ALL ABOUT KELVIN-SIDE.
Talk of Glasgow being a sombre grey city! When the Whaup got up next
morning at half-past six, and looked out, it seemed to him 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 the beating heart of Coquette;
and were not all its thoroughfares aware of the consecration that had
fallen on them by her arrival? Away he sped to his classes; and his
boots, as they rang in the street, clattered "Coquette!" and
"Coquette!" and "Coquette!" If the Professor had known that Coquette
was in Glasgow, would he have looked so dull, and been so miserably
slow? What was the use of this gabble about ancient languages, when
Coquette had brought her pretty French idioms with her, and was even
now getting up to look out on the greenness of Hillhead and down on
the winding waters of the Kelvin. Alas! why were the half-hours so
full of minutes; and might not the sunshine be altogether faded out
of the sky before he could get westward to welcome Coquette?
He dashed home from college to his lodgings; and there arrayed
himself in his tidiest garments; and freshened himself up, singing
the while some snatches of "Sally in our Alley." The tall and smart
young man who now issued into George Street, and made his way
westward as fast as his long legs could carry him, bore but little
resemblance to the devil-may-care lad who had lounged about Airlie
and tormented his father's neighbours. Yet he was singing one of his
boyish songs as he strode along the thoroughfares; and ever and anon
he looked up at the sky to make sure that it was going to be kindly
to Coquette. Why, the light mist of the morning was now clearing
away, and a blaze of sunshine was striking here and there along the
northern side of Sauchiehall Street. 'Tis a pleasant street--under
certain circumstances. Shops are its landmarks; but they grow poetic
in the eyes of youth. It seemed to the Whaup that the boots in the
windows looked unusually elegant; that never before had he seen such
taste in the arrangement of Normandy pippins; that even the odour of
a bakery had something in it that touched sweet memories. For,
indeed, the shops and the windows, and the people, and Sauchiehall
Street itself, were to him on that morning but phantasms; and all
around him, the air, and the sky, and the sunshine, were full of
Coquette, and nothing but Coquette. He fell in love with Sauchiehall
Street on that morning; and he has never quite forgotten his old
affection.
He walked up to the front of the great house overlooking the Park,
which Sir Peter had borrowed; and was glad that the door was opened
by a girl instead of by a man-servant--a creature whom he half feared
and half disliked. The young person had scarcely shown him into the
spacious drawing-room when he heard a quick flutter of a dress, and
Coquette herself came rushing in, overwhelming him with her
questions, and her exclamations, and her looks. For she could not
understand what had altered him so much until she perceived that his
moustache, which had been almost invisible on their last meeting, had
now assumed quite formidable proportions; and it was only a
significant threat on his part that caused her to cease her grave and
ironical compliments.
And where should they go on this bright summer morning?
"Lady Drum, she has gone into the town to order flowers for the grand
dinner of Friday," said Coquette; "to which you are invited, Mr.
Whaup, by a card which I did address for you this morning. And I
would not go with her; for I said--my cousin comes for me, and he
would be angry if I were not here, and he is very disagreeable when
he is angry. _Enfin_, let us go, and you will amuse me by all that
is to be seen."
Now when Coquette had got herself ready, and they went out, the Whaup
took a very strange road to the city by going down to Kelvin Bridge.
The farther they went--over by Hillhead and still westward--the less
appearance there was of streets and shops; until the Whaup had to
confess that he had led her, of set purpose, directly away from the
town. And so they went into the country.
He took her into all the haunts and nooks that he had explored by
himself--down to the Pear-tree Well--back again, and along the
Kelvin, and then up by the cross road which leads to Maryhill. Here
they paused in their wanderings to look over the great extent of
country which lay before them; and the Whaup told her, that far away
on the left, if she had a wonderful telescope, she might see the
lonely uplands about Airlie, and catch a glimpse of the long sweep of
the sea.
"I used to come up here," he said, "all by myself, and wonder what
you were doing away down there. And when the sun came out, I
thought--'Ah, Coquette is happy now.'"
"All that is very pretty," said Coquette; "and I should be sorry for
you, perhaps. But I do find you have still some amusement. What is
it you sing--'Come, lasses and lads, away from your dads'? What is
dads?"
"Never mind, Coquette. It is only a song to keep up one's heart, you
know--not to be talked about on a morning like this, between us two.
I want to say something very nice to you, and friendly, and even
sentimental; but I don't know how. What shall I say?"
"It is not for me to tell you," remarked Coquette, with some air of
disdain.
And yet, as they stood there, and looked over the far country towards
Airlie and the sea, they somehow forgot to talk. Indeed, as
Coquette, leaning on the low stone wall, gazed away westward, a
shadow seemed to cross her face. Was she thinking of all that had
happened there, and of her present position--mayhap working grievous
wrong by this thoughtless kindness to her cousin? Was she right in
trying to atone for previous neglect by an excess of goodness which
might be cruel to him in after-life? Her companion saw that a sudden
silence and pensiveness had fallen over her, and he drew her gently
away, and began their homeward walk.
On their way back, they again went down to the Kelvin; and he
proposed that they should rest for a little while in the bit of
meadow opposite the Pear-tree Well. They sat down amid the long
grass; and when any one crossed the small wooden bridge, which was
but seldom, Coquette hid her face under her sunshade, and was unseen.
"Are you tired?" said the Whaup.
"Tired? No. I do walk about all day sometimes at Airlie."
"Then why have you grown so silent?"
"I have been thinking."
"Of what?"
"Of many things--I do not know."
"Coquette," he said suddenly, "do you know that the well over there
used to be a trysting place for lovers; and that they used to meet
there and join their hands over the well, and swear that they would
marry each other some day? I suppose some did marry and some didn't;
but wasn't it very pleasant in the meantime to look forward?
Coquette, if you would only give me your hand now! I will wait any
time--I have waited already, Coquette; but if you will only say now
that I may look forward to some day, far away, that I can come and
remind you of your promise--think what it would be to have that to
carry about with one. You will be going back to Airlie, Coquette--I
may not see you for ever so long."
He paused; for she seemed strangely disturbed. She looked up at him
with eyes which were wild and alarmed.
"Ah, do not say any more," she said. "I will do anything for you,
but not that--not that."
And then she said, a moment afterwards, in a voice which was very low
and full of sadness--
"Or see; I will promise to marry you, if you like, after many, many
years--only not now--not within a few years--afterwards I will do
what you like."
"But have I offended you? Why do you cry, Coquette? Look here, I'd
cut my fingers off before I would ask anything of you that pained
you. What is the matter, Coquette? Does it grieve you to think of
what I ask?"
"No--no!" she said, hurriedly, with tears stealing down her face.
"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."
"You will?" said he, with his handsome face burning with joy.
"But--but--" said Coquette, with the dark eyes still wet, and her
head bent down, "not until after many years. And all that time, Tom,
I shall pray that you may get a better wife than I--and a wife who
could be to you all that you deserve--and in this long time you may
meet some one, and your heart will say, 'She is better for me than
Coquette'----"
"Better than you, Coquette!" he cried. "Is there anybody in all the
world better than you?"
"Ah, you do not think--you do not remember. You do not know anything
of me yet--I am a stranger to you--and I have been brought up
differently from you. And did not Leesiebess say I had come to do
mischief among you--and that my French bringing-up was dangerous?----"
"But you know, Coquette, that your goodness even turned the heart of
that horrible old idiot towards you; and you must not say another
word against yourself, for I will not believe it. And if you only
know how proud and happy you have made me!" he added, taking her hand
affectionately and gratefully.
"I am glad of that," said Coquette, in a low voice. "You deserve to
be very happy. But it is a great many years off, and in that time I
will tell you more of myself than I have told you yet. I cannot just
now, my poor boy, for your eyes ae so full of gladness; but some day
you will believe it fortunate for you if you can marry some one
else--and I will rejoice at that too."
"Why," said he, with some good-natured surprise in his voice, "you
talk as if there was some one you wanted to marry!"
"No," said Coquette, with a sigh, "there is no one."
"And now, then," said the Whaup gaily, as he assisted her to rise, "I
call upon all 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; and I ask the sky always to have sunshine for
her; and I ask the winds to take care of her and be gentle to her;
for isn't she my Coquette?"
"Ah, you foolish boy!" she said, with sad and tearful eyes. "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."
Of course, in lover's fashion, he laughed at her fears, and strove to
lend her a leaven of his own high-hearted confidence. And in this
wise they returned to Glasgow, as lovers have done before them, as
lovers will do after them again and again, so long as youth hungers
for bright eyes, and laughs to scorn all the perils the future may
enfold. And if the Whaup thought well of Glasgow on that morning
when he set out, you may guess what he thought of the city as he now
returned to it, and of the strange transfiguration undergone by the
distant clouds of smoke, and the tall chimneys, and the long and
monotonous streets. Romance had bathed the old grey town in the hues
of the sunset; and for him henceforth Glasgow was no longer a
somewhat commonplace and matter-of-fact mass of houses, but a realm
of mystery and dreams which love had lit up with the coloured
limelight of wonder and hope.