The World's Greatest Books - Volume 1 Part 39

When Sir Peter and Lady Drum returned to Castle Cawmil, their home in the neighbourhood of Airlie, Lady Drum, whose joy it was to doctor her friends, prescribed at once a cruise for the drooping Coquette. And Lord Earlshope lent his yacht, and accompanied the party as a visitor. The minister, looking back anxiously at his parish, Coquette, and the Whaup, joined the party from the Manse.

On Coquette the cruise worked wonders. She recovered her spirits, and her cheeks flushed with happiness.

"You're a pretty invalid," said the Whaup to Coquette as they went ash.o.r.e for a scramble. "Give me your hand if you want climbing, and I'll give you enough of it."

"No," said Coquette, "I will not be pulled by a big, rough boy; but when you are gentle like Lord Earlshope, I like you." Then, lest Tom should be hurt, she added: "You are a very good boy, Tom, and somebody will get very fond of you some day."

From that moment the Whaup grew more serious, and ceased his boyish tricks.

"I think your cousin is very fond of you," said the good-natured Lady Drum to Coquette. "Don't you think that some day or other he will ask you to marry him?"

"It may be," replied Coquette dubiously. "I do not know, because my uncle has not spoken to me of any such thing; but he may think it a good marriage, and arrange it." A French view of marriage that greatly astonished Lady Drum.

The new sense of responsibility that had come to the Whaup determined him to return at once to Glasgow, and resume his studies. When Coquette heard this she became sad and wistful.

"I hope," she said, "I shall be always the same to you, if you come back in one year--two years--ten years."

And the Whaup thought that, if she would only wait two years he would work to such purpose as to be able to ask her to marry him.

Before the cruise was ended, Lord Earlshope, who had the lonely man's habit of playing spectator to his own emotions, informed Coquette, in an impersonal way, that he had fallen in love with her.

"You are not responsible," said he, shrugging his shoulders and speaking without bitterness. "All I ask is that you give me the benefit of your sympathy. I have been flying my kite too near the thunder-cloud. And what business had a man of my age with a kite?"

"I am very sorry," she said softly.

After this confession Coquette tried to avoid him as much as possible; but one evening while she was sitting alone on deck, watching the sunset on wild Loch Scavaig, he came to her and told her he was going away. He held out his hand, but she made no response. What was it he heard in the stillness of the night? Moved by a great fear he knelt down, and looked into her drooping face. She was sobbing bitterly. Then there broke on him a revelation more terrible than his own sorrow.

"Why are you distressed? It is nothing to you--my going away? It cannot be anything to you surely?"

"It is very much," she said, with a calmness of despair that startled him. "I cannot bear it."

"What have I done! What have I done!" he exclaimed. "Coquette, Coquette, tell me you do not mean this! You do not understand my position. What you say would be to any other man a joy unspeakable--the beginning of a new life to him; but to me----" And he turned away with a shudder.

It was she who was the comforter in the presence of an impossible love.

Taking his hand gently, she said in a quiet voice: "I do not know what you mean; but you must not accuse yourself for me. I have made a confession--it was right to do that for you were going away. Now you will go away knowing I am still your friend, that I shall think of you sometimes: though I shall pray never to see you any more until we are old people, and may meet and laugh at the old stupid folly."

"It shall not end thus!" he cried. "Let the past be past, Coquette, and the future ours. Let us seek a new country for ourselves. Let me take you away, and make for you a new world. Why should we two be for ever miserable? Coquette----"

"I am afraid of you now," she said, drawing back in fear. "What are you?

Ah, I do see another face!" And, staggering, she fell insensible on the deck as the minister approached.

That night Lord Earlshope left the yacht, and this was his parting message, written on a slip of paper: "I was mad last night. I do not know what I said. Forgive me, for I cannot forgive myself."

A winter's illness followed the strain of these emotional scenes, but with the spring Coquette resumed her morning moorland walks, and drank in new life from the warm, sweet breezes. One morning, she came face to face with Lord Earlshope. With only a second's pause she stepped forward and offered him her hand.

"Have you really forgiven me?" he asked.

"That is all over," she said, "and forgotten. It does no good to bring it back."

"How very good you are! I have wandered all over Europe, feeling as though I had the brand of Cain on my forehead."

"That is nonsense," said Coquette. "Your talk of Cain, your going away, your fears--I do not understand it at all."

"No," said he. "Nor would you ever understand without a series of explanations I have not the courage to make."

"I do not understand," she replied; "why all this secrecy--all this mystery?"

"And I cannot tell you now," he said.

"I wish not to have any more whys," she said impatiently. "Explanations, they never do good between friends. I am satisfied if you come to the Manse and become as you were once. That is sufficient."

She tried hard to keep the conversation on the level of friends.h.i.+p; but when at last she turned to leave him, ere she knew, his arms were around her, and kisses were being showered on her forehead and on her lips.

"Let me go--let me go!" she pleaded piteously. "Oh, what have we done?"

"We have sealed our fate," said he, with a haggard look. "I have fought against this for many a day; but now, Coquette, won't you look up and give me one kiss before we part?"

But her downcast face was pale and deathlike, and finally she said: "I cannot speak to you now. To-morrow, or next day--perhaps we shall meet."

The next day she met him again, and told him she was going to Glasgow with Lady Drum to see her cousin, the Whaup.

"I wonder," said Earlshope, "if he hopes to win your love, and is working there with the intention of coming back and asking you to be his wife."

"And if that will make him happy," she said slowly and with absent eyes, "I will do that if he demands it."

"You will marry him, and make him fancy that you love him?"

"No, I should tell him everything. I should tell him he deserves to marry a woman who has never loved anyone but himself, and yet that I will be his wife if his marrying me will alone make him happy."

"But, Coquette--don't you see it cannot end here?" he said almost desperately. "You do not know the chains in which I am bound; and I dare not tell you."

"No; I do not wish to know. It is enough for me to be beside you now, and if it should all prove bad and sorrowful, I shall remember that once I walked with you here, and we had no thought of ill, and were for a little while happy."

Talk of Glasgow being a sombre, grey city! To the Whaup it seemed that the empty pavements were made of gold; that the fronts of the houses were s.h.i.+ning with a happy light; and the air full of a delicious tingling. For did not the great city hold in it Coquette? And as he sped his boots clattered "Coquette! Coquette! Coquette!" And presently he was taking her out for a walk, and cunningly drawing near to a trysting well.

"Coquette," he said suddenly, "do you know that lovers used to meet here, and join their hands over the well, and swear they would marry each other some day? Coquette, if you would only give me your hand now!

I will wait any time--I have waited already, Coquette."

"Oh, do not say any more. I will do anything for you, but not that--not that." And then, a moment afterwards, she added: "Or see; I will promise to marry you, if you like, after many, many years--only not now--not within a few years."

"What is the matter, Coquette? Does it grieve you to think of what I ask?"

"No, no!" she said, hurriedly, "it is right of you to ask it--and I--I must say Yes. My uncle does expect it, does he not? And you yourself, Tom, you have been very good to me, and if only this will make you happy I will be your wife, but not until after many years."

"If you only knew how proud and happy you have made me!" exclaimed Tom, gaily. "I call upon the leaves of the trees, and all the drops in the river, and all the light in the air to bear witness that I have won Coquette for my wife."

"Ah, you foolish boy!" she said sadly. "You have given me a dangerous name. But no matter; if it pleases you to-day to think I shall be your wife, I am glad."