THE PALE BRIDE.
The Whaup telegraphed to Dr. Menzies for permission to remain in
Airlie another couple of days, and received it. He made good use of
his time. Some brief conversation he had with Leezibeth in regard to
Coquette quickened his resolve. He went to his father, too, and told
him of his wishes.
The old man could at first scarce credit this strange announcement.
He had never even suspected his son of being particularly fond of
Coquette; and now his first idea was that the Whaup, in an
exceptionally chivalrous fashion, had proposed to marry her as an
answer to the evil rumours that were afloat. He was soon disabused
on this point. Confidences at such a crisis, between father and son,
are somewhat embarrassing things, particularly in most Scotch
households, where reticence on all matters of the affections is the
established law; but the Whaup was too deeply in earnest to think of
himself. With a good deal of rough eloquence, and even a touch of
pathos here and there, he pleaded the case of Coquette and himself;
and at the end of it the Minister, who was evidently greatly
disturbed, said he would consider the subject in privacy. The Whaup
left his father's study with a light heart; he knew that the
Minister's deep-seated tenderness for his niece would carry the day,
were all Airlie to sign a protest.
The Whaup was in the garden. His brothers were at school; Coquette
had disappeared, he knew not whither; and he was amusing himself by
whistling in reply to a blackbird hid in a holly tree. The Minister
came out of the house, and gravely walked up to his son, and said--
"You have done well in this matter. I do not say that, under other
circumstances, I might not have preferred seeing you marry a wife of
your own country, and one accustomed to our ways and homely fashion
of living, and, above all, one having more deeply at heart our own
traditions of faith. But your duty to your own kinswoman--who is
suffering from the suspicions of the vulgar--must count for
something----"
"But what counts most of all, father," said the Whaup--who would not
have it thought he was conferring a favour on Coquette--"is her own
rare excellence. Where could I get a wife like her? I don't care
twopence-farthing for all that Airlie, and a dozen neighbouring
parishes, may think or say of her, when I know her to be what she is.
And you know what she is, father; and the best thing you can do for
her is to persuade her to be married as soon as possible--for I mean
to take her away from here, and see if I cannot break that sort of
dead calm that seems to have settled over her."
"The Manse will be very lonely without her," said the Minister.
"Look here, father," said the Whaup, with a great lump rising in his
throat, "the Manse would be very lonely if she were to remain as she
is much longer. Leezibeth says she eats nothing--she never goes
out--only that dull, uncomplaining monotony of sadness, and the
listless days, and the reading of religious books. I know how that
would end if it went on--and I don't mean to let Coquette slip out of
our fingers like that--and I----"
The Whaup could say no more. He turned aside, and began to kick the
gravel with his foot. The Minister put his hand on his son's
shoulder and said--
"My boy, you may have more watchful eyes than mine in such matters;
and, if this be as you suspect, I will use all my influence with her,
although her marriage will make a great difference to me."
The Whaup, however, was not one to have his wooing done by proxy.
During the remainder of his brief stay in Airlie, he urged Coquette
with gentleness, and yet with earnestness, to fix a time for their
marriage. At first she was startled by the proposal, and avoided it
in a frightened way; but at length she seemed to be won over by his
representations and entreaties. He did not tell her his secret
reason for thus hurrying on her departure from Airlie. It was
entirely as securing his own happiness that he drew pleasant pictures
of the future; that he sat and talked to her of all she would see
when they went away together; that he endeavoured to win her consent.
Then, on the last evening of his visit, they were in a corner of the
hushed parlour, speaking in low tones, so as not to disturb the
reading of the Minister.
"I do think it is a great misfortune that you are so fond of me," she
said, looking at him with rather wistful eyes; "but it seems as if
the world were all misfortune; and if it will make you happy for me
to marry you, I will do that; for you have always been very kind to
me; and it is very little that I can do in return; but if this will
please you, I am glad; and I will make you as good a wife as I can."
That was her reply to his entreaties; and, in token of her obedience,
she took his hand and pressed it to her lips. There was something in
this mute surrender that was inexpressibly touching to the Whaup; and
for a moment his conscience smote him; and he asked himself if he
were not exacting too much of a sacrifice from this tender-hearted
girl, who sat pale and resigned even in the moment of settling her
marriage day.
"Coquette," said he, "am I robbing you of any other happiness that
you could hope for? Is there any other prospect in life that you are
secretly wishing for?"
"There is not," she said, calmly.
"None?"
"None."
"Then I will make this way of it as happy for you as I possibly can.
And when, Coquette? You have never named a time yet."
"Let it be whenever you please," she answered, looking down.
The Whaup rose, and pulled himself up to his full height, as if, for
the first time, he could breathe freely.
"Father," said he, "have you any objection to my going across the
moor and ringing the church bell?"
The Minister looked up from his MSS.
"We are going to have a wedding in the Manse in two or three weeks,"
said the Whaup.
Coquette went over to the old man's chair, and knelt down by his
side, and took his hand in hers.
"I shall be sorry to lose you, Catherine; but I trust you will be
more cheerful and happy in your new home than you could be in this
dull house."
"You have been very kind to me, uncle," she said.
With that, the Whaup went outside, and clambered up into the hayloft,
and roused his brothers, who were in bed, if not all asleep.
"Get up, the whole of you!" he said; "get on your clothes, and come
into the house. Look sharp--there's something for you to hear."
Leezibeth was alarmed by the invasion of the Manse which took place
shortly thereafter; and came running to what had brought the boys in
at that time of night. The Whaup bade Leezibeth come into the
parlour to witness the celebration; and they were introduced by the
Whaup--who made a pretty speech--to their future sister-in-law; and
they were ordered to give her good wishes; and then they all sat down
to a sumptuous, if hastily prepared, banquet of currant bun, with a
glass of raspberry wine to each of them. Coquette was pleased; and
the tinge of colour that came to her cheeks made the Whaup think she
was beginning to look like a bride. As for the boys, they expressed
their delight chiefly by grinning and showing their white teeth as
they ate the cake; one of them only remarking confidentially--
"We a' kenned this would be the end o't."
The chorus of laughter which greeted this remark showed that it
expressed a general sentiment. Nor was their merriment lessened when
the Whaup cut off a very small piece of cake, and said to Leezibeth--
"Take this to Andrew, with my compliments. He will be delighted with
the news."
"Andrew or no Andrew," said Leezibeth, who seemed rather inclined to
cry out of pure sympathy; "ye may be a proud man on your wedding day,
Maister Tammas; and ye'll take good care o' her, and bring her
sometimes down to Airlie, where there's some maybe that likes her
better than they can just put into words."
And so it was that, on a fresh June morning, when the earth lay warm
and silent in the bright sunshine, and the far sea was as blue and
clear as the heart of a sapphire, Coquette arrayed herself in white
garments. There was a great stir about the Manse that morning; and
the boys were dressed in their Sunday clothes. Flowers were all
about the place; and many innocent little surprises in the way of
decoration had been planned by the Whaup himself. The Manse looked
quite bright, indeed; and Leezibeth had assumed an unwonted
importance.
Coquette's bridesmaids were the Misses Menzies; and the Doctor was
there too; also Lady Drum and Sir Peter. According to the custom of
the country, the marriage was to take place in the house; and when
they had all assembled in the largest room, the bride walked slowly
in, followed by her bridesmaids.
In a church, amid a crowd of spectators, there would have been a
murmur of wonder and admiration over the mysterious and pensive
beauty of this delicately modelled girl, whose dark and wistful eyes
seemed all the darker by reason of the snowy whiteness of her dress,
and the paleness of the pearls that shone in the splendid luxuriance
of her hair. But her friends there almost forgot how beautiful she
was in regarding the expression of her face--so immovably calm it
was, so strangely sad. Lady Drum's heart was touched with a sudden
fear. This was not the look of a bride; but the look of a woman--far
too young to have any such expression--who seemed to have abandoned
all hope in this world. She was not anxious, or perturbed, or pale
through any special excitement or emotion; she stood throughout the
long and tedious service as though she were unconscious of what was
happening; and, when it was over, she received the congratulations of
those around her as though she had awakened out of a dream.
The Whaup, too, noticed this look; but he had seen much of it lately;
and was only rendered the more anxious to take her away and lighten
her spirits by change of scene. And now that he found himself able
to do so, he was full of confidence. There was no misgiving in his
look. As he stood there, taller by a head than his own father, with
his light-brown hair thrown carelessly back from a face bright with
health and the tanning of the sun, it was apparent that the
atmosphere of the great city had not had much effect on the lithe,
and stalwart, and vigorous frame. And his voice was as gentle as
that of a woman when he went forward, for the first time after the
ceremony, and said to Coquette--
"You are not tired with standing so long, Coquette?"
She started slightly. Then--perhaps noticing that the eyes of her
bridesmaids were upon her, and recollecting that she ought to wear a
more cheerful expression--she smiled faintly, and said--
"You must not call me that foolish name any more. It is part of the
old time when we were girl and boy together."
"But I shall never find any name for you that I shall like better,"
said he.
About an hour thereafter all preparations had been made for their
departure; and the carriage was waiting for them. There was a great
shaking of hands, and kissing, and leave-taking; and then, last of
all, the Minister stood by the gate as Coquette came out.
"Good-bye, my dear daughter," he said, placing his hand on her head;
"may He that watched over Jacob, and followed him in all his
wanderings with blessings, watch over and bless you at all times and
in all places!"
Coquette's lips began to tremble. She had maintained her composure
to the last; but now, as she kissed her uncle, she could not say
farewell in words; and when at length she was driven away, she
covered her face with her hands and burst into tears.
"Coquette," said her husband, "are you sorry, after all, to leave
Airlie?"
There was no answer but the sound of her sobbing.