CONSENT.
Sharp and bitter was the talk that ran through Airlie about the
Minister's niece; and Coquette guessed at it; and shrank away from
the people; and would fain have hidden herself from the light, as one
accursed. Now indeed she knew what it was to have a ban placed upon
her; and all the old fearless consciousness of rectitude had gone; so
that she could no longer attempt to win over the people to her by
patience, and sweetness, and the charm of her pleasant ways. She had
fallen too far in her own esteem; and Leezibeth began to be alarmed
about the effects of that calm and reticent sadness, which had grown
to be the normal expression of Coquette's once light and happy face.
It was Leezibeth who unintentionally confirmed the worst surmises of
the villagers, by begging the Minister to conceal from Coquette the
knowledge of Earlshope's tragic death. The Minister, anxious above
all things for the girl's health, consented; and it then became
necessary to impose silence on those who were likely to meet Coquette
elsewhere. So it became known that mention of Lord Earlshope was not
to be made to this quiet and pale-faced girl, who still, in spite of
her sadness, had something of a proud air, and looked at people with
dark and troubled eyes, as though she would ask them what they
thought of her.
Whether this policy of silence were advisable or not, it was
certainly not very prudent to conceal from the Whaup likewise all
intelligence of what had happened. He had heard of Lord Earlshope's
death, of course; and was a little surprised to be asked not to
mention the matter in his letters to Coquette; but, beyond that, he
was in complete ignorance of all that had occurred at Airlie.
By-and-by however rumours came to him. He began to grow uneasy.
Finally, he saw Lady Drum; and she, seeing the necessity of being
explicit, told him everything in as gentle a way as she could.
"And so," he said, "my cousin is looked upon as an outcast; and the
good people of Airlie say evil things of her; and I suppose wonder
why she dares go into the church?"
Lady Drum made no reply; he had but described the truth.
Then the Whaup rose up, like a man, and said--
"Lady Drum, I am going down to Airlie to get Coquette to marry me;
and I will take her away from there; and the people may talk then
until their rotten tongues drop out."
Lady Drum rose too, and put her hand on his shoulder, and said
gently--
"If I were a man that is what I would do. Off wi' ye to Airlie
directly, and whether, she say yes or no, bring her away wi' ye as
your wife. That will mend a great many matters."
So the Whaup went down to Airlie; and all the way in the train his
heart was on fire with varied emotions of pity, and anger, and love;
and his brain was busy with plans and schemes. He would have liked
another year's preparation, perhaps; but his position now with regard
to Dr. Menzies was fully secured; and his income, if not a very big
one, sufficient for the meantime. And when he arrived at Airlie, and
reached the Manse, he made no inquiries of anybody; he went at once,
in his old straightforward way, into the room where he expected to
find Coquette.
Coquette was alone; and, when he opened the door, he found her eyes
fixed on him.
"Oh, Coquette, you are ill!" he said, seizing both her hands and
looking into her face.
"No," she said, "I am not ill. You must not vex yourself about
me--it is only I have not been much out of late."
"Ah, I know why you have not been out," he said; "and I am come down
to put all these things straight. Coquette, you must marry me now.
I won't go away unless you go with me as my wife. That is what I
have come down for."
The girl started, as though a whip had stung her; and now a flush of
shame and pain was visible in her face. She withdrew her hands from
his, and said, with her eyes cast down--
"I understand why you have come. You know what they say of me. You
wish to marry me to prove it is not true, and give me some better
opinion of myself. That is very good of you--it is what I did expect
of you--but--but I am too proud to be married in that way, and I do
not wish any sacrifice from anybody."
"What is the use of talking like that, Coquette?" he said,
impetuously. "What has sacrifice or pride got to do between you and
me? Why need you care what the people at Airlie, or the people all
over the world, think of you? I am going to take you away from here,
Coquette. I will teach you what to think of yourself, and then you
will talk no more of sacrifice. Sacrifice! If there is any
sacrifice, it is in your thinking of marrying a good-for-nothing
fellow like me. It is like a princess marrying a gamekeeper, or
something like that; and you talk of sacrifice, and what the wretched
idiots of a ridiculous little village think of you! It is absurd,
Coquette! It all comes of your being shut up here, and seeing
nothing, and being left to your own dreams. You are getting
distorted views of everything in this dismal place. It's like
conducting experiments in a vacuum: what you want is to get braced up
by the actual atmosphere of the world; and learn how things work
there; and discover the value that people will put upon you. What
can the croaking frogs of a marsh like this know of your value,
Coquette? Don't you remember how you went about Lady Drum's rooms
like a queen; and everybody waited on you; and I scarcely dared come
near you? Sacrifice! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Coquette!"
He spoke in the old and rapid fashion with which she used to be
familiar; and his cheeks were flushed with enthusiasm; and his
handsome face full of daring and confidence, as though he would have
laughed at her scruples and defied the world for her sake. Perhaps
he did not despise Airlie altogether as much as he said; but in the
hot haste of his eloquence there was no time to be particular, or
even just.
"You are as impetuous as ever; and you are as generous as ever; but
you are grown no wiser," she said, looking at him in a kindly way.
"For me, I have grown much older than when we went about here. I do
see many things differently; and just now I must tell you what is
right and best for both of us. You must not say any more about our
marriage; but go up to Glasgow again, and forget all about me. If it
is painful for you in the meantime, I am sorry; it will be better for
you by-and-by. If you did marry a wife who had not a good name among
all people--strangers as well--you might not care for a little while;
but you would remember of it afterwards; and that would be very
sorrowful for both."
With that she rose and would have passed him, and gone to the door.
But he stood in her way, and confronted her, and said, with a certain
formality of tone--
"You must answer me one question, Coquette, clearly and truthfully.
Is all that you say merely an excuse for breaking off our marriage
altogether?"
She looked surprised.
"Then you do no longer believe I speak the truth? An excuse--that is
something untrue. No--I have no need of excuses."
She would have left the room then; but he caught her hand and said--
"We are no longer children, Coquette. This is too serious a matter
to be settled by a mere misunderstanding or a quarrel. I want to
know if you have no other reason to postpone our marriage, or break
it up altogether, than the foolish talk that prevails in the village?"
"You do forget," she said, evidently forcing herself to speak in a
cold and determined manner, "that the people have some right to
talk--that I did go away from the Manse, expecting----"
She could get no further. She shuddered violently; and then, sitting
down, covered her face with her hands.
"I know all about that, Coquette," he said, sadly. "It was very
bitter for me to hear it----"
"And then you did come here, despising me, and yet wishing to marry
me, so that I might not be too cast down. It is very generous--but
you see it is impossible."
"And you mean that as a final answer, Coquette?"
She looked up into his face.
"Yes," she said, with her eyes fixed on his.
"Good-bye, then, Coquette," said he.
Anxious as was her scrutiny, she could not tell how he received this
announcement; but the tone in which he bade her good-bye went like a
knife through her heart. She held out her hand and said, or was
about to say, "Good-bye," when, somehow, she failed to reach his
hand, and the room swam round her. Then there was a space of blank
unconsciousness; followed by the slow breathing of returning life;
and she knew that he was bathing her forehead with a handkerchief and
cold water.
"You must not go away like that," she said to him, when she had
somewhat recovered; "I have not many friends."
And so, sitting down beside her, he began to tell her, in a gentle
and, at times, somewhat embarrassed voice, the story of his love for
her, and all the plans he had formed, and how his only hope in the
world was to marry her. He did not care what lay in the past; the
future was to be theirs; and he would devote himself to making her
once more the light-hearted Coquette of former days. He spoke to her
as if afraid to disturb her even by the urgency of his affection; and
while he talked in this low and earnest fashion, the girl's eyes were
wistful and yet pleased, as if she were looking at the pictures he
drew of a happy future for both of them, and beginning to believe in
their possibility.
"People have sorrows and disappointments, you know, Coquette," he
said; "and yet they forget them in great measure, for it is useless
to spend a lifetime in looking back. And people do weak things and
wrong things that haunt their conscience and trouble them bitterly;
but even these are lightened by time. And the ill opinion of the
world--that, too, gets removed by time; and all the old years, with
their griefs, and their follies, and mistakes, get wiped out. You
are too young to think that life has been irretrievably spoiled for
you. You have got another life to set out on; and you may depend on
my making it as pleasant and as happy as possible if you will only
give me the chance."
"You do talk as if it was my pleasure and happiness I did think of,"
said Coquette. "No--that is not so. When I did say I would not
marry you--it was for your sake; and then, when you seemed to be
going away estranged from me, I thought I would do anything to keep
you my friend. So I will now. Is that all true you say, my poor
boy, about your caring only for one thing in the world? Will your
life be wretched if I am not your wife? Because then I will marry
you, if you like."
"Ah! do you say that, Coquette?" he said, with a flash of joy in his
eyes.
There was no such joy visible on her face.
"If you could say to yourself," she added, calmly, "after a little
time, 'I will keep Coquette as my friend--as my best friend--but I
will marry some other one,' that would be better for you."
"It would be nothing of the kind," he said, cheerfully, "nor for you
either. I am about to set myself the task of transforming you,
Coquette; and in a year or two you won't know yourself!"
"In a year or two," she repeated, thoughtfully.
"You know I am a doctor now; and I am going to become your attendant
physician; and I will prescribe for you, Coquette, plenty of
amusement and holidays; and of course I will go with you to see that
my orders are obeyed. And you will forget everything that is past
and gone; for I will give you plenty to think about in managing the
details of the house, you know, and arranging for people coming to
see you in the evenings. And then, in the autumn-time, Coquette, you
will get as brown as a berry among the valleys and the mountains of
Switzerland; and if we come through France, you shall be interpreter
for me, and take the tickets, you know, and complain to the
landlords. All that, and ever so much more, lies before you; and
what we have to do in the meantime is to get you away from this
melancholy place, that has been making you wretched, and pale, and
sad. Now, Coquette, tell me when I am to take you away!"
She rose with almost an expression of anguish on her face.
"Ah, not yet, not yet!" she said. "You will think over it
first--perhaps you will alter your intentions."
"I shan't do anything of the kind, Coquette, unless you alter yours.
Mind you, I don't mean to goad you into marrying me; and if you say
now that it vexes you to think of it----"
"It does not vex me, if it will make you happy," she said.
"Then you don't wish to rescind your promise?"
"No, I do not wish it."
"And you will really become my wife, Coquette?"
She hesitated for a moment; then she said, in a low voice--
"I will be your wife if you wish it, and make you as happy as I can;
but not yet, Tom--not yet; and you must not be vexed if I cannot set
a time."
With that she left the room; and he flung himself into a chair to
ponder over his recollections of an interview which seemed very
strange and perplexing to him. "It does not vex me, if it will make
you happy"--that was all he could get her to say. No expression of
interest--no hopeful look--such as a girl naturally wears in talking
of her coming marriage. And these moods of fear, of despondency,
even bordering on wild despair, what did they mean?
"There is something altogether wrong in her relations with the people
around her," he said. "She seems to labour under a burden of
self-constraint and of sadness which would in another year kill a far
stronger woman than she is. The place does not suit her--the people
don't suit her. Everything seems to have gone wrong; and the
Coquette I see bears no resemblance to the Coquette who came here a
few years ago. Whatever it is that is wrong, our marriage will solve
the problem, and transfer her to a new sphere and new associations."
The Whaup endeavoured to reassure himself with these anticipations;
but did not quite succeed, for there was a vague doubt and anxiety
hanging about his mind which would not be exorcised.