Chapter LV: The Churchyard on the Moor

At last it occurred to him that Coquette ought to be told of Lord Earlshope's death. He would not confess to himself the reason why such a thought arose in his mind; but endeavoured, on the contrary, to persuade himself that there was no further need for holding back that old secret. He and Coquette were at Airlie at the time, on their first visit after their marriage. The Minister was anxious to see his daughter-in-law; and the Whaup, while she stayed there, would take occasional runs down. So Coquette was staying at the Manse.

"I cannot get her to go out as she used to do," said the Minister, the first time the Whaup arrived from Glasgow. "She seems better pleased to sit at the window by herself and look over the moor; and Leezibeth tells me she is in very low spirits, and does not look particularly well. It is a pity she dislikes going out; it is with difficulty I can get her even into the garden; and once or twice she has shown a great repugnance to going anywhere near Earlshope, so you must not propose to go in that direction in asking her to accompany you."

Then the Whaup said, with averted eyes: "You know she is not aware of Lord Earlshope having been drowned, and she may be afraid of meeting him. Suppose we tell her of what happened to the yacht?"

"I am of opinion it would be most advisable," said the Minister.

The Whaup got Coquette to go out and sit in the garden; and there, while they were by themselves, he gently told her of the loss of the _Caroline_. The girl did not speak nor stir; only she was very pale; and he noticed that her hand was tightly clenched on the arm of the wooden seat. By-and-by she rose and said--

"I should like to walk down to Saltcoats, if you will come."

"To Saltcoats!" said her husband. "You are not strong enough to walk all that way and back, Coquette."

"Very well," she said, submissively.

"But if you very much want to go we could drive, you know," said he.

"Yes, I should like to go," she said.

So the Whaup, late as it was in the afternoon, got out the dog-cart, and drove her away to the old-fashioned little seaport town which they had together visited in bygone years. He put the horse up at the very inn that he and Coquette had visited; and then he asked her if she wished to go for a stroll through the place. Her slightest wish was a command to him. They went out together; and insensibly she led him down to the long bay of brown sand on which a heavy surf was now breaking. She had spoken but little; her eyes were wistful and absent; and she seemed to be listening to the sound of the waves.

"It blows too roughly here, Coquette," said he. "You won't go down on the beach?"

"No," she said. "Here I can see more, and hear more."

For a considerable time she stood and looked far over the heaving plain of water, which was of a dark green colour, under the cloudy evening sky. And then she shuddered slightly, and turned to go away.

"You are not vexed with me for coming?" she said. "And you know why I did come."

"I am not vexed with anything you do, Coquette," he answered her.

"It is his grave," she said, looking once more over the wild waste of waters. "It is a terrible grave; for there are voices in it, and cries, like drowning people; and yet one man out there would go down and down, and you would hear no voice. I am afraid of the sea."

"Coquette," he said, "why do you tremble so? You must come away directly, or you will catch cold--the wind blows so fiercely here."

But on their way back to Airlie, this trembling had increased to violent fits of shuddering; and then all at once Coquette said faintly--

"I do feel that I should wish to be still and go to sleep. Will you put me down by the roadside, and leave me there awhile, and you can go on to Airlie?"

"Why, do you know what you are saying, Coquette? Go on to Airlie, and leave you here?"

She did not answer him; and he urged on the pony with all speed, until at length they reached the Manse.

"Tom," she said, "I think you must carry me in."

He lifted her down from the vehicle, and carried her like a child into the house; and then, when Leezibeth brought a light, he uttered a slight cry on finding that Coquette was insensible. But presently life returned to her, and a quick and flushed colour came to her face. She was rapidly got to bed; and the Minister, who had a vivid recollection of the feverish attack from which she had suffered in the north, proposed that a doctor from Saltcoats should be sent for.

"I will telegraph to Dr. Menzies," said the Whaup, scarcely knowing what he said, only possessed by some wild notion that he would form a league to drive off this subtle enemy that had approached Coquette.

All that followed that memorable evening was a dream to him. He knew, because he was told, and because he himself could see, that the fever was laying a deeper and deeper hold on a system which was dangerously weak. Day after day he went about the house; and, as Coquette got worse, he scarcely realised it. It was to him as though a weight out of the sky were crushing down the world, as if all things were slowly sinking into darkness. He was not excited, nor wild with grief; but he sat and watched Coquette's eyes; and seemed not to know the people who came into the room, or whom he met on the stairs.

The girl, in her delirium, had violent paroxysms of terror and shuddering, in which she seemed to see a storm rising around her, and waves threatening to overwhelm her; and then no one could soothe her like her husband. His mere presence seemed enough; for the old instinct of obedience still remained with her; and she became submissively quiet and silent in answer to his gentle entreaties.

"You are very good to me," she murmured absently to him one evening, half-recognising him although the delirium had not left her, "and I cannot thank you for it, but my mamma will do that when you come up to our house. We shall not stop in this country always?--when mamma is waiting for me in the garden, just over the river, you know.... And she has not seen you, but I will take you up to her, and say you have been very, very kind to me. I wish we could be there soon, for I am tired, and I do think this country is very dark, and the sea is so dreadful round about it--it goes round about it like a snake, that hisses, and raises its fierce head, and it has a white crest on its head and eyes of fire, and you see them glaring in the night-time. But one can get away from it; and hide close and quiet in the churchyard on the moor--yes, yes; and when you come in, Tom, by the small gate, you must listen, and whisper 'Coquette,' you know, just as you used to do when I lay on the sofa, and you wished to see if I were awake; and--and--if I cannot speak to you, it will be very hard, but I shall know you have brought me some flowers. And you will say to yourself, 'My poor Coquette would thank me if she could.'"

He laid his hand on her white fingers. He could not speak.

By-and-by the delirium left, and the fever abated; but the frail system had been shattered, and all around saw that she was slowly sinking. One night she beckoned her husband to come nearer, and he went to her, and took her thin hand in his.

"Am I going to die, Tom?" she asked, in a scarcely audible voice; and when, in answer, he only looked at her sad eyes, she said, "I am not sorry. It will be better for you and for every one. You will forgive me for all that happened at Airlie when you think of me in after-times; and you will not blame me because I could not make your life more happy to you--it was all a misfortune, my coming to this country----"

"Coquette, Coquette!" he said, beside himself with grief, "if you are going to die, I will go with you too--see, I will hold your hand, and when the gates are open, I will not let you go--I will go with you, Coquette!"

Scarce half an hour afterwards, the gates were opened, and she so quietly and silently passed through, that he only of all in the room knew that Coquette had gone away from them and bidden a last farewell to Airlie. They were startled to see him fling his arms in the air; and then as he sank down by the bed a low cry broke from his lips--"So near--so near! and I cannot go with her too!"

One day, in the early spring-time, you might have seen a man in the prime of youth and strength--yet with a strangely worn look on his face--enter the small churchyard on Airlie moor. He walked gently on, as if fearing to disturb the silence of the place; and at last he stood by the side of a grave on which were many spring flowers--snowdrops, and violets, and white crocuses. He, too, had some flowers in his hand; and he put them at the foot of the grave; and there were tears running down his face.

"These are for my Coquette," he said; "but she cannot hear me any more."

For a little while he lingered by the grave, and then he turned. And, lo! all around him was the fair and shining country that she had often looked on; and far away before him lay the sea, as blue and as still as on the morning when he and Coquette were married. How bright and beautiful was the world that thus lay under the clear sunshine, with all its thousand activities busily working, and its men and women joyously thinking of to-morrow, as if to-morrow were to be better than to-day. To him all the light and joy of the universe seemed to be buried in the little grave beside him; there would never come any morrow that could bring him back the wonder of the days that were. He walked to the gate of the churchyard, and, leaning on it, looked wistfully over the azure plain in which the mountains of Arran were mirrored.

"Why have they taken away from us the old dreams?" he said to himself, while his eyes were wet with bitter tears. "If one could only believe, as in the old time, that Heaven was a fair and happy island lying far out in that western sea, how gladly would I go away in a boat, and try to find my Coquette! Only to think that some day I might see the land before me, and Coquette coming down to the shore, with her face grown wonderful and calm, and her gentle eyes full of joy and of welcome. Only to believe that--only to look forward to that--would be enough; and if in the night-time a storm came, and I was sunk in the darkness, what matter, if I had been hoping to the last that I should see my Coquette?"

THE END.

LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
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