Chapter V: Coquette's Music

What was this great rushing and whistling noise that filled the girl's ears as the light of the morning--entering by a small window which had no sort of blind or shutter--fell on her face and opened her confused eyes to its glare? She had been dreaming of Earlshope. Dreams are but _rechauffés_ of past experiences; and this ghostly Earlshope that she had visited in her sleep was a French Earlshope. The broad blue Loire ran down a valley in front of it. There were hills for a background which had long terraces of vines on them. From the windows she could see the steamers--mere dots with a long serpent trail of smoke behind them--creep into the haven of St. Nazaire; and far over the sea lay the calm summer stillness of a southern sky.

She awoke to find herself in Scotland. The Manse shook in the wind. There was a roaring of rain on the slates and on the window panes; and a hissing outside told of the deluge that was pouring a red stream down the moorland road. Fierce gusts from the south-west flew about the house, and howled in the chimney; great grey masses of cloud, riven by the hurricane, came up from the sea and swept across the moor. The room was cold and damp. When she had partly dressed, she went to the window. Along the horizon there was a thin black line, dull as lead, which was all that was visible of the sea. The mountains of Arran had entirely vanished, and in their place was a wall of grey vapour. Flying before the blast came those huge volumes of smoke-like cloud; and every now and again their lower edges would be torn down by the wind and hurled upon the moor in heavy, slanting torrents of rain; while there was a sound of rushing water everywhere; and the trees and shrubs of the garden bent and shivered in the gleaming wet.

"No Earlshope for ye to-day," said the Whaup, with ill-disguised glee, when she went down-stairs to breakfast.

"I am not sorry. What a dreadful chill country!" said Coquette, who was trembling with cold.

"Would you like a fire?" said the Whaup, eagerly.

"A fire, indeed!" cried Leezibeth, as she entered with the tray. "A fire in the middle o' summer! We have na been brought up to sic luxuries in this pairt o' the country."

"I am not very cold," said Coquette, sitting down in a corner, and trying to keep herself from shivering.

The Whaup walked out of the room. He was too angry to speak. He looked once at Leezibeth on going out, and there was a blaze of wrath in his eyes.

The Minister came in to breakfast, and they all sat down--all but the Whaup.

"Where is Thomas?" said Mr. Cassilis.

The reply was a shrill scream from Leezibeth, who was apparently at the door. At the same moment a wild crackling and sputtering of fire was heard overhead; and as everybody rushed to the passage, it was found that dense volumes of smoke were rolling down, blown by the currents above. Leezibeth had flown up-stairs on first perceiving this smell of burning. There, in Coquette's parlour, she caught sight of the Whaup working like a demon within the pungent clouds that filled the room, blown outwards by the fierce wind coming down the chimney. With another cry of alarm Leezibeth darted into the nearest bedroom, and brought out a ewer of water, which she discharged at the blazing mass of newspapers and lumps of wood that the Whaup had crammed into the small grate.

"Would ye set fire to the house? Would ye set fire to the house?" she cried--and, indeed, it looked as if the house were on fire.

"Yes, I would," shouted the demon in the smoke, "rather than kill anybody wi' cold!"

"Oh, it's that lassie--it's that lassie," cried Leezibeth, "that'll be the ruin o' us a'!"

When assistance came, and the fire was finally subdued, both the Whaup and Leezibeth were spectacles to have awakened the ridicule of gods and men. The effect of the deluge of water had been to send up a cloud of dust and ashes with the smoke; and their respective faces were tattooed so that even Mr. Cassilis--for the first time these many years--burst into a fit of laughter. Even Wattie laughed; seeing which, the Whaup charged at him, caught him by the waist, and carried him bodily down-stairs and out through the rain to the yard, where he made him work the iron handle of the pump. When the Whaup made his appearance at the breakfast table he was clean; but both himself and his brother were rather damp.

Mr. Cassilis severely reprimanded his eldest son; but he ordered Leezibeth to light a fire in Miss Cassilis' room nevertheless. The wind had somewhat abated now, and the clouds had gathered for a steady downpour. Leezibeth went to her appointed task with bitterness of heart, but she comforted herself with texts. As she stuffed the unconsumed remnants of the Whaup's bonfire into the grate, she uttered a denunciation of the luxury and idleness which were appearing for the first time in a godly house.

"But we," she muttered to herself, "who are the poor o' this world, rich in faith, and heirs o' the kingdom, maun bide and suffer. We maun e'en be the servants o' such as this woman that has come amongst us--such as lie upon beds of ivory, and stretch themselves upon their couches, and eat the lambs out of the flock, and the calves out of the midst of the stall; that chant to the sound of the viol, and invent to themselves instruments of music, like David; that drink wine in bowls, and anoint themselves wi' the chief ointments: but they are not grieved for the affliction of Joseph."

Yet even these consolations did not seem quite to allay the irritation of her mind; for a big tom cat that belonged to the house having approached her elbow too confidently, suddenly received a "skelp" that sent him flying across the room and down the stairs as if the spirits of ten thousand legions of dogs were pursuing him.

Airlie Manse was destined that day to be given up to what Leezibeth would have called the noise of viols and godless rejoicings. All thought of getting to Earlshope was abandoned; and shortly after breakfast Coquette invited Mr. Cassilis and the boys to her sitting-room, promising to play something for them. Custom made the Minister hesitate for a moment. Was not dance music very near dancing, which he regarded as a profane and dangerous amusement?

"I wish to play for you--what you call it?--the tune of the church yesterday, as it should be sung. Will you hear it from me?"

No objection of course could be taken to sacred music. The Minister led the way to the room; and the boys sat down silently, looking round with curiosity and awe upon the strange bits of foreign adornment and luxury which Coquette had already placed about her chamber. The fire was burning brightly, the rain battering on the panes outside. Coquette sat down to the piano.

The Minister did not know at first that he was listening to the old and familiar air of "Drumclog." It seemed to him the cry of a great supplication--sad, yearning, and distant, as if it came from a far hill-side half hidden in mist. It sounded like the softened and various voices of a multitude made harmonious and pathetic by distance.

But when she smote firmer chords, and, with a resonant and powerful bass, let the clear treble ring out triumphantly, he recognised "Drumclog." It was a song of victory now--the war cry of a host moved by intense religious enthusiasm--there was a joyous thanksgiving in it, and the clear voices of women and children. It seemed to him to represent a tumult of rejoicing--set in measured and modulated music--that rose like one sweet, strong voice. Then again the chords were softened, and the air changed to a wail. He could almost see the far moor, and the dead lying on it, with women wringing their hands, and yet thanking God for the victory.

"It is wonderful, wonderful," he said, when Coquette had ceased playing, "the power o' a dumb instrument to speak such strange things."

He was surprised to find that this carnal invention of music had awakened such profound emotion within him. He covertly looked to see if the girl herself were affected as she had affected him; but Coquette turned round and said, lightly, "It is a good air, but your church people they do not sing it. They groan, groan, groan all the same air--no singing in parts, no music."

"But you would make any tune, however bad, sound well," said the Whaup, warmly. "To every one note you give four or five other notes, all in harmony. No wonder it sounds well. It is no test. Play us some of your foreign music, that we may compare it."

The boys looked at the Whaup with astonishment: he was becoming an orator.

So she played them the _Cujus animam_, and for the first time in its history the Manse of Airlie was flooded with that sonorous music that has entranced the hearts of multitudes. She played them the mystic melodies of the _Hochzeitmarsch_, and they thought that these also were the expression of a sublime devotional exaltation. Indeed, the boys regarded those pieces with something of awe and fear. There was an unholy smack of organ playing and Romanism about Coquette's performances. Had she not transformed the decent and sober tune of "Drumclog" into a mass, or chant, or some such vague portion of Catholic ordinances? Wattie was in possession of an ingenious little book on "Various Forms of Idolatry;" and--the first plate representing the burning at the stake of a "Popish witch"--he had pointed out to his brothers that the black and profuse hair of the young woman in the flames very much resembled the hair of Coquette. It was but a suggestion; yet Rabbie, another of the brothers, expressed the belief that there were witches in these days also, that they were emissaries of the "deevil," and that it behoved every one who wished to save his soul to guard against such fiends in disguise, and, above all, never to repeat any charm after them towards twelve of the night.

Coquette rose from the piano.

"Who is going to play for me now?" she said, looking at the boys.

A loud guffaw ran down the line of them--the notion of a boy being able to play on the piano was irresistibly ludicrous.

"Have you not learned at the school?" she asked. "You must know some pieces to play."

"Frenchmen may learn to play the piano," said the Whaup, with an air of calm superiority, "but men in this country have something else to do."

"What is it you do?" said Coquette, simply, having quite misunderstood the remark. "You play not the piano: is it the violin--the--the flute--one learns here at the school?"

"We dinna learn music at the schule, ye gowk," said one of the boys.

"No, nor manners either," said the Whaup, firing up at the last word.

At this juncture the Minister gravely thanked Coquette for the pleasure her music had given him, and left the room. No sooner had he gone than the Whaup ordered his brothers to follow. They seemed inclined to show a spirit of insubordination.

"Out every one o' ye!" he cried, "or I'll leather ye in a lump!"

This somewhat dictatorial proceeding left him master of the field. So he turned to Coquette, and said--

"Ye wanted to hear some music. There is but one musician in Airlie forbye the Precentor. I mean Neil the Pensioner. He's a famous player on the fiddle--an out-and-out player, ye may take my word for't. Will I go and bring him to ye?"

"Perhaps he will not come."

"Oh, I'll bring him," said the Whaup, confidently.

"But it rains much," said Coquette, looking out on the disconsolate grey landscape, the dripping trees, and the lowering sky.

The Whaup laughed aloud, as his long legs carried him down the soft red road over the moor towards the village. He was no timid French creature, brought up under fair skies, that he should dread a temporary wetting. When he arrived at Neil Lamont's cottage, the rain was running down his face, and he only blew it from his mouth and flung it from his fingers as he burst into the astonished Pensioner's presence, and bade him bundle up his fiddle and come along.

The Pensioner, as he was called, was a tall, spare old Highlandman, somewhat bent now, with scanty grey hair, and dazed, mild grey eyes, who had been at Waterloo. He represented at once the martial and musical aspects of Airlie. His narrative of the events of Waterloo had gradually, during many years, become more and more full of personal detail, until the old man at last firmly believed that he himself, in his own proper person, had witnessed the whole of the battle, and been one of the chief heroes of the hour. Napoleon, whom he had never seen, he described minutely; and the inhabitants of Airlie had learned to picture the rage and mortification visible on the face of the great commander when he saw Neil rushing on to victory over the dead bodies of six French grenadiers, whom the hardy Highlander had overcome. Waterloo had grown to be a great panorama for him; and he would unroll it at any moment, and name you every object and person in the picture.

He was the village musician, too, and was in much request at balls, marriages, and other celebrations. The old man was singularly sensitive to music, and the wicked boys of the village used to practise on his weakness. When they saw the Pensioner out walking, they would begin to whistle some military march--"The Campbells are coming," "The Girl I left behind me," or "What's a' the steer, kimmer"--and you could see the Pensioner draw himself up, and go on with a military swagger, with his head erect. As for his own musical efforts, was there anybody in the west of Scotland who could play "The East Neuk o' Fife" with such tremendous "spunk?"

When the Pensioner was told that he had to play to a young French lady, he was a proud man.

"Ye will na sink," he observed to the Whaup in his curious jumble of Lowland and Highland pronunciation, "sat I will hurt sa leddy's feelins. No. Our prave regiments sent sa French fleein' at Waterloo; but I will speak jist nae word apoot it. I sweer till't--she will not even pe sinkin I wass at Waterloo."

Coquette received him graciously; the old Highlander was respectful, and yet dignified, in return. He gently declined to show her his medal--fearful that the word "Waterloo" would pain her. He would not say a word about his soldiering--was it good manners to insult a beaten foe?

But he would play for her. He took his fiddle from its case, and sat down, and played her all manner of reels and strathspeys--but no military music.

"Wha will ken," he whispered significantly to the Whaup, "put sat she will have heard o' our victorious tunes? Na, na. Neil Lamont kens how to pehave himsel' to a leddy."

And, in return, Coquette sat down to the piano. There was one Scotch air--"Wha'll be King but Charlie"--which her father was particularly fond of. When she struck into that bold and stirring piece of music, with all the agencies of harmonious chords, the old Highlander sat at first apparently stupefied. He had never known the majesty and the power that, could be lent to the tune which boys played on penny whistles. But as he became familiar with the rich and splendid sounds, he became more and more excited. He beat time with his foot; he slapped his thigh with his hand; he kept his head erect, and looked defiance. Suddenly he seemed to forget the presence of the Whaup, who was seated in a corner; he started to his feet, and began pacing up and down the room, waving the bow of his violin as if it were a sword. And all at once Coquette heard behind her the shrill and quavering notes of an old man's voice--

"Come ower sa heather! come a' tagether!
Come Ronald, an' Tonald, an' a' tagether!"

and, when she turned round, the old Highlandman, as one possessed, was marching up and down the chamber, with his head high in the air, and tears running down his withered grey cheeks.

"_Aw, Dyeea!_" he cried, as he sank shamefacedly into a chair. "I have never heard sa like o' sat not since sa day I will pe porn!"