Chapter LIV: Husband and Wife

So blinded by his exceeding happiness was the Whaup, that for a little time he could scarcely tell how the rapid change of scene and incident following their marriage was affecting Coquette's health and spirits. He was so near her now, tending her with an extreme and anxious care, that he could not regard her critically and judge whether the old sad look was leaving her eyes. Did she not express her pleasure at the various things she saw? Was she not so very kind and affectionate towards him that he had to protest against her little submissive attentions, and point out that it was his business to wait upon her, not hers to wait upon him?

They went to Edinburgh first; and then to Westmoreland; and then to London, which was in the height of the season. And they strolled into the Park on the summer mornings and on the busier afternoons; and sat on the little green chairs under the lime-trees; and looked at the brilliant assemblage of people there--Cabinet Ministers, actresses, Gun-club heroes, authors, artists, and all the rank and file of fashion. So eager was the Whaup to interest his companion, that it is to be feared he made rather random shots in identifying the men and women who were cantering up and down, and conferred high official dignities on harmless country gentlemen who were but simple M.P.'s.

"There are many pretty ladies here," said Coquette, with a smile, "and yet you do not seem to know one."

"I know one who is prettier than them all put together," said the Whaup, with a glow of pride and admiration in his face; and then he added, "I say, Coquette, how did you manage to dress just like those people when you lived away down in Airlie? I think you must have sent surreptitiously to London for the dresses that used to astonish the quiet kirk-folk. Then you always had the knack of wearing a flower or a rosebud here or there, just as those ladies do, only I don't think any flowers are so becoming as those little yellow blossoms that are on a certain little white bonnet that a particular little woman I know wears at this moment."

"Ah, it is of no use," said Coquette, with a sigh of resignation. "I have tried--I have lectured--I have scolded--it is of no use. You do not know the rudeness of talking of people's dresses, and paying them rough compliments about their prettiness, and making inquiries which gentlemen have nothing to do with. I have tried to teach you all this--and you will not learn--and you do not know that you have very savage manners."

"Coquette," said he, "if you say another word I will kiss you."

"And I should not be surprised," she answered, with the slightest possible shrug. "I do not think you have any more respect for the public appearances than when you did torment the people at Airlie. You are still a boy--that is true--and I do wonder you will not sing aloud now, 'Come lasses and lads,' or some such folly. You have grown--yes. You wear respectable clothes and a hat,--but it is I who have made you dress like other people instead of the old careless way. You do know something more--but it is all got out of books. What are you different from the tall, big, coarse, rude boy who did break windows, and rob gardens, and frighten people at Airlie?"

"How am I different?" said the Whaup. "Well, I used to be bullied by a schoolmaster; but now I'm bullied by a schoolmistress; and she's the worse of the two. That's all the change I've made."

And sometimes, when they had gone on in this bantering fashion for a while, she would suddenly go up to him--if they were indoors, that is to say--and put her hand on his arm and timidly hope that she had not annoyed him. At first the Whaup laughed at the very notion of his being vexed with her, and dismissed the tender little penitent with a rebuke and a kiss; but by-and-by he grew to dread these evidences of a secret wish to please him and be submissive. He began to see how Coquette had formed some theory of what her duties were, and continually referred to this mental table of obligations rather than to her own spontaneous impulses of the moment. She seemed to consider that such and such things were required of her; and while there was something to him very touching in her mute obedience, and in her timid anticipation of his wishes, he would rather have beheld her the high-spirited Coquette of old, with her arch ways, and her fits of rebellion and independence.

"Coquette," he said, "I will not have you wait upon me like this. It is very kind of you, you know; but it is turning the world upside down. It is my business to wait on you, and see that everything is made nice for you, and have you treated like a queen. And when you go about like that, and bother yourself to serve me, I feel as uncomfortable as the beggars in old times must have felt who had their feet washed by a pious princess. I won't have my Coquette disguised as a waiting-maid."

"You are very good to me," she said.

"Nonsense!" he replied. "Who could help being good to you, Coquette? You seem to have got into your head some notion that you owe kindness and thoughtfulness to the people around you; whereas you are conferring a benefit on everybody by being merely what you are, and showing those around you what a good thing is a good woman. Why should you have this exaggerated humility? Why should you play the part of a penitent?"

Was she playing the part of a penitent? he sometimes asked himself. Had she not forgotten the events of that bygone time which seemed, to him at least, a portion of a former existence? When the Whaup and his young wife returned to Glasgow, he had more leisure to speculate on this matter; and he came to the conclusion that not only had she forgotten nothing, but that a sombre shadow from the past was ever present to her and hung continually over her life.

In no way did she lessen her apparent desire to be dutiful and submissive and attentive to him. The Whaup, who could have fallen at her feet and kissed them in token of the love and admiration he felt for the beautiful young life that was only now revealing to him all its hidden graces of tenderness, and purity, and rectitude, could not bear to have Coquette become his slave.

"And may I not show to you that I am grateful to you for all your kindness ever since I did come to this country?" she said.

"Grateful to me!" he cried. "Coquette, you don't know your own value!"

"But if it pleases me to be your servant?" she said.

"It does not please me," he retorted; "and I won't have it."

"Voyez un peu ce tyran!" said Coquette, and the Whaup laughed and gave in.

It may be supposed that that was not a very unhappy household in which the only ground of quarrel between husband and wife was as to which should be the more kind and attentive to the other. And indeed, to all outward semblance, the Whaup was the luckiest of men; and his friends who did not envy him rejoiced at his good fortune; and bore unanimous testimony to the sweetness and gentleness and courtesy of the small lady who received them at his house. It was noticed, it is true, that she was very quiet and reserved at times; and that occasionally, when she had somehow withdrawn out of the parlour circle, silent and _distraite_, her husband would follow her with anxious looks, and would even go to her side and endeavour to wean her back into the common talk. As for his affection for her, and pride in her rare beauty and accomplishments, and devotion to her, all were the subject of admiration and encomium among the women of many households. He never sought to conceal his sentiments on that score. On the rare occasions when he visited a friend's house without her, all his talk was of Coquette, and her goodness, and her gentle ways. Then he endeavoured to draw around her as many friends as possible, so that their society might partly supply the void caused by his professional absences; but Coquette did not care for new acquaintances, and declared she had always plenty of occupation for herself while he was away, and did not wish the distraction of visits.

Down in the old Manse of Airlie the Minister heard of his son and of Coquette through various channels; and he was rejoiced beyond measure. Lady Drum was so affected by her own description of the happiness of these two young people, that in the middle of her narration she burst into tears; and a sort of sob at the door might have let the Minister know that Leezibeth had been listening. The Minister, indeed, paid a brief visit to Glasgow some few weeks after Coquette's return, and was quite overwhelmed by the affectionate attentions of his daughter-in-law.

"Surely," he said to Lady Drum, the evening before he set out for home again, "surely the Lord has blessed this house. It has never been my good fortune to dwell under a roof that seemed to look down on so much of kindliness, and charitable thoughts, and well-doing; and it would ill become me not to say how much of this I attribute to her who is now more than ever a daughter to me."

"When I come to speak of her," said Lady Drum, "and of the way she orders the house, and of her kindness to every one around her, and of her conduct towards her husband, I am fair at a loss for words."

The bruit of all these things reached even down to Airlie; and the Schoolmaster was at length induced, being in Glasgow on a certain occasion, to call on the Minister's son. The Whaup received his ancient enemy with royal magnanimity; compelled him to stop the night at his house; gave him as much toddy as was good for an elder; while Coquette, at her husband's request, left her fancy-work and played for them some old Scotch airs. By-and-by she left them to themselves; and, warmed with the whisky, the Schoolmaster imparted a solemn and mysterious secret to his remaining companion.

"You are a young man, sir, and have no knowledge, or, as I may term it, experience, of the great and wonderful power of public opeenion. Nor yet, considering your opportunities, is it likely, or, as one might say, probable, that ye pay sufficient deference to the reputation that your neebors may accord ye. Nevertheless, sir, reputation is a man's public life, as his own breath is his private life. Now, I will not conceal from ye, Mr. Thomas, that evil apprehensions have been entertained, or even, one might say, expressed, in your native place, regarding one who holds an important position as regards your welfare----"

With which the Whaup bounced up from his chair.

"Look here!" said he. "Do you mean my wife, Mr. Gillespie? Don't think I care a rap for the drivelling nonsense that all the old women in Airlie may talk; but if a man mentions anything of the kind to me, by heavens, I'll throw him out of the window!"

"Bless me!" cried the Schoolmaster, also rising, and putting his hands before him as if to defend himself. "What's the use o' such violence? I meant no harm. On the contrary, I was going to say, man, that it would be my bounden duty when I get back to Airlie to set my face against all such reports, and testify to the great pleasure I have experienced in seeing ye mated wi' such a worthy, and amiable, and----"

Here the Schoolmaster's encomium was cut short by the entrance of Coquette herself, who had returned for something she had forgotten; and a more acute observer might have noticed that no sooner was her footfall heard at the door than all the anger fled from the Whaup's face, and he only laughed at Mr. Gillespie's protestations of innocence.

"You must forgive me," said the Whaup, good-naturedly. "You know, I married one of the daughters of Heth; and so I had to expect that the good folks at Airlie would be deeply grieved."

"A daughter of Heth!" said Mr. Gillespie. "Indeed, I remember that grumbling body, Andrew Bogue, makin' use o' some such expression on the very day ye were married; but if the daughters o' Heth were such as she is, Rebekah need not have put herself about, or, in other words, been so apprehensive of her son's future."

And the Schoolmaster was as good as his word; and took down to Airlie such a description of the Whaup and his bride as became a subject of talk in the village for many a day. And so the patience and the gentleness of Coquette bore their natural fruit, and all men began to say all good things of her.

There was one man only who regarded this marriage with doubt, and sometimes with actual fear, who was less sure than all the others that Coquette was happy, and who looked to the future with an anxious dread. That one man was the Whaup himself. With a slow and sad certainty, the truth dawned on him that he had not yet won Coquette's love; that he was powerless to make her forget that she had married him in order to please him; and that, behind all her affectionate and friendly demonstrations towards himself, there lay over her a weight of despair. The discovery caused him no paroxysm of grief, for it was made gradually; but in time it occupied his constant thoughts, and became the dark shadow of his life. For how was he to remove this barrier that stood between himself and Coquette? The great yearning of love he felt towards her was powerless to awaken any response but that mute, animal-like faithfulness and kindliness that dwelt in her eyes whenever she regarded him. And it was for her, rather than for himself, that he was troubled. He had hurried on the marriage, hoping a change of scene and of interest would break in on the monotony of sadness that was evidently beginning to tell on the girl's health. He had hoped, too, that he would soon win her over to himself by cutting her away from those old associations. What was the result? He looked at the pale and calm face, and dared not confess to himself all that he feared.

One evening, entering suddenly, he saw that she tried to avoid him and get out of the room. He playfully intercepted her, and found, to his astonishment, that she had been crying.

"What is the matter, Coquette?" he said.

"Nothing," she answered. "I was sitting by myself--and thinking, that is all."

He took both her hands in his, and said, with an infinite sadness in his look--

"Do you know, Coquette, that for some time back I have been thinking that our marriage has made you miserable."

"Ah, do not say that!" she said, piteously looking up in his face. "I am not miserable if it has made you happy."

"And do you think I can be happy when I see you trying to put a good face on your wretchedness, and yet with your eyes apparently looking on the next world all the time? Coquette, this is driving me mad. What can I do to make you happy? Why are you miserable? Won't you tell me? You know I won't be angry, whatever it is. Is there nothing we can do to bring you back to the old Coquette, that used to be so bright and cheerful? Coquette, to look at you going about from day to day in that sad and resigned way, never complaining, and always pretending to be quite content--I can't bear it, my darling."

"You must not think that I am miserable," she said, very gently, and then she left the room. He looked after her for a moment; then he sank into a chair; and covered his face with his hands.