Chapter LI: A Secret of the Sea

Next morning there was a great commotion in Saltcoats. Despite the fierce gusts of wind that were still blowing, accompanied by squally showers of rain, numbers of people were out on the long stretch of brown sand lying south of the town. Mischief had been at work on the sea overnight. Fragments of barrels, bits of spars, and other evidences of a wreck were being brought in by the waves; and two smacks had even put out to look around for any larger remains of the lost vessel or vessels. Mr. M'Henry was early abroad; for he had gone into the town to get a messenger; and so he heard the news. At last, amid the gossiping of the neighbours, he learned that a lad had just been summoned by a certain Mrs. Kilbride to go up on an errand to Airlie, and he resolved to secure his services to carry the message.

Eventually, he met the lad on his way to the moorland village; and then it turned out that the errand was merely to carry a letter to Miss Cassilis, at the Manse.

"But Miss Cassilis is at my house," said Mr. M'Henry. "Give me the letter, and gang you on to the Manse and ask Mr. Cassilis to come down here."

So the lad departed, and the letter was taken up and placed on the table where Coquette was to have her breakfast.

She came down, looking very pale; and she would give no explanation of how she came to be out on such a night. She thanked them for having sent for her uncle, and sat down at the table, but ate nothing.

Then she saw the letter, and with a quick, pained flush of colour leaping to her cheeks, she took it up and opened it with trembling fingers. She read these words--

"Dearest,--I cannot exact from you the sacrifice of your life. Remorse and misery for all the rest of our years would be the penalty to both of us by your going with me to-night, even though you might put a brave face on the matter, and conceal your anguish, I cannot let you suffer that, Coquette. I will leave for America by myself; and I will never attempt to see you again. That promise I have broken before; but it will not be broken this time. Good-bye, Coquette. My earnest hope is that you will not come to Saltcoats to-night; and, in that case, this letter will be forwarded to you in the morning. Forgive me, if you can, for all the suffering I have caused you. I will never forget you, my dearest love, but I will never see England or you again.

"EARLSHOPE."

There was almost a look of joy on her face.

"So I did not vex him," she thought, "by keeping him in anxiety and fear? And he has conquered too; and he will think better of himself and of me away over there, for many years to come, if he does not forget all about Airlie."

But that reference to Airlie recalled the thought of her uncle, and of his meeting with her. As the time drew near for his approach, she became more and more downcast. When, at last, the old man came into the room, where she was sitting alone, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and she dared not raise them.

He went over to her, and placed his hand on her head.

"What is all this, Catherine? Did you miss your way last night? What made ye go out on such a wild evening, without saying a word to any one?"

She replied in a low voice, which was yet studiously distinct--

"Yesterday afternoon I went away from the Manse, not intending to go back."

The Minister made a slight gesture as if some twinge had shot across his heart; and then, looking at her in a sad and grave way, he said--

"I did not think I had been unkind to you, Catherine."

This was too much for Coquette. It broke down the obduracy with which she had been vainly endeavouring to fortify herself; she fell at the feet of her uncle; and, with wild tears and sobs, told him all that had happened, and begged him to go away and leave her, for she had become a stranger and an outcast. Stunned as the old man was by these revelations, he forgot to express his sense of her guilt. He saw only before him the daughter of his own brother--a girl who had scarce a friend in the world but himself--and she was at his feet in tears, and shame, and bitter distress. He raised her, and put her head on his breast, and tried to still her sobbing.

"Catherine," he said, with his own voice broken, "you shall never be an outcast from my house, so long as you care to accept its shelter."

"But I cannot go back to Airlie--I cannot go back to Airlie!" she said, almost wildly. "I will not bring disgrace upon you, uncle; and have the people talk of me, and blame you for taking me back. I am going away--I am not fit to go back to Airlie! You have been very good to me--far better than I deserve; but I cannot tell you now that I love you for all your kindness to me--for now it is a disgrace for me to speak to any one----"

"Hush, Catherine," he said. "It is penitence, not despair, that must fill your heart. And the penitent has not to look to man for pardon, nor yet to fear what may be said of him in wrath. They that go elsewhere for forgiveness and comfort have no reason to dread the ill-tongues of their neighbours. 'They looked unto Him, and were lightened; and their faces were not ashamed. This poor man cried, and the Lord heard him, and saved him out of all his troubles.' Out of all of them, Catherine. You will go back to Airlie with me, my bairn. Perhaps you do not feel at home there yet--three years is not a long time to get accustomed to a new country. I am told ye sometimes cried in thinking about France, just as the Jews in captivity did, when they said, 'By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down; yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion.' But maybe I have erred in not making the house lichtsome enough for ye. I am an old man; and the house is dull, perhaps. But if ye will tell me how we can make it pleasanter to ye----"

"Oh, uncle, you are breaking my heart with your kindness!" she sobbed; "and I deserve none of it--none of it!"

It was with great difficulty that the Minister persuaded her to go back with him to the Manse. At length, however, a covered carriage was procured, and Coquette and her uncle were driven up to Airlie. The girl sat now quite silent and impassive; only when she saw any one of the neighbours coming along the road, she seemed nervously anxious to avoid scrutiny. When they got up to the gate of the Manse, which was open, she walked quietly and sadly by her uncle's side across the bit of garden into the house, and was then for going upstairs by herself. Her uncle prevented her.

"Ye must come and sit wi' me for a little while, until Leezibeth has got some breakfast ready for ye."

"I do not want anything to eat," said Coquette; and she seemed afraid of the sound of her own voice.

"Nevertheless," said the Minister, "I would inquire further into this matter, Catherine. It is but proper that I should know what measure of guilt falls upon that young man in endeavouring to wean away a respectable girl from her home and her friends."

Coquette drew back, with some alarm visible on her face.

"Uncle, I cannot tell you now. Some other time perhaps; but not now--not now. And you must not think him guilty, uncle--it is I who am guilty of it all--he is much better than any of you think--and now he is away to America, and no one will defend him if he is accused."

At the moment that she spoke, Lord Earlshope was beyond the reach of accusation and defence. The Saltcoats people, towards the afternoon, discovered the lid of a chest floating about, and on it was painted in white letters the word _Caroline_. Later, there came a telegram from Greenock to the effect that during the preceding night the schooner yacht _Caroline_ had been run down and sunk in mid-channel, by a steamer going to Londonderry; and that, of all on board the yacht, the steamer had been able to pick up only one of the crew. And that same night the news made its way up to Airlie, and circulated through the village, and at length reached the Manse. Other rumours accompanied it. For the moment, no one dared to tell Coquette of what had happened; but none the less was her flight from the Manse connected with this terrible judgment; and even Leezibeth, struck dumb with shame and grief, had no word of protest when Andrew finished his warnings and denunciations.

"There is no healing of thy bruise," said Leezibeth to herself sadly, in thinking of Coquette. "Thy wound is grievous: all that hear the bruit of thee shall clap the hands over thee."