"I have done what I ought to do. My cousin is very good; he is very fond of me; he will break his heart if I do not marry him. And I do like him very well, too. Perhaps in some years it will be a pleasure to me to be his wife."
"Coquette," he interrupted, "you do not blame me for being unable to help you. I am going to tell you why I cannot. Many a time have I determined to cell you."
"Ah, I know," she said. "You will tell me something you have done. I do not wish to hear it. I have often seen you about to tell me a secret, and sometimes I have wondered, too, and wished to know; but then I did think there was enough trouble in the world without adding to it."
Someone came along the road, came as if to sit on the seat with them--a woman with a coarse, red face and unsteady black eyes, full of mischievous amusement.
Lord Earlshope rose and faced the stranger.
"You had better go home," he said to her. "I give you fair warning, you had better go home."
"Why," said the woman, with a loud laugh. "You have not said as much to me for six years back! My dear," she added, looking at Coquette, "I am sorry to have disturbed you; but do you know who I am? I am Lady Earlshope!"
"Coquette," said Earlshope, "that is my wife."
When the woman had walked away, laughing and kissing her hand in tipsy fashion, Coquette came a step nearer, and held out her hand.
"I know it all now," she said, "and am very sorry for you. I do now know the reason of many things, and I cannot be angry when we are going away from each other. Good-bye. I will hear of you sometimes through Lady Drum."
"Good-bye, Coquette," he said, "and God bless you for your gentleness, and your sweetness, and your forgiveness."
It was to Lady Drum that Coquette made her confession that day.
"I do love him better than everything in the world--and I cannot help it. And now he is gone, and I shall never see him again, and I would like to see him only once to say I am sorry for him."
Coquette returned to Airlie, and tried to find peace in homely duties in the village. As time went on the Whaup pressed for the marriage day to be named, but he could not awake in her hopes for the future. Then, one dull morning in March, as she walked by herself over the Moor, Lord Earlshope was by her side, saying: "Coquette, have you forgotten nothing, as I have forgotten nothing?" And she was saying: "I love you, dearest, more than ever."
"Listen, Coquette, listen!" he said. "A ship passes here in the morning for America; I have taken two berths in it for you and me; to-morrow we shall be sailing away to a new world, and leaving all these troubles behind. You remember that woman--nothing has been heard of her for two years. I have sought her everywhere. She must be dead. And so we shall be married when we get there. The yacht will be waiting off Saltcoats to-night; you must go down by yourself, and the gig shall come for you, and we shall intercept the ship."
A little while thereafter Coquette was on her way back to the Manse alone. She had promised to go down to Saltcoats that night, and had sealed her sin with a kiss.
It was a wild, strange night that she stole out of the house, leaving behind her all the sweet consciousness of rectitude and the purity and innocence which had enabled her to meet trials with a courageous heart--leaving behind the crown of womanhood, the treasure of a stainless name. Every moment the storm grew in intensity, till the rain-clouds were blown upon the land in hissing torrents. At last, just as she saw before her the lights of Saltcoats, she sank down by the roadside with a faint cry of "Uncle! Uncle!"
When she came to herself, in a neighbour's house, a letter was given her from Lord Earlshope, saying that he could not exact from her the sacrifice he had proposed, and incur for both the penalty of remorse and misery; so he would leave for America alone.
Even as she was reading the letter, the report reached Saltcoats that the yacht had gone down in the storm, and Lord Earlshope was beyond the reach of accusation and defence.
She married the Whaup, but was never again the old Coquette, and though Tom tried hopefully to charm her back to cheerfulness, she faded month by month. It was not till the end was drawing near that she was told of the death of Lord Earlshope, and her last journey was to Saltcoats to see the wild waste of waters that were his grave.
There came a night when she beckoned her husband to her and asked him in a scarcely audible voice: "Tom, am I going to die?" And when in answer he could only look at her sad eyes, she said: "I am not sorry. It will be better for you and everyone; and you will not blame me because I could not make your life more happy for 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 opened, and she silently passed through, while a low cry broke from his lips: "So near--so near! And I cannot go with her, too!"
R. D. BLACKMORE
Lorna Doone
Richard Doddridge Blackmore, one of the most famous English novelists of the last generation, was born on June 9, 1825, at Longworth, Berkshire, of which parish his father was vicar. Like John Ridd, the hero of "Lorna Doone," he was educated at Blundell's School, Tiverton. An early marriage with a beautiful Portuguese girl, and a long illness, forced him to live for some years in hard and narrow circumstances. Happily, in 1860, he came, unexpectedly, into a considerable fortune. Settling down at Teddington, he divided his life between the delights of gardening and the pleasures of literature; cultivating his vines, peaches, nectarines, pears, and strawberries, and writing, first, sensational stories, and then historical romances. In 1869, with his third attempt in fiction, "Lorna Doone: A Romance of Exmoor," he suddenly became famous as a novelist, and acted as the pioneer of the new romantic movement in fiction which R. L. Stevenson and other brilliant writers afterwards carried on. Lorna Doone is the most famous of his heroines, but in "Cradock Nowell," a fine tale of the New Forest, in "Alice Lorraine," a story of the South Downs, and in "The Maid of Sker," he has depicted womanly types equal in charm to Lorna. He died at Teddington on January 20, 1900.
I.--An Adventure in Glen Doone
Two miles below our farm at Oare, the Bagworthy water runs into the Lynn, but though I fished nearly every stream in our part of Exmoor in my boyhood, it was a long time before I dared go those two miles. For the water flowed out of Glen Doone, where the Doones had settled, and I had good reason to be afraid of this wild band of outlaws. It was an unhappy day for everybody on Exmoor when Sir Ensor Doone was outlawed by good King Charles, and came with his tall sons and wild retainers to the Bagworthy water.
This befell in 1640. At first, the newcomers were fairly quiet, and what little sheep-stealing they did was overlooked. But in the troublous times of the Great Rebellion they grew bolder and fiercer; they attacked men and burnt farms and carried off women, and all Exmoor stood in fear and terror of them. None of the Doones was under six feet, and there were forty and more of them, and they were all true marksmen. The worst thing they did was to murder my father, John Ridd, in the year 1673, when I was twelve years of age.
That was why I was afraid to fish the Bagworthy water. But I spent a good deal of time in learning to shoot straight with my father's gun; I sent pretty well all the lead gutter round our little church into our best barn door, a thing which has often repented me since, especially as churchwarden. When, however, I was turned fourteen years old, and put into small clothes, and worsted hosen knitted by my dear mother, I set out with a loach-fork to explore the Bagworthy water. It was St. Valentine's day, 1676, as I well remember. After wading along Lynn stream, I turned into the still more icy-cold current of Bagworthy water, where I speared an abundance of loaches. I was stopped at last by a great black whirlpool, into which a slide of water came thundering a hundred yards down a cliff. My bare legs were weak and numbed with cold, and twilight was falling in the wild, narrow glen. So I was inclined to turn back. But then I said to myself: "John Ridd, the place is making a coward of thee."