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.