A Daughter of Heth

William Black, born in Glasgow, Scotland, Nov. 13, 1841, was

educated with a view to being a landscape painter, a training

that clearly influenced his literary life. He became a painter

of scenery in words. At the age of twenty-three he went to

London, after some experience in Glasgow journalism, and

joined the staff of the "Morning Star," and, later, the "Daily

News," of which journal he became assistant-editor. His first

novel appeared in 1868, but it was not until the publication

of "A Daughter of Heth," in 1871, that Black secured the

attention of the reading public. "The Strange Adventures of a

Phaeton" followed, and in 1873 "A Princess of Thule" attained

great popularity. Retiring from journalism the next year he

devoted himself entirely to fiction. A score of novels

followed, the last in 1898, just before his death on December

10 of that year. No novelist has lavished more tender care on

the portrayal of his heroines, or worked up more delicately a

scenic background for plaintive sentiment.

_I.--In Strange Surroundings_

"Noo, Wattie," said the Whaup, "ye maun say a sweer before ye get up.

I'm no jokin', and unless ye be quick ye'll be in the water."

Wattie Cassilis, the "best boy" of the Airlie Manse, paragon of

scholars, and exemplar to his four brothers, was depending from a small

bridge over the burn, his head downward and a short distance from the

water, his feet being held close to the parapet by the muscular arms of

his eldest brother, Tammas Cassilis, commonly known as the Whaup.

"Wattie," repeated the Whaup, "say a sweer, or into the burn ye'll gang

as sure as daith!" and he dipped Wattie a few inches, so that the

ripples touched his head. Wattie set up a fearful howl.

"Now, will ye say it?"

"_Deevil!_" cried Wattie. "Let me up; I hae said a sweer!"

The other brothers raised a demoniac shout of triumph over his apostacy.

"Ye maun say a worse sweer, Wattie. Deevil is no bad enough."

"I'll droon first!" whimpered Wattie, "and then ye'll get your paiks,

I'm thinking."

Down went Wattie's head into the burn again, and this time he was raised

with his mouth sputtering out the contents it had received.

"I'll say what ye like! _D--n;_ is that bad enough?"

With another unholy shout of derision Wattie was raised and set on the

bridge.

"Noo," said the Whaup, standing over him, "let me tell you this, my man.

The next time ye gang to my faither, and tell a story about any one o'

us, or the next time you say a word against the French lassie, as ye ca'

her, do ye ken what I'll do? I'll take ye back to my faither by the lug,

and I'll tell him ye were sweerin' like a trooper down by the burn, and

every one o' us will testify against you, and then, I'm thinking, it

will be your turn to consider paiks."

Catherine Cassilis, "the French lassie," had arrived at the Manse a few

weeks before, and she had sore need of a champion.

Andrew Bogue, the ancient henchman of the Rev. Gavin Cassilis, minister

of Airlie, who met her at the station, disapproved of her from the first

as a foreign jade dressed so that all the men turned and looked at her

as if she had been a snare of Satan. Then, had not young Lord Earlshope,

after introducing himself, taken a seat in the trap and talked with her

in her own language as if he had known her for years?

"They jabbered away in their foreign lingo," said Andrew that evening to

his wife Leezibeth, the housekeeper "and I'm thinking it was siccan a

language was talked in Sodom and Gomorrah. And he was a' smiles, and she

was a' smiles, and they seemed to think nae shame o' themselves goin'

through a decent countryside!"

The Whaup himself had said, on the night of Coquette's arrival, "Oh,

she's an actress, and I hate actresses!" But before many days had

passed, he completely changed that hasty view. The big, sturdy,

long-legged lad succumbed to the charms of his parentless cousin--the

daughter of the minister's brother, who had settled in France and taken

to himself a French wife--and he became her defender against those

inhabitants of the Manse and the parish--from his brother Wattie to the

pragmatic schoolmaster--whose prejudices she unintentionally outraged.

Even the minister was grieved when Coquette, as her father had called

her, made a casual remark about the "last time she had gone to the

mass."

"I am deeply pained," said the minister gravely. "I knew not that my

brother had been a pervert from the communion of our church."

"Papa was not a Catholic," said Coquette. "Mamma and I were. But it

matters nothing. I will go to your church--it is the same to me. I only

try to be kind to the people around me--that is all."

"She has got the best part of all religions if she does her best for the

people about her," said the Whaup.

"Thomas," remonstrated the minister severely, "you are not competent to

judge of these things."

Coquette's second error was to play the piano on a Sabbath morning. She

was stopped in this hideous offence by the housekeeper, Leezibeth.

"Is the Manse to be turned topsalteery, and made a byword a' because o'

a foreign hussy?" asked Leezibeth.

"Look here," said the Whaup, trying to comfort his weeping cousin, "you

can depend on me. When you get into trouble, send for me, and if any man

or woman in Airlie says a word to you, by jingo I'll punch their head!"

The discovery of a crucifix over the head of the maiden's bed filled

full the cup of Leezibeth's wrath and indignation.

"I thought the Cross was a symbol of all religions," said Coquette

humbly. "If it annoys you, I will take it down. My mother gave it to

me--I cannot put it away altogether."

"You shall not part with it," said the Whaup. "Let me see the man or

woman who will touch that crucifix, though it had on it the woman o'

Babylon herself!"

But the Whaup himself was troubled by the acquaintance of Coquette with

Lord Earlshope, which, from a casual meeting, developed with startling

rapidity.

His lordship's reputation in the parish was far from good. He never

attended the kirk; was seen walking about with his dogs and smoking on

the Sabbath; and even, it was said, read novels on that holy day. His

appearance in church on the first Sunday after Coquette's arrival in

Airlie was not difficult to explain, and it was followed by interchanges

of visits between the Manse and Earlshope House.

Soon the young lord and Coquette began to meet when she was taking her

early walk, a form of "carrying on" which outraged the sentiments of the

parish, and caused the Whaup to announce his intention of "giving her

up" and going to sea.

The alienation of the Whaup made Coquette very miserable, and when her

uncle discovered her walking alone with Lord Earlshope, she tearfully

requested to be allowed to go back to France.

"I am suspected," she sobbed, in her foreign English; "I do hear they

talk of me as dangerous. Is it wrong for me to speak to Lord Earlshope

when I do see him kind to me? Since I left France I did meet no one so

courteous as he has been. He does not think me wicked because I have a

crucifix my mother gave me, and he does not suspect me."

Her second conquest--for the Whaup, on seeing her dejection, had

relented and returned to his allegiance--was Leezibeth, and it was by

music she was won. Coquette was playing and singing "The Flowers o' the

Forest," when Leezibeth crept in, and said shamefacedly:

"Will ye sing that again, miss? Maybe ye'll no ken that me and Andrew

had a boy--a bit laddie that dee'd when he was but seven years auld--and

he used to sing the 'Flowers o' the Forest' afore a' the ither songs,

and ye sing it that fine it makes a body amaist like to greet."

And from that day Leezibeth was the slave of Coquette; but, for the most

part, the thoughts of her neighbours were no kinder to the gay and

spontaneous "daughter of Heth" from the sunny South than were the grey

and dreary skies of Scotland.

_II.--The Lovers of Coquette_

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

ashore 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 friendship; 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 shining 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."

_III.--The Opening of the Gates_

Coquette, who loved the sunshine as a drunkard loves drink, was seated

in the park in Glasgow, reading a book under her sunshade, when Lord

Earlshope walked up to the place where she sat.

"Ah, it is you! I do wish much to see you for a few moments," she said.

"First, I must tell you I have promised to my cousin to be his wife. I

did tell you I should do that; now it is done, and he is glad. And so,

as I am to be his wife, I do not think it is right I should see you any

more."

"Coquette," he said, "have you resolved to make your life miserable?

What have you done?"

"I have done what I ought to do. My cousin is very good; he is very fond

of me; he will break his heart if I do not marry him. And I do like him

very well, too. Perhaps in some years it will be a pleasure to me to be

his wife."

"Coquette," he interrupted, "you do not blame me for being unable to

help you. I am going to tell you why I cannot. Many a time have I

determined to cell you."

"Ah, I know," she said. "You will tell me something you have done. I do

not wish to hear it. I have often seen you about to tell me a secret,

and sometimes I have wondered, too, and wished to know; but then I did

think there was enough trouble in the world without adding to it."

Someone came along the road, came as if to sit on the seat with them--a

woman with a coarse, red face and unsteady black eyes, full of

mischievous amusement.

Lord Earlshope rose and faced the stranger.

"You had better go home," he said to her. "I give you fair warning, you

had better go home."

"Why," said the woman, with a loud laugh. "You have not said as much to

me for six years back! My dear," she added, looking at Coquette, "I am

sorry to have disturbed you; but do you know who I am? I am Lady

Earlshope!"

"Coquette," said Earlshope, "that is my wife."

When the woman had walked away, laughing and kissing her hand in tipsy

fashion, Coquette came a step nearer, and held out her hand.

"I know it all now," she said, "and am very sorry for you. I do now know

the reason of many things, and I cannot be angry when we are going away

from each other. Good-bye. I will hear of you sometimes through Lady

Drum."

"Good-bye, Coquette," he said, "and God bless you for your gentleness,

and your sweetness, and your forgiveness."

It was to Lady Drum that Coquette made her confession that day.

"I do love him better than everything in the world--and I cannot help

it. And now he is gone, and I shall never see him again, and I would

like to see him only once to say I am sorry for him."

Coquette returned to Airlie, and tried to find peace in homely duties in

the village. As time went on the Whaup pressed for the marriage day to

be named, but he could not awake in her hopes for the future. Then, one

dull morning in March, as she walked by herself over the Moor, Lord

Earlshope was by her side, saying: "Coquette, have you forgotten

nothing, as I have forgotten nothing?" And she was saying: "I love you,

dearest, more than ever."

"Listen, Coquette, listen!" he said. "A ship passes here in the morning

for America; I have taken two berths in it for you and me; to-morrow we

shall be sailing away to a new world, and leaving all these troubles

behind. You remember that woman--nothing has been heard of her for two

years. I have sought her everywhere. She must be dead. And so we shall

be married when we get there. The yacht will be waiting off Saltcoats

to-night; you must go down by yourself, and the gig shall come for you,

and we shall intercept the ship."

A little while thereafter Coquette was on her way back to the Manse

alone. She had promised to go down to Saltcoats that night, and had

sealed her sin with a kiss.

It was a wild, strange night that she stole out of the house, leaving

behind her all the sweet consciousness of rectitude and the purity and

innocence which had enabled her to meet trials with a courageous

heart--leaving behind the crown of womanhood, the treasure of a

stainless name. Every moment the storm grew in intensity, till the

rain-clouds were blown upon the land in hissing torrents. At last, just

as she saw before her the lights of Saltcoats, she sank down by the

roadside with a faint cry of "Uncle! Uncle!"

When she came to herself, in a neighbour's house, a letter was given her

from Lord Earlshope, saying that he could not exact from her the

sacrifice he had proposed, and incur for both the penalty of remorse and

misery; so he would leave for America alone.

Even as she was reading the letter, the report reached Saltcoats that

the yacht had gone down in the storm, and Lord Earlshope was beyond the

reach of accusation and defence.

She married the Whaup, but was never again the old Coquette, and though

Tom tried hopefully to charm her back to cheerfulness, she faded month

by month. It was not till the end was drawing near that she was told of

the death of Lord Earlshope, and her last journey was to Saltcoats to

see the wild waste of waters that were his grave.

There came a night when she beckoned her husband to her and asked him in

a scarcely audible voice: "Tom, am I going to die?" And when in answer

he could only look at her sad eyes, she said: "I am not sorry. It will

be better for you and everyone; and you will not blame me because I

could not make your life more happy for you--it was all a misfortune, my

coming to this country."

"Coquette, Coquette," he said, beside himself with grief, "if you are

going to die, I will go with you, too--see, I will hold your hand, and

when the gates are open, I will not let you go--I will go with you,

Coquette."

Scarce half an hour afterwards the gates opened, and she silently passed

through, while a low cry broke from his lips: "So near--so near! And I

cannot go with her, too!"

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