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?