Chapter 24

"I can't sleep, Ole," she whispered. "I want to warn you. That woman-- Edward's wife--is trying to take away our boy. We have been too hard on her--too hard. Now she will make us pay for it."

"You are not yourself, Josephine," said Tuft, rising up, and dressing himself hastily. "I will fetch the doctor."

"No, no!" she cried. "Ask Edward to come."

Tuft did not dare do this himself, but he got his doctor to approach Kallem, who made an appointment to examine the child early next morning. Josephine shrieked when she saw him. Under the stress of mental suffering, the flesh on his face had wasted to the bone; he was the image of death. Without speaking to either of the parents he went to the child, tapped its chest lightly here and there, and then said something to the doctor and went out.

"He has gone to get his instruments," the doctor whispered. "The case is extremely serious. An operation must be performed at once."

Josephine did not speak, neither did Tuft. They had been watching Kallem's face as he bent over their boy, and in it they seemed to read the sentence of death. They had called him in too late.

They were mistaken. Edward Kallem came hurrying back with a staff of trained assistants. Tuft and Josephine were locked outside their child's room. An hour afterwards the door was opened. The boy's life was saved. This they learnt from their own doctor, but Kallem himself departed without even speaking to them.

_IV.--The Reconciliation_

That night, over the body of the sleeping child, Ole Tuft at last dealt sternly and truly with himself. Three times, in the course of the day, had he gone to Kallem's house to thank him for saving his boy's life. But Kallem had refused to see him. At the third refusal Tuft understood. If ever he entered his brother-in-law's house he would enter it a changed man. He was now vowing that he would begin this new life by uniting Edward and Josephine. It was his jealousy, he admitted to himself, which had been the root of all the mischief.

Edward had been his hero, too, in his younger days, and it was this common worship of a nobler and more gifted nature which had brought him and Josephine together. Why had he not let it remain the base of their intercourse? Their marriage would then have been a happy one, and his own life would have been filled with larger thoughts and more generous feelings.

While Pastor Tuft was meditating, his wife was acting. She too, had been refused admittance to her brother's house. So she was writing to him. For whatever wrong they might have done, she said, they wished to make amends. They had been intolerant, she allowed, and they were sorry for it. But surely they were worthy to be accused? Would he not, then, tell them plainly what they had done to make him so angry?

Some days afterwards, Josephine received a large envelope addressed to her by her brother. But she was surprised, on opening it, to find that it was full of papers in two strange handwritings. They were letters to Kallem, from Ragni and Karl Meek. Josephine trembled as she looked at them. She began by chance with Meek's letters. Ragni innocent? Good God! was she innocent? Yes! Now she understood why Edward had driven away on the day of the funeral with only Karl Meek by his side; but she could not understand how he had survived it.

The servant knocked at her bedroom door, saying that supper was ready.

"No, no!" she managed to exclaim, as she writhed in shame and sorrow. She must go at once to her brother if she had to go to him on her knees. But no! Here were Ragni's letters. She felt as if her brother were standing over her, and forcing her to read them. Some of them were early love-letters. There had been no misconduct. Her chivalrous brother and the sweet, gentle woman whom he had rescued from a horrible fate had lived apart from one another in America until the day of their marriage.

Josephine slipped from the chair down upon her knees, weeping and sobbing. "Forgive me! Forgive me!" she whispered, pressing Ragni's letters in her hands.

Then she forced herself to silence, so that no one might discover her crouching there in the shame of her crime. She had murdered her brother's wife--not by words, but by her silence! Yes, she was a murderess! Well, let Edward deal with her as he thought fit!

She ran wildly out of the house into the dark, rainy street, past her husband's church, past the white wall of Sören Kule's dwelling. Her brother was standing in the open door, surrounded by trunks and boxes. Was he thinking of going away? Tears streamed down her face.

"Edward!"

She could get no further. He drew himself upright, his face white and stern.

"You shall never enter here!" he said, with a break in his voice.

He bent down to do up a trunk. When he got up she was gone. With a fierce look in his eyes, he continued his preparations. He meant to catch the first train the next morning, and get at once far away from his native town. What he would then do he did not know, except that he would never return. When everything was ready, he locked the front door and went to bed. But he could not sleep. Twice in the night the door-bell rang, but he would not open the door. It rang a third time, and kept on ringing; and at last he got out of bed. It was Ole Tuft. His face was ghastly.

"Where is my wife, Edward Kallem? What have you done with my wife?" he moaned.

"Ragni's grave," said Kallem. "She is there, I think."

And then he slammed the door to. Just as dawn was breaking, the bell rang again. Kallem went into the hall, and saw that two pieces of paper had been thrust through the letter-box. On one, Tuft had written: "She is not there, Edward; she was not there. I found this note on my writing-table among the letters you sent her. Oh, Edward, it was not like you to send her away!" On the other piece of paper Josephine had written: "Read these, Ole, and you will understand all. For my life's sake, I am now going to my brother!"

"For my life's sake!" Kallem shivered as he read it, and all his old love for his sister came back to him. Had he killed her? She had wronged Ragni, true; but it was merely out of jealousy. Jealousy because he had made Ragni all in all to him, and left her out of his life. He could have brought his wife and sister together, but he had not tried to do it. Ah, he, too, was guilty! All her life long Josephine had looked up to him and worshipped him. Then he had come back from America, and cast her off, for one who was not worthy of him, so it seemed to her. And in his fierce pride he had refused to reveal to her the fine character of his wife.

He rushed out of the door, resolved to find what had become of her. She was sitting on the steps of the house. As she saw him, she crouched down like a wounded bird, which cannot get away, yet must not be seen. He took her up into his arms, and carried her indoors.

"Let me stay, Edward--let me stay!" she said.

He bent over her and kissed her.

"God's ways! God's ways!" said Ole Tuft, as he and Edward and Josephine walked slowly towards his house through the empty streets in the early morning.

"But I still cannot share your faith," Kallem said.

"It matters not," said the minister. "There where good people walk, are God's ways."

* * * * *

WILLIAM BLACK

A Daughter of Heth

William Black, born in Glasgow, Scotland, Nov. 13, 1841, was educated with a view to being a landscape painter, a training that clearly influenced his literary life. He became a painter of scenery in words. At the age of twenty-three he went to London, after some experience in Glasgow journalism, and joined the staff of the "Morning Star," and, later, the "Daily News," of which journal he became assistant-editor. His first novel appeared in 1868, but it was not until the publication of "A Daughter of Heth," in 1871, that Black secured the attention of the reading public. "The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton" followed, and in 1873 "A Princess of Thule" attained great popularity. Retiring from journalism the next year he devoted himself entirely to fiction. A score of novels followed, the last in 1898, just before his death on December 10 of that year. No novelist has lavished more tender care on the portrayal of his heroines, or worked up more delicately a scenic background for plaintive sentiment.

_I.--In Strange Surroundings_

"Noo, Wattie," said the Whaup, "ye maun say a sweer before ye get up. I'm no jokin', and unless ye be quick ye'll be in the water."

Wattie Cassilis, the "best boy" of the Airlie Manse, paragon of scholars, and exemplar to his four brothers, was depending from a small bridge over the burn, his head downward and a short distance from the water, his feet being held close to the parapet by the muscular arms of his eldest brother, Tammas Cassilis, commonly known as the Whaup.

"Wattie," repeated the Whaup, "say a sweer, or into the burn ye'll gang as sure as daith!" and he dipped Wattie a few inches, so that the ripples touched his head. Wattie set up a fearful howl.

"Now, will ye say it?"

"_Deevil!_" cried Wattie. "Let me up; I hae said a sweer!"

The other brothers raised a demoniac shout of triumph over his apostacy.

"Ye maun say a worse sweer, Wattie. Deevil is no bad enough."

"I'll droon first!" whimpered Wattie, "and then ye'll get your paiks, I'm thinking."

Down went Wattie's head into the burn again, and this time he was raised with his mouth sputtering out the contents it had received.

"I'll say what ye like! _D--n;_ is that bad enough?"

With another unholy shout of derision Wattie was raised and set on the bridge.

"Noo," said the Whaup, standing over him, "let me tell you this, my man. The next time ye gang to my faither, and tell a story about any one o' us, or the next time you say a word against the French lassie, as ye ca' her, do ye ken what I'll do? I'll take ye back to my faither by the lug, and I'll tell him ye were sweerin' like a trooper down by the burn, and every one o' us will testify against you, and then, I'm thinking, it will be your turn to consider paiks."

Catherine Cassilis, "the French lassie," had arrived at the Manse a few weeks before, and she had sore need of a champion.

Andrew Bogue, the ancient henchman of the Rev. Gavin Cassilis, minister of Airlie, who met her at the station, disapproved of her from the first as a foreign jade dressed so that all the men turned and looked at her as if she had been a snare of Satan. Then, had not young Lord Earlshope, after introducing himself, taken a seat in the trap and talked with her in her own language as if he had known her for years?

"They jabbered away in their foreign lingo," said Andrew that evening to his wife Leezibeth, the housekeeper "and I'm thinking it was siccan a language was talked in Sodom and Gomorrah. And he was a' smiles, and she was a' smiles, and they seemed to think nae shame o' themselves goin' through a decent countryside!"

The Whaup himself had said, on the night of Coquette's arrival, "Oh, she's an actress, and I hate actresses!" But before many days had passed, he completely changed that hasty view. The big, sturdy, long-legged lad succumbed to the charms of his parentless cousin--the daughter of the minister's brother, who had settled in France and taken to himself a French wife--and he became her defender against those inhabitants of the Manse and the parish--from his brother Wattie to the pragmatic schoolmaster--whose prejudices she unintentionally outraged.

Even the minister was grieved when Coquette, as her father had called her, made a casual remark about the "last time she had gone to the mass."

"I am deeply pained," said the minister gravely. "I knew not that my brother had been a pervert from the communion of our church."

"Papa was not a Catholic," said Coquette. "Mamma and I were. But it matters nothing. I will go to your church--it is the same to me. I only try to be kind to the people around me--that is all."

"She has got the best part of all religions if she does her best for the people about her," said the Whaup.

"Thomas," remonstrated the minister severely, "you are not competent to judge of these things."

Coquette's second error was to play the piano on a Sabbath morning. She was stopped in this hideous offence by the housekeeper, Leezibeth.

"Is the Manse to be turned topsalteery, and made a byword a' because o' a foreign hussy?" asked Leezibeth.

"Look here," said the Whaup, trying to comfort his weeping cousin, "you can depend on me. When you get into trouble, send for me, and if any man or woman in Airlie says a word to you, by jingo I'll punch their head!"

The discovery of a crucifix over the head of the maiden's bed filled full the cup of Leezibeth's wrath and indignation.

"I thought the Cross was a symbol of all religions," said Coquette humbly. "If it annoys you, I will take it down. My mother gave it to me--I cannot put it away altogether."

"You shall not part with it," said the Whaup. "Let me see the man or woman who will touch that crucifix, though it had on it the woman o' Babylon herself!"

But the Whaup himself was troubled by the acquaintance of Coquette with Lord Earlshope, which, from a casual meeting, developed with startling rapidity.

His lordship's reputation in the parish was far from good. He never attended the kirk; was seen walking about with his dogs and smoking on the Sabbath; and even, it was said, read novels on that holy day. His appearance in church on the first Sunday after Coquette's arrival in Airlie was not difficult to explain, and it was followed by interchanges of visits between the Manse and Earlshope House.

Soon the young lord and Coquette began to meet when she was taking her early walk, a form of "carrying on" which outraged the sentiments of the parish, and caused the Whaup to announce his intention of "giving her up" and going to sea.

The alienation of the Whaup made Coquette very miserable, and when her uncle discovered her walking alone with Lord Earlshope, she tearfully requested to be allowed to go back to France.

"I am suspected," she sobbed, in her foreign English; "I do hear they talk of me as dangerous. Is it wrong for me to speak to Lord Earlshope when I do see him kind to me? Since I left France I did meet no one so courteous as he has been. He does not think me wicked because I have a crucifix my mother gave me, and he does not suspect me."

Her second conquest--for the Whaup, on seeing her dejection, had relented and returned to his allegiance--was Leezibeth, and it was by music she was won. Coquette was playing and singing "The Flowers o' the Forest," when Leezibeth crept in, and said shamefacedly:

"Will ye sing that again, miss? Maybe ye'll no ken that me and Andrew had a boy--a bit laddie that dee'd when he was but seven years auld--and he used to sing the 'Flowers o' the Forest' afore a' the ither songs, and ye sing it that fine it makes a body amaist like to greet."

And from that day Leezibeth was the slave of Coquette; but, for the most part, the thoughts of her neighbours were no kinder to the gay and spontaneous "daughter of Heth" from the sunny South than were the grey and dreary skies of Scotland.

_II.--The Lovers of Coquette_

When Sir Peter and Lady Drum returned to Castle Cawmil, their home in the neighbourhood of Airlie, Lady Drum, whose joy it was to doctor her friends, prescribed at once a cruise for the drooping Coquette. And Lord Earlshope lent his yacht, and accompanied the party as a visitor. The minister, looking back anxiously at his parish, Coquette, and the Whaup, joined the party from the Manse.

On Coquette the cruise worked wonders. She recovered her spirits, and her cheeks flushed with happiness.

"You're a pretty invalid," said the Whaup to Coquette as they went ashore for a scramble. "Give me your hand if you want climbing, and I'll give you enough of it."

"No," said Coquette, "I will not be pulled by a big, rough boy; but when you are gentle like Lord Earlshope, I like you." Then, lest Tom should be hurt, she added: "You are a very good boy, Tom, and somebody will get very fond of you some day."

From that moment the Whaup grew more serious, and ceased his boyish tricks.

"I think your cousin is very fond of you," said the good-natured Lady Drum to Coquette. "Don't you think that some day or other he will ask you to marry him?"

"It may be," replied Coquette dubiously. "I do not know, because my uncle has not spoken to me of any such thing; but he may think it a good marriage, and arrange it." A French view of marriage that greatly astonished Lady Drum.

The new sense of responsibility that had come to the Whaup determined him to return at once to Glasgow, and resume his studies. When Coquette heard this she became sad and wistful.

"I hope," she said, "I shall be always the same to you, if you come back in one year--two years--ten years."

And the Whaup thought that, if she would only wait two years he would work to such purpose as to be able to ask her to marry him.

Before the cruise was ended, Lord Earlshope, who had the lonely man's habit of playing spectator to his own emotions, informed Coquette, in an impersonal way, that he had fallen in love with her.

"You are not responsible," said he, shrugging his shoulders and speaking without bitterness. "All I ask is that you give me the benefit of your sympathy. I have been flying my kite too near the thunder-cloud. And what business had a man of my age with a kite?"

"I am very sorry," she said softly.

After this confession Coquette tried to avoid him as much as possible; but one evening while she was sitting alone on deck, watching the sunset on wild Loch Scavaig, he came to her and told her he was going away. He held out his hand, but she made no response. What was it he heard in the stillness of the night? Moved by a great fear he knelt down, and looked into her drooping face. She was sobbing bitterly. Then there broke on him a revelation more terrible than his own sorrow.

"Why are you distressed? It is nothing to you--my going away? It cannot be anything to you surely?"

"It is very much," she said, with a calmness of despair that startled him. "I cannot bear it."

"What have I done! What have I done!" he exclaimed. "Coquette, Coquette, tell me you do not mean this! You do not understand my position. What you say would be to any other man a joy unspeakable--the beginning of a new life to him; but to me----" And he turned away with a shudder.

It was she who was the comforter in the presence of an impossible love. Taking his hand gently, she said in a quiet voice: "I do not know what you mean; but you must not accuse yourself for me. I have made a confession--it was right to do that for you were going away. Now you will go away knowing I am still your friend, that I shall think of you sometimes: though I shall pray never to see you any more until we are old people, and may meet and laugh at the old stupid folly."

"It shall not end thus!" he cried. "Let the past be past, Coquette, and the future ours. Let us seek a new country for ourselves. Let me take you away, and make for you a new world. Why should we two be for ever miserable? Coquette----"

"I am afraid of you now," she said, drawing back in fear. "What are you? Ah, I do see another face!" And, staggering, she fell insensible on the deck as the minister approached.

That night Lord Earlshope left the yacht, and this was his parting message, written on a slip of paper: "I was mad last night. I do not know what I said. Forgive me, for I cannot forgive myself."

A winter's illness followed the strain of these emotional scenes, but with the spring Coquette resumed her morning moorland walks, and drank in new life from the warm, sweet breezes. One morning, she came face to face with Lord Earlshope. With only a second's pause she stepped forward and offered him her hand.

"Have you really forgiven me?" he asked.

"That is all over," she said, "and forgotten. It does no good to bring it back."

"How very good you are! I have wandered all over Europe, feeling as though I had the brand of Cain on my forehead."

"That is nonsense," said Coquette. "Your talk of Cain, your going away, your fears--I do not understand it at all."

"No," said he. "Nor would you ever understand without a series of explanations I have not the courage to make."

"I do not understand," she replied; "why all this secrecy--all this mystery?"

"And I cannot tell you now," he said.

"I wish not to have any more whys," she said impatiently. "Explanations, they never do good between friends. I am satisfied if you come to the Manse and become as you were once. That is sufficient."

She tried hard to keep the conversation on the level of friendship; but when at last she turned to leave him, ere she knew, his arms were around her, and kisses were being showered on her forehead and on her lips.

"Let me go--let me go!" she pleaded piteously. "Oh, what have we done?"

"We have sealed our fate," said he, with a haggard look. "I have fought against this for many a day; but now, Coquette, won't you look up and give me one kiss before we part?"

But her downcast face was pale and deathlike, and finally she said: "I cannot speak to you now. To-morrow, or next day--perhaps we shall meet."

The next day she met him again, and told him she was going to Glasgow with Lady Drum to see her cousin, the Whaup.

"I wonder," said Earlshope, "if he hopes to win your love, and is working there with the intention of coming back and asking you to be his wife."

"And if that will make him happy," she said slowly and with absent eyes, "I will do that if he demands it."

"You will marry him, and make him fancy that you love him?"

"No, I should tell him everything. I should tell him he deserves to marry a woman who has never loved anyone but himself, and yet that I will be his wife if his marrying me will alone make him happy."

"But, Coquette--don't you see it cannot end here?" he said almost desperately. "You do not know the chains in which I am bound; and I dare not tell you."

"No; I do not wish to know. It is enough for me to be beside you now, and if it should all prove bad and sorrowful, I shall remember that once I walked with you here, and we had no thought of ill, and were for a little while happy."

Talk of Glasgow being a sombre, grey city! To the Whaup it seemed that the empty pavements were made of gold; that the fronts of the houses were shining with a happy light; and the air full of a delicious tingling. For did not the great city hold in it Coquette? And as he sped his boots clattered "Coquette! Coquette! Coquette!" And presently he was taking her out for a walk, and cunningly drawing near to a trysting well.

"Coquette," he said suddenly, "do you know that lovers used to meet here, and join their hands over the well, and swear they would marry each other some day? Coquette, if you would only give me your hand now! I will wait any time--I have waited already, Coquette."

"Oh, do not say any more. I will do anything for you, but not that--not that." And then, a moment afterwards, she added: "Or see; I will promise to marry you, if you like, after many, many years--only not now--not within a few years."

"What is the matter, Coquette? Does it grieve you to think of what I ask?"

"No, no!" she said, hurriedly, "it is right of you to ask it--and I--I must say Yes. My uncle does expect it, does he not? And you yourself, Tom, you have been very good to me, and if only this will make you happy I will be your wife, but not until after many years."

"If you only knew how proud and happy you have made me!" exclaimed Tom, gaily. "I call upon the leaves of the trees, and all the drops in the river, and all the light in the air to bear witness that I have won Coquette for my wife."