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."