LORD EARLSHOPE'S CAVE.
She now recollected that long ago the Whaup had told her of some
mysterious place which Lord Earlshope had built within his grounds;
and when her companion, begging her to excuse him for a few minutes,
passed into what was apparently a cleft in a solid mass of earth or
rock, and when she heard the striking of a match, she concluded that
he was lighting up the small theatrical scene for her benefit. Nor
was she mistaken; for presently he came out and asked her to return
with him through this narrow aperture. He led the way; she followed.
If the cavern into which they entered were of artificial
construction, considerable pains had been taken to make it look
natural. At first the cleft was open to the sky, and the sides of
the passage were covered with ferns and weeds growing in considerable
profusion; but by-and-by she came in front of a large recess,
apparently dug out of the solid rock, and involuntarily a cry of
wonder escaped her. The walls of this tolerably spacious cave were
studded here and there by curiously shaped and pendent lamps of
various hues; and right at the back was a Chinese stove, on the
polished surface of which the coloured lights threw faint
reflections. Down one side of the cave a stream trickled; dropping
over bits of rock, and wetting the masses of fern which grew in their
clefts. The space in front of the stove was perfectly dry; and there
stood two cane easy-chairs, fitted with small reading-desks, and
candles. The whole place looked like a bit cut out of a pantomime;
and Coquette, suddenly finding herself in this strange place, with
its dusky corners and its coloured lamps, wholly forgot that outside
there reigned the brightness of a spring day.
"What do you think of my boyish notions of the marvellous?" he said,
with a smile.
"It is wonderful," said Coquette, who fancied she had been
transferred to a fairy palace.
"There are incongruities in it," said he; "for I changed my hobbies
then as rapidly as now. It was begun in imitation of a cavern I had
read of in a novel; it was continued as a mandarin's palace; and
finally finished up in imitation of the Arabian Nights. But you can
imagine it to be what you like, once you have taken off your boots,
which must be damp, and put on that pair of Russian slippers which
you will find in front of the stove. I shall leave you to complete
your toilette, while I go up to the house for some biscuits and wine."
With which he left, before Coquette could utter a word of protest.
She now found herself alone in this extraordinary place. Had he
brought her there intentionally? She had looked at the
slippers--they were lady's slippers, and new. He had evidently,
then, anticipated that he would meet her, walk with her, and bring
her thither? She knew not what to do. Yet the slippers were very
pretty--curiously wrought with coloured beads, and deeply furred all
round. They were seductively warm, too, from having been lying
before the stove. So, with a curtain defiant air, she sat down,
pulled off her tiny boots, and placed them before the stove; and
presently her small feet were encased in the warm and furred
slippers, which had apparently been left for her by the genii of the
cave.
Then she sat down in one of the easy-chairs; took off her gloves; and
extended just so much of the slippers that she could admire their
rose-coloured tips. All this conduct on her part she knew to be
dreadfully and desperately wrong; but she was very comfortable, and
the place was very pretty. As for the slippers, they were simply not
to be refused. Indeed, the whole thing hovered in her mind as half a
dream and half a joke; and when, at length, Lord Earlshope appeared
with his stock of provisions, the adventure looked remarkably like
one of those house-keeping games familiar to children. As for any
apprehension of her indiscreet behaviour being a subject of after
annoyance, she felt none whatever. Had not Lord Earlshope and
herself quite got back to their old friendly terms; and what harm was
there in her joining in this piece of amusement? If she had any
doubts or misgivings, they were swallowed up in the sensation of
warmth lent by the Russian slippers.
Coquette ate one or two of the small biscuits, and drank half a glass
of the yellow-white wine, which Earlshope poured out for her. Then
she said--
"I do not know how you can go away from this place. I should live
here always. Why did you go away?"
"I am going away again," he said. She looked up with some
surprise--perhaps with a shadow of disappointment, too, on her face.
"How can I stay here?" he said, suddenly. "I should be meeting you
constantly. I have no right to meet you. I am satisfied, now that I
know you are well, and that you have forgiven me; and I do not wish
to repeat a bygone error. You--who are always so pleased with
everything around you--I see you have forgotten that witchery that
seemed to have fallen over us both last summer. You are again
yourself--calm, satisfied with yourself--on excellent terms with
everybody and everything. But I have not been cured by my few
months' absence. Now that I see you again---- Bah! what is the use
of annoying you by such talk? Tell me, how is your cousin in
Glasgow?"
Coquette remained quite silent and thoughtful, however, with her eyes
fixed on the stove before her. After a little while, she said--
"I have not forgotten--I can never forget. I have been so pleased to
see you this morning that perhaps I have appeared light--fickle--what
you call it?--in your eyes, and not mindful of your trouble. It is
not so. I do remember all that happened; it is only I think it
better not to bring it back. Why you should go away? If you remain,
we shall learn to meet as friends, as we are now, are we not?"
"Do you think that is possible?" he asked, gravely looking at her.
Coquette dropped her eyes; and said, in a low voice--
"It may be difficult just a little while; yet it is possible. And it
seems hard that if we do enjoy the meeting with each other, we must
not meet--that I drive you away from your own home."
"It is odd--is it not?" he said, in rather an absent way. "You have
made me an exile, or, rather, my own folly has done that. No,
Coquette; I am afraid there is no compromise possible--for me, at
least--until after a few years; and then I may come back to talk to
you in quite an off-hand fashion, and treat you as if you were my own
sister. For I am a good deal older than you, you know----"
At this moment there was a sound of footsteps outside; and Coquette
hurriedly sprang to her feet. Earlshope immediately went out to the
entrance of the place; and Coquette heard some one approach from the
outside. She hastily abandoned her small furred slippers, and drew
on her damp boots; then she stood, with a beating heart, listening.
"I am sorry to have alarmed you," said Earlshope, returning. "It was
only a servant with some letters that have arrived."
But the sound of those footsteps had suddenly awakened Coquette to a
sense of the imprudence, and even danger, of her present position,
and she declined to resume her comfortable seat before the fire.
"I must go now," she said.
"Let me show you the way then, if you must," said he; and so he led
her along the winding path, and through the shrubbery to the small
gate that opened out to the moor. She had reached the limit of
Earlshope; in front of her stretched the undulating plain leading up
to Airlie; she was free to go when she pleased.
"I dare not see you home," he said, "or the good people who may have
noticed us an hour ago would have a story to tell.'
"I shall find my way without trouble,'' said Coquette, and she held
out her hand.
"Is it to be good-bye, then?" he said, looking wistfully at her.
"Not unless you please," Coquette answered, simply, although she bent
her eyes on the ground. "I should like you to remain here, and be
friends with us as in long ago; it is not much to ask; it would be a
pleasure to me, and I should be sorry and angry with myself if I
thought you had again gone away because of me. It is surely no
reason you should go; for I should think of you far away, and think
that it is I who ought to go away, not you; for I am a stranger come
to Airlie, and sometimes I think I have come only to do harm to all
my friends----"
"My darling!" he said, with a strange and inexpressibly sad look on
his face, as he caught her to him, and gazed down into the clear,
frightened eyes. "You shall not accuse yourself like this! If there
is blame in my staying I will bear it; I will stay, whatever happens;
and we shall meet, Coquette, shall we not, even as now, in this
stillness, with no one to interrupt our talk? Why do you look
frightened, Coquette? Are you afraid of me? See, you are free to
go!"
His arms released their hold; and for an instant she stood, with
downcast eyes, alone and trembling. But she did not move; and so
once again he drew her towards him; and then, ere she knew, his arms
were around her, and she was close to his breast, and kisses were
being showered on her forehead and on her lips. It was all so
sudden, so wild and strange, that she did not stir; nor was she but
half-conscious of the fetters of iron which these few swift seconds
were fastening down on her life. It was very terrible, this crisis;
but she vaguely felt that there was the sweetness of despair and
utter abandonment possessing her; that the die had been cast for good
or evil, and the old days of doubt and anxiety were over.
"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 which she did
not sec. "I have fought against this for many a day--how bitterly
and anxiously no one knows, Coquette. But now, Coquette, but
now--won't you look up and let me see that love is written in your
eyes? Won't you look up, and give me one kiss before we part?--only
one, Coquette?"
But her downcast face was pale and deathlike; and for a moment or two
she seemed to tremble. Finally she said--
"I cannot speak to you now. To-morrow or next day--perhaps we shall
meet. _Adieu!_--you must leave me to go alone."
And so she went away over the moor; and he stood looking after her
for some time, with eyes that had now lost all their wild joy and
triumph, and were wistful and sad.
"She does not know what has happened to her to-day," he said to
himself, "and I--I have foreseen it, and striven to guard against
it--in vain."