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.