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.