ON THE WAY.
The Whaup got clear away from the people coming out of church by
striking boldly across the moor. His back was turned to the sea; his
face to the east; he was on his way to Glasgow. Briskly and lightly
he strode over the crisp, dry snow, feeling but little discomfort,
except from some premonitory qualms of hunger; and at length he got
into the broad highway which follows the channel of the Ayrshire
lochs from Dairy on by the valley of the Black Cart towards Paisley.
It was a bright, clear day, and he was in the best of spirits. Had
he not talked for a brief while with Coquette, and seen for himself
that there was a glimpse of the old tenderness, and sauciness, and
liveliness in her soft black eye? He had satisfied himself that she
was really getting better; and that, on some distant day of the
springtime, when a breath of the new sweet air would come in to stir
the branches of the trees in the West-End Park, he would have the
honour and delight of escorting his foreign cousin towards that not
very romantic neighbourhood, and pointing out to her the spot on the
horizon under which Airlie was supposed to lie.
When would the springtime come?--he thought, as he began to munch a
biscuit. Was it possible that his imaginative picture would come
true? Would Coquette actually be seen in Glasgow streets--crossing
over in front of the Exchange--walking down Buchanan Street--and
perhaps up on the little circle around the flag in the South-Side
Park? Would Coquette really and truly walk into that gloomy square
inside the old College, and look at the griffins, and perhaps shyly
steal a glance at the red-coated young students lounging round?
Glasgow began to appear less dull to him. A glamour fell over the
grey thoroughfares; and even the dinginess of the High Street became
picturesque.
"Why, all the sparrows in the street will know that Coquette has
come; and the young men in the shops will brighten themselves up; and
Lady Drum will take her to the theatre, in spite of my father; and
all the bailies will be asking Sir Peter for an introduction. And
Coquette will go about like a young princess, having nothing in the
world to do but to look pleased!"
So he struck again with his stick at the snow on the hedge, and
quickened his pace, as though Glasgow were now a happy end to his
journey. And he lifted up his voice, and sang aloud, in his joy, the
somewhat desolating tune of "Coleshill"--even as the Germans, when at
their gayest, invariably begin to sing--
"Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten
Dass ich so traurig bin."
The Whaup had not the most delicately modulated voice, but, such as
it was, he had plenty of it.
Presently, however, he stopped, for right in front of him there
appeared a solitary horseman. There was something in the rider's
figure familiar to him. Who was this that dared to invade the quiet
of these peaceful districts by appearing on horseback on a Sunday
morning? As he drew near, the Whaup suddenly remembered that not a
word had been said by Coquette of Lord Earlshope.
The sunlight faded utterly out of the landscape. All the joyous
dreams he had been dreaming of Coquette coming to Glasgow grew faint,
and vanished. He had quite forgotten Lord Earlshope; and now, it
became evident, here he was, riding along the main road in the
direction of Airlie.
As Earlshope came near, he drew up his horse. He was clad, the Whaup
observed, in a large Russian-looking overcoat, which had plenty of
warm fur round the neck of it. He looked, indeed, more like a
foreigner than a country gentleman riding along an Ayrshire road
towards his own estates.
No less surprised was Lord Earlshope to meet his boon companion of
old.
"Why," he said, "I thought you had left Airlie."
"I thought the same of you," said Mr. Tom.
Earlshope laughed.
"I am obeying a mere whim," he said, "in riding down to Earlshope. I
shall probably not stay an hour. How are all the people in Airlie?"
"I don't know," answered the Whaup, "I have myself been there for
about an hour, and no more."
"At least you know how your cousin, Miss Cassilis, is?" said he, in a
grave tone of voice.
"Yes," said the Whaup, "she is still an invalid, you know, but she is
on the fair way to a complete recovery."
"I am glad of that," said Earlshope, hastily. "I am glad of that,
for I may not be able to call to see how she is. In fact, I am
rather pressed for time this morning. You are sure she is getting
well?"
"Yes, I hope so," said the Whaup.
"And will soon be about again?"
"Yes, I hope so," repeated the Whaup, regarding with some curiosity
the engrossed and absent way in which the other put his rapid
questions.
Earlshope turned round his horse.
"Look here," he said, "I don't wish to be seen about this place, and
I don't think I shall go on to Airlie. I only wanted to make some
inquiries about your cousin. What you tell me has satisfied me that
she is not so ill as I had feared. Where are you going?"
"I am walking to Glasgow," said the Whaup.
"To Glasgow?" said the other. "You won't be there before night!"
"That is not of much consequence."
"I will go to Glasgow with you, if you like. We can take the horse
alternately."
"The horse would think you were mad if you were to walk him all the
way up to Glasgow in this snow," said the Whaup.
"True, true," said Lord Earlshope, absently. "I shall strike across
country for Largs, and put up there. You saw your cousin to-day?"
"Yes."
"And she is not very much of an invalid?"
"Well, I hope she is getting better," said the Whaup.
"Thank you--thank you," said Lord Earlshope. "You need not say you
have seen me. Good day to you!"
So he turned his horse once more, and rode on, with an obviously
preoccupied air.
"There goes a man," said the Whaup, watching him disappear, "as mad
as a March hare, and madder."
Yet, as he walked on, he found that this brief interview had
strangely disquieted him. What business had Earlshope to be asking
so particularly about Coquette? Why was he riding down on this
Sunday morning for the professed purpose of making inquiries about
her? Nay, why should he wish not to be seen? It was evident that in
Airlie, where no one had seen his lordship for many a day, there was
no expectation of him. The more Tom Cassilis considered the matter,
the more profound became his annoyance over the whole affair.
It now seemed to him--looking back over the brief time that he had
spent with Coquette--that the most grateful feature of the interview
was the fact that Lord Earlshope had not been mentioned. He had been
quite forgotten, indeed. There might have been no Lord Earlshope in
the world, so thoroughly had he been ignored in that quiet and
confidential chat which took place in the Minister's parlour. Yet
here he was, riding down by himself within a few miles of Airlie, and
with his professed object the wish to see or hear something of
Coquette.
The rest of that long walk was not pleasant to the young man. The
whole day seemed to have become sombre and gloomy. Why was he
compelled to return like a slave to the labour and the loneliness of
a strange town, when others had the free country before them, to
choose their place of rest as they liked? It seemed to him that he
was turning his back now on all that was beautiful and pleasant in
the world, and that Lord Earlshope had been left there with such
intentions in his heart as were still a mystery. The Whaup began to
forget that he had fraternised with Lord Earlshope on board the
_Caroline_. He remembered no longer that he had satisfied himself of
that gentleman's being a far more agreeable and honest person than
the popular voice of the district would admit. Earlshope's kindness
to them all, and his excessive and almost distant courtesy to
Coquette and her uncle, were effaced from his recollection; and he
knew only that before him lay the long and winding and dreary road to
Glasgow, while behind him were the pleasant places about Airlie, and
Coquette, and the comfort of the Manse, towards which Lord Earlshope
was perhaps now riding.
It was late at night when the Whaup, footsore and tired, reached his
lodgings in George Street, Glasgow. His landlady had not returned
from evening service; the solitary domestic of the house was also
absent; there was no one in the gaunt and dismal house, which he
entered by means of a latch-key. He set to work to kindle a fire;
but the fire went out; and in the middle of his labours he dropped
into a chair and fell fast asleep. The fatigues of the day caused
him to sleep on in the darkness and the cold; and the other people of
the house, coming in later on, knew nothing of his being in his room.
In the middle of the night he awoke. He was stiff with cold. He
sought for matches, and could not find them; so he tumbled into bed
in the dark, with his whole frame numbed and his heart wretched. Nor
did he forget his miseries in sleep; there was no sleep for him. He
lay through the night and tossed about; and if for a moment he fell
into a sort of doze, it was to start up again with a great fear that
something had happened at Airlie. In these periods of
half-forgetfulness, and during the interval when he lay broadly
awake, the nightmare that haunted him was the figure of the solitary
rider he had met on the Dairy Road. What was the meaning of those
anxious inquiries that Earlshope had then made? Why was he
disinclined to go on to his own place, and be seen of the people of
Airlie? Why go to Largs? Largs--as the Whaup lay and
remembered--was not more than fifteen miles from Airlie. Would
Earlshope loiter about there in the hope of seeing Coquette by
stealth? And why should he wish to see her? So the weary hours of
the night passed, and the grey and wintry dawn began to tell upon the
window of his room. The questions, with all their anxieties and
doubts, remained unanswered; and there had come another gloomy day,
demanding its quota of work.