OVER THE MOOR.
Coquette's sleep that night was full of dreams of a meeting with Lord
Earlshope; and in the morning she awoke with a confused sense of
having been wandering with him in a strange land, which had a
threatening sky over it, and all around it the moaning of the sea.
She seemed to have a notion that the place was familiar to her; and
gradually out of her memory she was able to recall the features of a
certain gloomy loch, overshadowed by sombre mountains.
"I will remember no more of it," she said to herself. "That
island--is it always coming back?"
Yet those dreams left a troubled impression behind them; and she
began to think with some foreboding of a possible encounter with Lord
Earlshope if she went out for her accustomed walk. Dared she meet
him? Or what if he were here only for a brief time, and went away
without a word? As she lay calculating anxiously these
probabilities, and trying to decide whether she should go or not, a
great dash of rain smote on the windows of the Manse, a glimmer of
morning sunlight also struck the panes, and a blustering April wind
blew about the chimneys.
"Rain!" she cried, as though she was glad of anything to resolve her
anxious doubts. "Then I do not go!"
Nevertheless she rose and dressed quickly. There were no blinds
needed for the small windows that looked across the moor. During the
progress of her toilette she could see the wild glare of the spring
sunshine that chased the rapid and riven clouds which the wind was
blowing over the sea. On they came in thunderous masses and filmy
streaks--here dark and rainy, there struck into silver; while from
time to time there was a period of menacing gloom, followed by the
heavy rattle of a shower on roof and windows; then the sudden yellow
light again shining out on the dripping trees, on the wet moor, and
on the far blue sea-plain that lay around Arran.
"You are in much better spirits this morning," said the Minister at
breakfast, after Coquette had been lecturing the boys in a very grand
and mock-heroic fashion.
"Yes, in spite of your abominating weather," she replied. "Last
night, still and clear--this morning a hurricane! Why is your
weather so wild, and your Scotch people so quiet? They are not
stormy--no bad temper--no fits of passion--all smooth, and serious,
and solemn, as if they did go to a churchyard."
"And that is where we all of us are going, whether in Scotland or
France," said the Minister, with a serious smile.
"Yet why always think of it?" said Coquette, lightly. "Why you make
the road to the churchyard a churchyard also? No--it is not
reasonable. We should have a little gaiety, and amuse ourselves in
the meantime. Ah I now do look at the faces of all those boys; do
they think me wicked?"
Indeed, the row of solemn and awe-struck faces which listened to
Coquette's Sadduceeism provoked her into a fit of laughter, which
Leezibeth checked by coming into the room and asking abruptly if more
tea were wanted.
Coquette had apparently forgotten that she had been troubled that
morning about Lord Earlshope. The boisterous weather had prevented
her going out, so that no choice remained to her. But when after the
boys had been despatched to school, she was left to herself and her
solitary employment at the piano, her vivacity died away. Without
any intention she wandered into melancholy strains, and played
half-forgotten ballad-airs which she had heard among the peasantry of
Morbihan. She began to cast wistful glances towards the changeable
landscape outside. At last she gave up the piano, and went to one of
the windows, and took a seat there. The intervals of sunlight were
growing longer. The clouds seemed more light and fleecy. There was
a grey mist of rain down in the south, over Ayr; but all around her
the wet landscape was shining in its young spring greens; while the
gusty west-wind, that blew a warm and moist fragrance about the
garden, could not quite drown the music of the thrushes and
blackbirds. The sky cleared more and more. Even in the south, the
rain-mist lifted, and the sunlight shone on the far promontory.
Finally, the wind moderated; and eventually over all the land there
seemed to prevail the fresh clear brightness and sweetness of an
April morning.
Coquette put on her small hat (with its dash of sea-bird plumage) and
a warm grey woollen shawl, and went out. Her light foot was not
heard leaving the house; and in a few minutes she was on the moorland
road--all around her the shining beauty of the spring day, and the
glistening of the recent rain. At another time she would have
rejoiced in the clear light and the genial warmth of the western
breezes: to-day she seemed thoughtful and apprehensive, and dared
scarcely look over the moor. She wandered on--her head somewhat
downcast; and when she paused, it was merely to pick up some tiny
flower from amongst the wet grass. It was only by a sort of instinct
that she avoided the red pools which the rain had left in the road;
she seemed to walk on--in the opposite direction from Airlie--as if
she were in a dream.
She became aware that there was some one crossing over the moor on
her right; still she did not look up. Indeed, before she could
collect herself to consider how she should speak to Lord Earlshope,
supposing he were to meet her, the stranger had overtaken her, and
pronounced her name.
She turned--a trifle pale, perhaps, but quite self-possessed and
regarded him for one brief second. Then she stepped forward and
offered him her hand. During that instant he, too, regarded her, in
a somewhat strange way, before meeting her advances; and then he
said--
"Have you really forgiven me?"
"That is all over," she said, in a low but quite distinct voice--"all
over and forgotten. It does do no good to bring it back. You--have
you been well?"
He looked at her again, with something of wonder in the admiration
visible in his eyes.
"How very good you are! I have been wandering all over Europe,
feeling as though I had the brand of Cain on my forehead. I come
back to hear that you have been dangerously ill, without my having
had any knowledge of it. I hang about, trying to get a word of
explanation said to you personally before calling at the Manse; and
now you come forward, in your old straightforward way, as if nothing
had happened, and you offer me your hand just as if I were your
friend."
"Are you not my friend?"
"I do not deserve to be anybody's friend."
"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 how much I have to
claim forgiveness for without a series of explanations which I shall
make to you some day. I have not the courage to do it now. I should
run the risk of forfeiting the right ever to speak another word to
you."
Coquette drew back, and regarded him steadfastly.
"There," said he, "did I not tell you what would happen? You are
becoming afraid of me. You have no reason."
"Yes, perhaps," she said; "but I do not understand why all this
secrecy--all this mystery. It is very strange to me--all your
actions; and you should be more frank, and trust that I will not make
bad interpretation. You wish to be my friend? I am well pleased of
that--but why you make so many secrets?"
"I cannot tell you now," he said, hurriedly. "I am too anxious to
believe that you have forgiven me for what happened on that hideous
night. I was mad--I was beside myself--I don't know what possession
I laboured under to make a proposal----"
"Ah, why bring it all back?" said Coquette. "Is it not better to
forget it? Let us be as we were before we went away in the yacht.
You shall meet me. I shall speak to you as usual. We shall forget
these old misfortunes. You will come to the Manse sometimes--as you
did before. You must believe me, it will be very simple and natural
if you do try; and you shall find yourself able to be very good
friends with all of us, and no more brands of Cain on your forehead."
He saw in her soft eyes that she faithfully meant what she said; and
then, with a sort of effort, he said--
"Come, let us walk along, and I will talk to you as you go. There is
a path along here by which you can cross the moor, and get back to
the Manse by Hechton Mains."
How glad she was to walk by his side in the old fashion! It was so
pleasant to hear his voice, and to have the grave kindliness of his
eyes sometimes meeting hers, that she did not stop to ask whether it
was merely as friends they were walking together. Nor did she
notice, so glad was she, how constrained was his talk; how he was
sometimes, in moments of deep silence, regarding her face with a look
which had the blackness of despair in it. She chatted on, pleased
and happy; breaking imperiously away from all mention of what had
happened in the north whenever that became imminent. She did not
even perceive whither she was going; she submitted to be led; and
even lost sight of the familiar features of the landscape surrounding
her own home.
"I wonder if there was ever a woman as unselfish as you are," he
said, abruptly and morosely. "I know that you are pretending to be
glad only to make our meeting pleasant and spare me the pain of
self-accusation."
"How can you think such morbid things on such a beautiful morning?"
she asked. "Is it not a pleasure to be in the open air? Is it not a
pleasure to meet an old friend? And yet you stop to pull it all to
pieces, and ask why, and what, and how. You--who have been
abroad--are not thankful for this bit of sunshine--perhaps that is
the reason."
"There is something almost angelic--if we knew anything about
angels--in the way you have of forgetting yourself in order to make
other people feel at ease."
"And if you are not cheerful this morning, you have not forgotten how
to pay compliments," she said, with a smile.
Presently he said--
"I am afraid you must consider me a very discontented fellow. You
see, I don't wish just at present to interrupt our new friendliness
by explaining why I am not cheerful--why I owe you more contrition
than you can understand--why your kindness almost makes me suspicious
of your good faith. You don't know----"
"I know enough," she said, with a pretty gesture of impatience. "I
wish not to have any more whys, and whys, and whys. Explanations,
they never do good between friends. I am satisfied of it if you come
to the Manse, and become as you were once. That is all--that is
sufficient. But just now--when you have the pleasant morning before
you--it is not good to torment yourself by doubts, and suspicions,
and questions."
"Ah, well," he said, "I suppose I must suffer you to consider me
discontented without cause. It will be of little consequence a
hundred years hence."
Coquette laughed.
"Even in your resignation you are gloomy. Why you say that about a
hundred years? I do not care what happens in a hundred years: but
just now, while we are alive, we ought to make life pleasant to each
other, and be as cheerful as we can."
So they wandered on, Coquette not paying particular heed to the
direction of their walk. Her companion was not very talkative; but
she was grateful for the new interest that had been lent to her life
by his arrival at Airlie, and was in very good spirits. All her
fears of the morning had vanished. It seemed a comparatively easy
thing for her to meet him; there could apparently be no recurrence of
the terrible scene which was now as a sort of dream to her.
Suddenly, however, her companion paused; and she, looking up, saw
that they were now at the corner of the Earlshope grounds, where
these joined the moor. There was a small gate in the wall fronting
them.
"Will you come into the grounds?" he said, producing a small key.
"You need not go up to the house. There is a sort of grotto, or
cavern, which I had constructed when I was a lad, at this end of the
copse. Will you go in and see it?"
Coquette hesitated only for a moment, and then she said--"Yes." He
opened the small gate; they both passed through; and Coquette found
herself at the extremity of a small path leading through a belt of
larches.