Chapter XLIV: Coquette's Forebodings

Sir Peter was standing at the window, aimlessly whistling, when his wife came in so hurriedly that he at once turned to see what was the matter. Indeed, she advanced upon him with such an air that he rather drew back, and certainly stopped his whistling.

"Are you a man?" she said, with wrath in her voice.

"I hope so," said Sir Peter, innocently.

"Then you know what you have to do. You have to go at once to Lord Earlshope--I have scarcely the patience to name him--and tell him what every honest man and woman thinks of him--what it is he deserves for conduct unworthy of an African savage----"

"Good heavens!" cried Sir Peter, "Do you want me to commit murder, or what? I am not Macbeth, and I won't be goaded into murdering anybody--"

It was Coquette who interposed. She had followed into the room immediately after Lady Drum, and she now came up.

"It is all a mistake, Sir Peter," she said, with perfect self-command. "I did tell Lady Drum something--she did not wait to hear it all. Lord Earlshope has done nothing to be blamed--it is a misapprehension--a mistake."

"Why, Lord Earlshope is a married man!" said Lady Drum, hotly.

"That may be a crime, my dear," said Sir Peter, mildly; "but it is one that brings with it its own punishment."

"Lady Drum," said Coquette, in an imploring voice, "I do wish you to come away. I will explain it all to you. Indeed, have I not the right to say you shall not tell any one what I have told you?"

"Certainly," said Sir Peter. "Who wants to betray a young lady's secrets? Take her away, my dear child, and pacify her: I am afraid to meddle with her."

Lady Drum stood irresolute. On the one side was the beseeching of Coquette, on the other was the feather-brained husband, who apparently would not interest himself in anything but his lunch and his dinner. Yet the brave old Scotchwoman had a glow of indignation burning in her cheeks, over the wrong which she deemed to have been committed towards the girl intrusted to her charge. Coquette put her hand on her arm, and gently led her away from the room.

"That's right," said Sir Peter to them, as he turned to his drumming on the window-panes, "keep your secrets to yourselves--they are dangerous property to lend. I don't want to hear any mysteries. I am for an easy life."

But Lady Drum was in no such careless mood; and very piteously Coquette had to beg of her not to make an exposure of the matter. Indeed, the girl besought her so earnestly that Lady Drum was driven into warm language to defend herself, and at last she used the word "infamous." Then Coquette rose up, quite pale and proud, and said--

"I am sorry you think that, Lady Drum. Why? Because I must go from your house. If he is infamous, I am infamous too, for I do not think he has done any wrong."

"Not done wrong!" cried the old lady. "Not done wrong! A married man who trifles wi' the affections of a young girl!"

"He did not do so," said Coquette, calmly. "It was a misfortune that happened to us both--that is all. You do not know the pain and misery it has caused him; nor his other troubles; nor how we had determined not to see each other again. Ah, you do not understand it at all, if you think he is to blame. He is very miserable, that is what I know--that is enough for me to know; and if he has done wrong, I have too; and yet, Lady Drum, if my mamma were here, I would go down on my knees before her, and I would tell her all about it from the first day at Airlie, and I do know she would not be angry with me for what I have done----"

Coquette turned away her head. Lady Drum went to her and drew her nearer to her, and hid her head in her arms.

"You are very unfortunate, my poor girl--for you are fond of him yet, are you not?"

"Oh, Lady Drum!" she cried wildly, bursting into tears, "I do love him better than everything in the world--and I cannot help it--and now he is gone, I shall never see him again, neither here nor at Airlie, for he will not go back to Airlie--and all I wish now is that I might be dead, and not wake up morning after morning to think of him far away----"

"Hush, child!" said the old woman, gravely. "You do not know what these wild words mean. You must teach yourself not to think of him. It is a sin to think of him."

"But if I cannot help it," sobbed the girl; "if it always comes back to me--all that happened at Airlie--and when we were sailing in the summer time--how can I help thinking of him, Lady Drum? It is hard enough if I do not see him--and I would like to see him only once, to say that I am sorry for him--and that, whatever people may say, I know, and I will remember, that he was a good man--and very gentle to me--and very kind to all people, as you know, Lady Drum----"

"You must think less of him, and more of yourself, my girl," said the old lady, kissing her tenderly. "It is a misfortune that has fallen ower ye, as you say; but you are young yet, with plenty o' life and spirits in ye, and ye must determine to cure yourself o' an infatuation which is dangerous beyond speaking or thinking. Coquette, what for do ye look like that? Are ye in a trance? Bestir yourself, my lassie--listen, listen, there is your cousin come, and he is talking to Sir Peter in the hall."

"My cousin?"

"Yes."

Coquette shuddered, and turned away her head.

"I cannot see him. Tell him, Lady Drum, I go back to Airlie to-morrow; and I will see him when he comes in the autumn--perhaps."

"Why do you say 'perhaps' like that, Coquette?"

"The autumn is a long way off, is it not? Perhaps he will not be able to see me; but I shall be at Airlie then; and perhaps I shall know that he has come into the churchyard to look for me."