COQUETTE'S MUSIC.
What was this great rushing and whistling noise that filled the
girl's ears as the light of the morning--entering by a small window
which had no sort of blind or shutter--fell on her face and opened
her confused eyes to its glare? She had been dreaming of Earlshope.
Dreams are but _rechauffés_ of past experiences; and this ghostly
Earlshope that she had visited in her sleep was a French Earlshope.
The broad blue Loire ran down a valley in front of it. There were
hills for a background which had long terraces of vines on them.
From the windows she could see the steamers--mere dots with a long
serpent trail of smoke behind them--creep into the haven of St.
Nazaire; and far over the sea lay the calm summer stillness of a
southern sky.
She awoke to find herself in Scotland. The Manse shook in the wind.
There was a roaring of rain on the slates and on the window panes;
and a hissing outside told of the deluge that was pouring a red
stream down the moorland road. Fierce gusts from the south-west flew
about the house, and howled in the chimney; great grey masses of
cloud, riven by the hurricane, came up from the sea and swept across
the moor. The room was cold and damp. When she had partly dressed,
she went to the window. Along the horizon there was a thin black
line, dull as lead, which was all that was visible of the sea. The
mountains of Arran had entirely vanished, and in their place was a
wall of grey vapour. Flying before the blast came those huge volumes
of smoke-like cloud; and every now and again their lower edges would
be torn down by the wind and hurled upon the moor in heavy, slanting
torrents of rain; while there was a sound of rushing water
everywhere; and the trees and shrubs of the garden bent and shivered
in the gleaming wet.
"No Earlshope for ye to-day," said the Whaup, with ill-disguised
glee, when she went down-stairs to breakfast.
"I am not sorry. What a dreadful chill country!" said Coquette, who
was trembling with cold.
"Would you like a fire?" said the Whaup, eagerly.
"A fire, indeed!" cried Leezibeth, as she entered with the tray. "A
fire in the middle o' summer! We have na been brought up to sic
luxuries in this pairt o' the country."
"I am not very cold," said Coquette, sitting down in a corner, and
trying to keep herself from shivering.
The Whaup walked out of the room. He was too angry to speak. He
looked once at Leezibeth on going out, and there was a blaze of wrath
in his eyes.
The Minister came in to breakfast, and they all sat down--all but the
Whaup.
"Where is Thomas?" said Mr. Cassilis.
The reply was a shrill scream from Leezibeth, who was apparently at
the door. At the same moment a wild crackling and sputtering of fire
was heard overhead; and as everybody rushed to the passage, it was
found that dense volumes of smoke were rolling down, blown by the
currents above. Leezibeth had flown up-stairs on first perceiving
this smell of burning. There, in Coquette's parlour, she caught
sight of the Whaup working like a demon within the pungent clouds
that filled the room, blown outwards by the fierce wind coming down
the chimney. With another cry of alarm Leezibeth darted into the
nearest bedroom, and brought out a ewer of water, which she
discharged at the blazing mass of newspapers and lumps of wood that
the Whaup had crammed into the small grate.
"Would ye set fire to the house? Would ye set fire to the house?"
she cried--and, indeed, it looked as if the house were on fire.
"Yes, I would," shouted the demon in the smoke, "rather than kill
anybody wi' cold!"
"Oh, it's that lassie--it's that lassie," cried Leezibeth, "that'll
be the ruin o' us a'!"
When assistance came, and the fire was finally subdued, both the
Whaup and Leezibeth were spectacles to have awakened the ridicule of
gods and men. The effect of the deluge of water had been to send up
a cloud of dust and ashes with the smoke; and their respective faces
were tattooed so that even Mr. Cassilis--for the first time these
many years--burst into a fit of laughter. Even Wattie laughed;
seeing which, the Whaup charged at him, caught him by the waist, and
carried him bodily down-stairs and out through the rain to the yard,
where he made him work the iron handle of the pump. When the Whaup
made his appearance at the breakfast table he was clean; but both
himself and his brother were rather damp.
Mr. Cassilis severely reprimanded his eldest son; but he ordered
Leezibeth to light a fire in Miss Cassilis' room nevertheless. The
wind had somewhat abated now, and the clouds had gathered for a
steady downpour. Leezibeth went to her appointed task with
bitterness of heart, but she comforted herself with texts. As she
stuffed the unconsumed remnants of the Whaup's bonfire into the
grate, she uttered a denunciation of the luxury and idleness which
were appearing for the first time in a godly house.
"But we," she muttered to herself, "who are the poor o' this world,
rich in faith, and heirs o' the kingdom, maun bide and suffer. We
maun e'en be the servants o' such as this woman that has come amongst
us--such as lie upon beds of ivory, and stretch themselves upon their
couches, and eat the lambs out of the flock, and the calves out of
the midst of the stall; that chant to the sound of the viol, and
invent to themselves instruments of music, like David; that drink
wine in bowls, and anoint themselves wi' the chief ointments: but
they are not grieved for the affliction of Joseph."
Yet even these consolations did not seem quite to allay the
irritation of her mind; for a big tom cat that belonged to the house
having approached her elbow too confidently, suddenly received a
"skelp" that sent him flying across the room and down the stairs as
if the spirits of ten thousand legions of dogs were pursuing him.
Airlie Manse was destined that day to be given up to what Leezibeth
would have called the noise of viols and godless rejoicings. All
thought of getting to Earlshope was abandoned; and shortly after
breakfast Coquette invited Mr. Cassilis and the boys to her
sitting-room, promising to play something for them. Custom made the
Minister hesitate for a moment. Was not dance music very near
dancing, which he regarded as a profane and dangerous amusement?
"I wish to play for you--what you call it?--the tune of the church
yesterday, as it should be sung. Will you hear it from me?"
No objection of course could be taken to sacred music. The Minister
led the way to the room; and the boys sat down silently, looking
round with curiosity and awe upon the strange bits of foreign
adornment and luxury which Coquette had already placed about her
chamber. The fire was burning brightly, the rain battering on the
panes outside. Coquette sat down to the piano.
The Minister did not know at first that he was listening to the old
and familiar air of "Drumclog." It seemed to him the cry of a great
supplication--sad, yearning, and distant, as if it came from a far
hill-side half hidden in mist. It sounded like the softened and
various voices of a multitude made harmonious and pathetic by
distance.
But when she smote firmer chords, and, with a resonant and powerful
bass, let the clear treble ring out triumphantly, he recognised
"Drumclog." It was a song of victory now--the war cry of a host
moved by intense religious enthusiasm--there was a joyous
thanksgiving in it, and the clear voices of women and children. It
seemed to him to represent a tumult of rejoicing--set in measured and
modulated music--that rose like one sweet, strong voice. Then again
the chords were softened, and the air changed to a wail. He could
almost see the far moor, and the dead lying on it, with women
wringing their hands, and yet thanking God for the victory.
"It is wonderful, wonderful," he said, when Coquette had ceased
playing, "the power o' a dumb instrument to speak such strange
things."
He was surprised to find that this carnal invention of music had
awakened such profound emotion within him. He covertly looked to see
if the girl herself were affected as she had affected him; but
Coquette turned round and said, lightly, "It is a good air, but your
church people they do not sing it. They groan, groan, groan all the
same air--no singing in parts, no music."
"But you would make any tune, however bad, sound well," said the
Whaup, warmly. "To every one note you give four or five other notes,
all in harmony. No wonder it sounds well. It is no test. Play us
some of your foreign music, that we may compare it."
The boys looked at the Whaup with astonishment: he was becoming an
orator.
So she played them the _Cujus animam_, and for the first time in its
history the Manse of Airlie was flooded with that sonorous music that
has entranced the hearts of multitudes. She played them the mystic
melodies of the _Hochzeitmarsch_, and they thought that these also
were the expression of a sublime devotional exaltation. Indeed, the
boys regarded those pieces with something of awe and fear. There was
an unholy smack of organ playing and Romanism about Coquette's
performances. Had she not transformed the decent and sober tune of
"Drumclog" into a mass, or chant, or some such vague portion of
Catholic ordinances? Wattie was in possession of an ingenious little
book on "Various Forms of Idolatry;" and--the first plate
representing the burning at the stake of a "Popish witch"--he had
pointed out to his brothers that the black and profuse hair of the
young woman in the flames very much resembled the hair of Coquette.
It was but a suggestion; yet Rabbie, another of the brothers,
expressed the belief that there were witches in these days also, that
they were emissaries of the "deevil," and that it behoved every one
who wished to save his soul to guard against such fiends in disguise,
and, above all, never to repeat any charm after them towards twelve
of the night.
Coquette rose from the piano.
"Who is going to play for me now?" she said, looking at the boys.
A loud guffaw ran down the line of them--the notion of a boy being
able to play on the piano was irresistibly ludicrous.
"Have you not learned at the school?" she asked. "You must know some
pieces to play."
"Frenchmen may learn to play the piano," said the Whaup, with an air
of calm superiority, "but men in this country have something else to
do."
"What is it you do?" said Coquette, simply, having quite
misunderstood the remark. "You play not the piano: is it the
violin--the--the flute--one learns here at the school?"
"We dinna learn music at the schule, ye gowk," said one of the boys.
"No, nor manners either," said the Whaup, firing up at the last word.
At this juncture the Minister gravely thanked Coquette for the
pleasure her music had given him, and left the room. No sooner had
he gone than the Whaup ordered his brothers to follow. They seemed
inclined to show a spirit of insubordination.
"Out every one o' ye!" he cried, "or I'll leather ye in a lump!"
This somewhat dictatorial proceeding left him master of the field.
So he turned to Coquette, and said--
"Ye wanted to hear some music. There is but one musician in Airlie
forbye the Precentor. I mean Neil the Pensioner. He's a famous
player on the fiddle--an out-and-out player, ye may take my word
for't. Will I go and bring him to ye?"
"Perhaps he will not come."
"Oh, I'll bring him," said the Whaup, confidently.
"But it rains much," said Coquette, looking out on the disconsolate
grey landscape, the dripping trees, and the lowering sky.
The Whaup laughed aloud, as his long legs carried him down the soft
red road over the moor towards the village. He was no timid French
creature, brought up under fair skies, that he should dread a
temporary wetting. When he arrived at Neil Lamont's cottage, the
rain was running down his face, and he only blew it from his mouth
and flung it from his fingers as he burst into the astonished
Pensioner's presence, and bade him bundle up his fiddle and come
along.
The Pensioner, as he was called, was a tall, spare old Highlandman,
somewhat bent now, with scanty grey hair, and dazed, mild grey eyes,
who had been at Waterloo. He represented at once the martial and
musical aspects of Airlie. His narrative of the events of Waterloo
had gradually, during many years, become more and more full of
personal detail, until the old man at last firmly believed that he
himself, in his own proper person, had witnessed the whole of the
battle, and been one of the chief heroes of the hour. Napoleon, whom
he had never seen, he described minutely; and the inhabitants of
Airlie had learned to picture the rage and mortification visible on
the face of the great commander when he saw Neil rushing on to
victory over the dead bodies of six French grenadiers, whom the hardy
Highlander had overcome. Waterloo had grown to be a great panorama
for him; and he would unroll it at any moment, and name you every
object and person in the picture.
He was the village musician, too, and was in much request at balls,
marriages, and other celebrations. The old man was singularly
sensitive to music, and the wicked boys of the village used to
practise on his weakness. When they saw the Pensioner out walking,
they would begin to whistle some military march--"The Campbells are
coming," "The Girl I left behind me," or "What's a' the steer,
kimmer"--and you could see the Pensioner draw himself up, and go on
with a military swagger, with his head erect. As for his own musical
efforts, was there anybody in the west of Scotland who could play
"The East Neuk o' Fife" with such tremendous "spunk?"
When the Pensioner was told that he had to play to a young French
lady, he was a proud man.
"Ye will na sink," he observed to the Whaup in his curious jumble of
Lowland and Highland pronunciation, "sat I will hurt sa leddy's
feelins. No. Our prave regiments sent sa French fleein' at
Waterloo; but I will speak jist nae word apoot it. I sweer
till't--she will not even pe sinkin I wass at Waterloo."
Coquette received him graciously; the old Highlander was respectful,
and yet dignified, in return. He gently declined to show her his
medal--fearful that the word "Waterloo" would pain her. He would not
say a word about his soldiering--was it good manners to insult a
beaten foe?
But he would play for her. He took his fiddle from its case, and sat
down, and played her all manner of reels and strathspeys--but no
military music.
"Wha will ken," he whispered significantly to the Whaup, "put sat she
will have heard o' our victorious tunes? Na, na. Neil Lamont kens
how to pehave himsel' to a leddy."
And, in return, Coquette sat down to the piano. There was one Scotch
air--"Wha'll be King but Charlie"--which her father was particularly
fond of. When she struck into that bold and stirring piece of music,
with all the agencies of harmonious chords, the old Highlander sat at
first apparently stupefied. He had never known the majesty and the
power that, could be lent to the tune which boys played on penny
whistles. But as he became familiar with the rich and splendid
sounds, he became more and more excited. He beat time with his foot;
he slapped his thigh with his hand; he kept his head erect, and
looked defiance. Suddenly he seemed to forget the presence of the
Whaup, who was seated in a corner; he started to his feet, and began
pacing up and down the room, waving the bow of his violin as if it
were a sword. And all at once Coquette heard behind her the shrill
and quavering notes of an old man's voice--
"Come ower sa heather! come a' tagether!
Come Ronald, an' Tonald, an' a' tagether!"
and, when she turned round, the old Highlandman, as one possessed,
was marching up and down the chamber, with his head high in the air,
and tears running down his withered grey cheeks.
"_Aw, Dyeea!_" he cried, as he sank shamefacedly into a chair. "I
have never heard sa like o' sat not since sa day I will pe porn!"