A SECRET OF THE SEA.
Next morning there was a great commotion in Saltcoats. Despite the
fierce gusts of wind that were still blowing, accompanied by squally
showers of rain, numbers of people were out on the long stretch of
brown sand lying south of the town. Mischief had been at work on the
sea overnight. Fragments of barrels, bits of spars, and other
evidences of a wreck were being brought in by the waves; and two
smacks had even put out to look around for any larger remains of the
lost vessel or vessels. Mr. M'Henry was early abroad; for he had
gone into the town to get a messenger; and so he heard the news. At
last, amid the gossiping of the neighbours, he learned that a lad had
just been summoned by a certain Mrs. Kilbride to go up on an errand
to Airlie, and he resolved to secure his services to carry the
message.
Eventually, he met the lad on his way to the moorland village; and
then it turned out that the errand was merely to carry a letter to
Miss Cassilis, at the Manse.
"But Miss Cassilis is at my house," said Mr. M'Henry. "Give me the
letter, and gang you on to the Manse and ask Mr. Cassilis to come
down here."
So the lad departed, and the letter was taken up and placed on the
table where Coquette was to have her breakfast.
She came down, looking very pale; and she would give no explanation
of how she came to be out on such a night. She thanked them for
having sent for her uncle, and sat down at the table, but ate nothing.
Then she saw the letter, and with a quick, pained flush of colour
leaping to her cheeks, she took it up and opened it with trembling
fingers. She read these words--
"Dearest,--I cannot exact from you the sacrifice of your life.
Remorse and misery for all the rest of our years would be the penalty
to both of us by your going with me to-night, even though you might
put a brave face on the matter, and conceal your anguish, I cannot
let you suffer that, Coquette. I will leave for America by myself;
and I will never attempt to see you again. That promise I have
broken before; but it will not be broken this time. Good-bye,
Coquette. My earnest hope is that you will not come to Saltcoats
to-night; and, in that case, this letter will be forwarded to you in
the morning. Forgive me, if you can, for all the suffering I have
caused you. I will never forget you, my dearest love, but I will
never see England or you again.
"EARLSHOPE."
There was almost a look of joy on her face.
"So I did not vex him," she thought, "by keeping him in anxiety and
fear? And he has conquered too; and he will think better of himself
and of me away over there, for many years to come, if he does not
forget all about Airlie."
But that reference to Airlie recalled the thought of her uncle, and
of his meeting with her. As the time drew near for his approach, she
became more and more downcast. When, at last, the old man came into
the room, where she was sitting alone, her eyes were fixed on the
ground, and she dared not raise them.
He went over to her, and placed his hand on her head.
"What is all this, Catherine? Did you miss your way last night?
What made ye go out on such a wild evening, without saying a word to
any one?"
She replied in a low voice, which was yet studiously distinct--
"Yesterday afternoon I went away from the Manse, not intending to go
back."
The Minister made a slight gesture as if some twinge had shot across
his heart; and then, looking at her in a sad and grave way, he said--
"I did not think I had been unkind to you, Catherine."
This was too much for Coquette. It broke down the obduracy with
which she had been vainly endeavouring to fortify herself; she fell
at the feet of her uncle; and, with wild tears and sobs, told him all
that had happened, and begged him to go away and leave her, for she
had become a stranger and an outcast. Stunned as the old man was by
these revelations, he forgot to express his sense of her guilt. He
saw only before him the daughter of his own brother--a girl who had
scarce a friend in the world but himself--and she was at his feet in
tears, and shame, and bitter distress. He raised her, and put her
head on his breast, and tried to still her sobbing.
"Catherine," he said, with his own voice broken, "you shall never be
an outcast from my house, so long as you care to accept its shelter."
"But I cannot go back to Airlie--I cannot go back to Airlie!" she
said, almost wildly. "I will not bring disgrace upon you, uncle; and
have the people talk of me, and blame you for taking me back. I am
going away--I am not fit to go back to Airlie! You have been very
good to me--far better than I deserve; but I cannot tell you now that
I love you for all your kindness to me--for now it is a disgrace for
me to speak to any one----"
"Hush, Catherine," he said. "It is penitence, not despair, that must
fill your heart. And the penitent has not to look to man for pardon,
nor yet to fear what may be said of him in wrath. They that go
elsewhere for forgiveness and comfort have no reason to dread the
ill-tongues of their neighbours. 'They looked unto Him, and were
lightened; and their faces were not ashamed. This poor man cried,
and the Lord heard him, and saved him out of all his troubles.' Out
of all of them, Catherine. You will go back to Airlie with me, my
bairn. Perhaps you do not feel at home there yet--three years is not
a long time to get accustomed to a new country. I am told ye
sometimes cried in thinking about France, just as the Jews in
captivity did, when they said, 'By the rivers of Babylon, there we
sat down; yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion.' But maybe I have
erred in not making the house lichtsome enough for ye. I am an old
man; and the house is dull, perhaps. But if ye will tell me how we
can make it pleasanter to ye----"
"Oh, uncle, you are breaking my heart with your kindness!" she
sobbed; "and I deserve none of it--none of it!"
It was with great difficulty that the Minister persuaded her to go
back with him to the Manse. At length, however, a covered carriage
was procured, and Coquette and her uncle were driven up to Airlie.
The girl sat now quite silent and impassive; only when she saw any
one of the neighbours coming along the road, she seemed nervously
anxious to avoid scrutiny. When they got up to the gate of the
Manse, which was open, she walked quietly and sadly by her uncle's
side across the bit of garden into the house, and was then for going
upstairs by herself. Her uncle prevented her.
"Ye must come and sit wi' me for a little while, until Leezibeth has
got some breakfast ready for ye."
"I do not want anything to eat," said Coquette; and she seemed afraid
of the sound of her own voice.
"Nevertheless," said the Minister, "I would inquire further into this
matter, Catherine. It is but proper that I should know what measure
of guilt falls upon that young man in endeavouring to wean away a
respectable girl from her home and her friends."
Coquette drew back, with some alarm visible on her face.
"Uncle, I cannot tell you now. Some other time perhaps; but not
now--not now. And you must not think him guilty, uncle--it is I who
am guilty of it all--he is much better than any of you think--and now
he is away to America, and no one will defend him if he is accused."
At the moment that she spoke, Lord Earlshope was beyond the reach of
accusation and defence. The Saltcoats people, towards the afternoon,
discovered the lid of a chest floating about, and on it was painted
in white letters the word _Caroline_. Later, there came a telegram
from Greenock to the effect that during the preceding night the
schooner yacht _Caroline_ had been run down and sunk in mid-channel,
by a steamer going to Londonderry; and that, of all on board the
yacht, the steamer had been able to pick up only one of the crew.
And that same night the news made its way up to Airlie, and
circulated through the village, and at length reached the Manse.
Other rumours accompanied it. For the moment, no one dared to tell
Coquette of what had happened; but none the less was her flight from
the Manse connected with this terrible judgment; and even Leezibeth,
struck dumb with shame and grief, had no word of protest when Andrew
finished his warnings and denunciations.
"There is no healing of thy bruise," said Leezibeth to herself sadly,
in thinking of Coquette. "Thy wound is grievous: all that hear the
bruit of thee shall clap the hands over thee."