy, and who looked to the future with an anxious
dread.  That one man was the Whaup himself.  With a slow and sad
certainty, the truth dawned on him that he had not yet won Coquette's
love; that he was powerless to make her forget that she had married
him in order to please him; and that, behind all her affectionate and
friendly demonstrations towards himself, there lay over her a weight
of despair.  The discovery caused him no paroxysm of grief, for it
was made gradually; but in time it occupied his constant thoughts,
and became the dark shadow of his life.  For how was he to remove
this barrier that stood between himself and Coquette?  The great
yearning of love he felt towards her was powerless to awaken any
response but that mute, animal-like faithfulness and kindliness that
dwelt in her eyes whenever she regarded him.  And it was for her,
rather than for himself, that he was troubled.  He had hurried on the
marriage, hoping a change of scene and of interest would break in on
the monotony of sadness that was evidently beginning to tell on the
girl's health.  He had hoped, too, that he would soon win her over to
himself by cutting her away from those old associations.  What was
the result?  He looked at the pale and calm face, and dared not
confess to himself all that he feared.

One evening, entering suddenly, he saw that she tried to avoid him
and get out of the room.  He playfully intercepted her, and found, to
his astonishment, that she had been crying.

"What is the matter, Coquette?" he said.

"Nothing," she answered.  "I was sitting by myself--and thinking,
that is all."

He took both her hands in his, and said, with an infinite sadness in
his look--

"Do you know, Coquette, that for some time back I have been thinking
that our marriage has made you miserable."

"Ah, do not say that!" she said, piteously looking up in his face.
"I am not miserable if it has made you happy."

"And do you think I can be happy when I see you trying to put a good
face on your wretchedness, and yet with your eyes apparently looking
on the next world all the time?  Coquette, this is driving me mad.
What can I do to make you happy?  Why are you miserable?  Won't you
tell me?  You know I won't be angry, whatever it is.  Is there
nothing we can do to bring you back to the old Coquette, that used to
be so bright and cheerful?  Coquette, to look at you going about from
day to day in that sad and resigned way, never complaining, and
always pretending to be quite content--I can't bear it, my darling."

"You must not think that I am miserable," she said, very gently, and
then she left the room.  He looked after her for a moment; then he
sank into a chair; and covered his face with his hands.




CHAPTER LV.

THE CHURCHYARD ON THE MOOR.

At last it occurred to him that Coquette ought to be told of Lord
Earlshope's death.  He would not confess to himself the reason why
such a thought arose in his mind; but endeavoured, on the contrary,
to persuade himself that there was no further need for holding back
that old secret.  He and Coquette were at Airlie at the time, on
their first visit after their marriage.  The Minister was anxious to
see his daughter-in-law; and the Whaup, while she stayed there, would
take occasional runs down.  So Coquette was staying at the Manse.

"I cannot get her to go out as she used to do," said the Minister,
the first time the Whaup arrived from Glasgow.  "She seems better
pleased to sit at the window by herself and look over the moor; and
Leezibeth tells me she is in very low spirits, and does not look
particularly well.  It is a pity she dislikes going out; it is with
difficulty I can get her even into the garden; and once or twice she
has shown a great repugnance to going anywhere near Earlshope, so you
must not propose to go in that direction in asking her to accompany
you."

Then the Whaup said, with averted eyes: "You know she is not aware of
Lord Earlshope having been drowned, and she may be afraid of meeting
him.  Suppose we tell her of what happened to the yacht?"

"I am of opinion it would be most advisable," said the Minister.

The Whaup got Coquette to go out and sit in the garden; and there,
while they were by themselves, he gently told her of the loss of the
_Caroline_.  The girl did not speak nor stir; only she was very pale;
and he noticed that her hand was tightly clenched on the arm of the
wooden seat.  By-and-by she rose and said--

"I should like to walk down to Saltcoats, if you will come."

"To Saltcoats!" said her husband.  "You are not strong enough to walk
all that way and back, Coquette."

"Very well," she said, submissively.

"But if you very much want to go we could drive, you know," said he.

"Yes, I should like to go," she said.

So the Whaup, late as it was in the afternoon, got out the dog-cart,
and drove her away to the old-fashioned little seaport town which
they had together visited in bygone years.  He put the horse up at
the very inn that he and Coquette had visited; and then he asked her
if she wished to go for a stroll through the place.  Her slightest
wish was a command to him.  They went out together; and insensibly
she led him down to the long bay of brown sand on which a heavy surf
was now breaking.  She had spoken but little; her eyes were wistful
and absent; and she seemed to be listening to the sound of the waves.

"It blows too roughly here, Coquette," said he.  "You won't go down
on the beach?"

"No," she said.  "Here I can see more, and hear more."

For a considerable time she stood and looked far over the heaving
plain of water, which was of a dark green colour, under the cloudy
evening sky.  And then she shuddered slightly, and turned to go away.

"You are not vexed with me for coming?" she said.  "And you know why
I did come."

"I am not vexed with anything you do, Coquette," he answered her.

"It is his grave," she said, looking once more over the wild waste of
waters.  "It is a terrible grave; for there are voices in it, and
cries, like drowning people; and yet one man out there would go down
and down, and you would hear no voice.  I am afraid of the sea."

"Coquette," he said, "why do you tremble so?  You must come away
directly, or you will catch cold--the wind blows so fiercely here."

But on their way back to Airlie, this trembling had increased to
violent fits of shuddering; and then all at once Coquette said
faintly--

"I do feel that I should wish to be still and go to sleep.  Will you
put me down by the roadside, and leave me there awhile, and you can
go on to Airlie?"

"Why, do you know what you are saying, Coquette?  Go on to Airlie,
and leave you here?"

She did not answer him; and he urged on the pony with all speed,
until at length they reached the Manse.

"Tom," she said, "I think you must carry me in."

He lifted her down from the vehicle, and carried her like a child
into the house; and then, when Leezibeth brought a light, he uttered
a slight cry on finding that Coquette was insensible.  But presently
life returned to her, and a quick and flushed colour came to her
face.  She was rapidly got to bed; and the Minister, who had a vivid
recollection of the feverish attack from which she had suffered in
the north, proposed that a doctor from Saltcoats should be sent for.

"I will telegraph to Dr. Menzies," said the Whaup, scarcely knowing
what he said, only possessed by some wild notion that he would form a
league to drive off this subtle enemy that had approached Coquette.

All that followed that memorable evening was a dream to him.  He
knew, because he was told, and because he himself could see, that the
fever was laying a deeper and deeper hold on a system which was
dangerously weak.  Day after day he went about the house; and, as
Coquette got worse, he scarcely realised it.  It was to him as though
a weight out of the sky were crushing down the world, as if all
things were slowly sinking into darkness.  He was not excited, nor
wild with grief; but he sat and watched Coquette's eyes; and seemed
not to know the people who came into the room, or whom he met on the
stairs.

The girl, in her delirium, had violent paroxysms of terror and
shuddering, in which she seemed to see a storm rising around her, and
waves threatening to overwhelm her; and then no one could soothe her
like her husband.  His mere presence seemed enough; for the old
instinct of obedience still remained with her; and she became
submissively quiet and silent in answer to his gentle entreaties.

"You are very good to me," she murmured absently to him one evening,
half-recognising him although the delirium had not left her, "and I
cannot thank you for it, but my mamma will do that when you come up
to our house.  We shall not stop in this country always?--when mamma
is waiting for me in the garden, just over the river, you know....
And she has not seen you, but I will take you up to her, and say you
have been very, very kind to me.  I wish we could be there soon, for
I am tired, and I do think this country is very dark, and the sea is
so dreadful round about it--it goes round about it like a snake, that
hisses, and raises its fierce head, and it has a white crest on its
head and eyes of fire, and you see them glaring in the night-time.
But one can get away from it; and hide close and quiet in the
churchyard on the moor--yes, yes; and when you come in, Tom, by the
small gate, you must listen, and whisper 'Coquette,' you know, just
as you used to do when I lay on the sofa, and you wished to see if I
were awake; and--and--if I cannot speak to you, it will be very hard,
but I shall know you have brought me some flowers.  And you will say
to yourself, 'My poor Coquette would thank me if she could.'"

He laid his hand on her white fingers.  He could not speak.

By-and-by the delirium left, and the fever abated; but the frail
system had been shattered, and all around saw that she was slowly
sinking.  One night she beckoned her husband to come nearer, and he
went to her, and took her thin hand in his.

"Am I going to die, Tom?" she asked, in a scarcely audible voice; and
when, in answer, he only looked at her sad eyes, she said, "I am not
sorry.  It will be better for you and for every one.  You will
forgive me for all that happened at Airlie when you think of me in
after-times; and you will not blame me because I could not make your
life more happy to you--it was all a misfortune, my coming to this
country----"

"Coquette, Coquette!" he said, beside himself with grief, "if you are
going to die, I will go with you too--see, I will hold your hand, and
when the gates are open, I will not let you go--I will go with you,
Coquette!"

Scarce half an hour afterwards, the gates were opened, and she so
quietly and silently passed through, that he only of all in the room
knew that Coquette had gone away from them and bidden a last farewell
to Airlie.  They were startled to see him fling his arms in the air;
and then as he sank down by the bed a low cry broke from his
lips--"So near--so near! and I cannot go with her too!"


One day, in the early spring-time, you might have seen a man in the
prime of youth and strength--yet with a strangely worn look on his
face--enter the small churchyard on Airlie moor.  He walked gently
on, as if fearing to disturb the silence of the place; and at last he
stood by the side of a grave on which were many spring
flowers--snowdrops, and violets, and white crocuses.  He, too, had
some flowers in his hand; and he put them at the foot of the grave;
and there were tears running down his face.

"These are for my Coquette," he said; "but she cannot hear me any
more."

For a little while he lingered by the grave, and then he turned.
And, lo! all around him was the fair and shining country that she had
often looked on; and far away before him lay the sea, as blue and as
still as on the morning when he and Coquette were married.  How
bright and beautiful was the world that thus lay under the clear
sunshine, with all its thousand activities busily working, and its
men and women joyously thinking of to-morrow, as if to-morrow were to
be better than to-day.  To him all the light and joy of the universe
seemed to be buried in the little grave beside him; there would never
come any morrow that could bring him back the wonder of the days that
were.  He walked to the gate of the churchyard, and, leaning on it,
looked wistfully over the azure plain in which the mountains of Arran
were mirrored.

"Why have they taken away from us the old dreams?" he said to
himself, while his eyes were wet with bitter tears.  "If one could
only believe, as in the old time, that Heaven was a fair and happy
island lying far out in that western sea, how gladly would I go away
in a boat, and try to find my Coquette!  Only to think that some day
I might see the land before me, and Coquette coming down to the
shore, with her face grown wonderful and calm, and her gentle eyes
full of joy and of welcome.  Only to believe that--only to look
forward to that--would be enough; and if in the night-time a storm
came, and I was sunk in the darkness, what matter, if I had been
hoping to the last that I should see my Coquette?"



THE END.



  LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
  STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.









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