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                      THE LADIES LINDORES

                        BY MRS OLIPHANT


    IN THREE VOLUMES
    VOL. III.

    WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
    EDINBURGH AND LONDON
    MDCCCLXXXIII

    _ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN 'BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE'_


    "TWO OF THE SWEET'ST COMPANIONS IN THE WORLD."
                                            --_Cymbeline_.




THE LADIES LINDORES.




CHAPTER XXXII.


Left to themselves, Millefleurs and Beaufort stood opposite to each
other for a moment with some embarrassment. To have anything to do with
a quarrel is always painful for the third person; and it was so entirely
unexpected, out of the way of all his habits, that Beaufort felt himself
exceptionally incapable of dealing with it. "Millefleurs," he said with
hesitation, "I don't understand all this. That was a very strange tone
to take in speaking to--a friend."

He felt for the first time like a tutor discharging an uncomfortable
office, knowing that it must be done, yet that he was not the man to do
it, and that of all the youthful individuals in the world, the last
person to be so lectured was Millefleurs.

"Naturally you think so. The circumstances make all the difference,
don't you know," said Millefleurs, with his ordinary composure. "And the
situation. In 'Frisco it might not have been of any great consequence.
Helping a bully out of the world is not much of a crime there. But then
it's never hushed up. No one makes a secret of it: that is the thing
that sets one's blood up, don't you know. Not for Torrance's sake--who,
so far as I can make out, was a cad--or poor Lady Car's, to whom it's
something like a deliverance----"

"Torrance!" cried Beaufort, with a gasp. "Lady--Car! Do you mean to
say----"

"Then----" said Millefleurs, "he never told you? That is a curious piece
of evidence. They do things straightforward in Denver City--not like
that. He never spoke of an event which had made the country ring----"

"Torrance!" repeated Beaufort, bewildered. The world seemed all to reel
about him. He gazed at his companion with eyes wide opened but scarcely
capable of vision. By-and-by he sat down abruptly on the nearest chair.
He did not hear what Millefleurs was saying. Presently he turned to him,
interrupting him unconsciously. "Torrance!" he repeated; "let there be
no mistake. You mean the man--to whom Carry--Lady Caroline--was
married?"

Millefleurs fixed upon him his little keen black eyes. He recalled to
himself tones and looks which had struck him at the moment, on which he
had not been able to put any interpretation. He nodded his head without
saying anything. He was as keen after any piece of human history as a
hound on a scent. And now he was too much interested, too eager for new
information, to speak.

"And it happened," said Beaufort, "on Thursday--on the day I arrived?"
He drew a long breath to relieve his breast, then waved his hand. "Yes;
if that is all, Erskine told me of it," he said.

"You have something to do with them also, old fellow," said Millefleurs,
patting him on the shoulder. "I knew there was something. Come along and
walk with me. I must see it out; but perhaps we had better not meet
again just now--Erskine and I, don't you know. Perhaps I was rude. Come
along; it is your duty to get me out of harm's way. Was there anything
remarkable, by the way, in the fact that this happened just when you
arrived?"

Beaufort made no reply; he scarcely heard, so violently were his pulses
beating in his ears, so high was the tide of new life rising in his
veins. Who can think of the perplexities, even the dangers, of another,
when something unparalleled, something that stirs up his very being, has
happened to himself? But he allowed himself to be led out into the open
air, which was a relief--to the road leading to Lindores, from which
they soon came in sight of Tinto dominating the country round from its
platform. Millefleurs stopped at the point where this first came in
view, to point out how high it rose above the river, and how the path
ascended through the overhanging woods. The Scaur itself was visible
like a red streak on the face of the height. "You can see for yourself
that horse or man who plunged over that would have little hope,"
Millefleurs said. But Beaufort did not hear him. He stood and gazed,
with a sense of freedom and possibility which went to his head like
wine. Even the ordinary bonds of nature did not seem to hold him. His
mind seemed to expand and float away over the wide country. Of all
people in the world he was the last who could cross that distance
actually, who could present himself to the lady there--the widow--the
woman who had married Torrance. He could not offer his services or his
sympathy to Carry; he alone of all the world was absolutely shut out
from her, more than a stranger: and yet he stood gazing at the place
where she was, feeling himself go out upon the air, upon the empty
space, towards her. The sensation dizzied his brain and bewildered all
his faculties. Millefleurs flowed on, making a hundred remarks and
guesses, but Beaufort did not hear him. He would have said afterwards,
that as he never spoke, it was impossible he could have betrayed
himself. But he betrayed himself completely, and something more than
himself, to the keen little eyes of Millefleurs.

The day passed as days full of agitation pass--looking long, protracted,
endless--blank hours of suspense following the moment of excitement. Sir
James Montgomery had gone away shaking his good grey head. He had not
believed John Erskine's story--that is, he believed that there was
something suppressed. He had listened with the profoundest interest up
to a certain point, but after that he had shaken his head. "You would
have done better to tell me everything," he said, as he went away. "It
would have been more wise--more wise." He shook his head; the very truth
of the story went against it. There was so much that fitted into the
hypothesis of the country-side. But then there came that _suppressio
veri_ which took all the value from the statement. Sir James went away
fully determined to repeat the story in the most favourable way--to give
the best representation of it possible; but he was not satisfied. It was
with a most serious face that he mounted his horse and rode away,
shaking his head from time to time. "No, no," he said to himself, "that
will never hold water--that will never hold water!" When this interview
was over, John went back to his library and sat down in his usual chair
with a sense of exhaustion and hopelessness which it would be difficult
to describe. He had told his story as best he could, searching his
memory for every detail; but he had not been believed. He had gone on,
growing impassioned in his self-defence--growing indignant, feeling
himself powerless in face of that blank wall of incredulity, that steady
incapacity to believe. "Why should I tell you a lie?" he cried, at last.
"Do not you see? Have you not said that it was for my interest to tell
you the truth?" "I am not saying you have told a lie," Sir James said,
always shaking his head. "No, no--no lie. You will never be accused of
that." When he went away, he had laid his heavy old hand on John's
shoulder. "My poor lad, if you had only had the courage to open your
heart all the way!" he said. John felt like a victim in the hands of the
Inquisition. What did they want him to confess? Half maddened, he felt
as if a little more pressure, a few more twists of the screw, would make
him accuse himself of anything, and confess all that they might require.

He did not know how long he sat there, silent, doing nothing, not even
thinking anything, alone with himself and the cloud that hung over his
life, with a consciousness that all his movements were watched, that
even this would be something against him, a proof of that remorse which
belongs to guilt. And thus the slow moments, every one slower than the
other, more full of oppression, rolled over him. Beaufort had
disappeared, and did not return till late in the afternoon, when the
twilight was falling. A few words only passed between them, and these
related solely to Beaufort's thoughts, not to Erskine's.

"It is _her_ husband who has been killed," Beaufort said; "you never
told me."

"I could not tell you. It was too extraordinary; it was an impiety,"
John said.

But neither did he ask himself what he meant, nor did Beaufort ask him.
They said nothing more to each other, except such civilities as are
indispensable when men eat together,--for they dined all the same,
notwithstanding the circumstances. In every crisis men must still dine;
it is the only thing that is inevitable, in trouble or in joy.

And then the night followed. Night is horrible, yet it is consolatory to
those who are in suspense. John could not suppose that his trials were
over, that nothing was to follow; but by ten o'clock or so he said to
himself, with relief, that nothing could happen to-night. Rolls, too,
had evidently arrived at the same conclusion. He was heard to close and
bolt the door ostentatiously while it was still early, and there was
something in the very noise he made which proclaimed the satisfaction
with which he did it. But after this there was a long black evening
still, and hours of darkness, to follow, which John did not know how to
get through. Almost he had made up his mind to step out of the window at
midnight, as Rolls had suggested, and withdraw from all this alarm and
unjust suspicion. He did go out, and felt the cool freshness of the
night caress him, hot and weary as he was, and thought with a sigh of
distant places far away, where he might be safe from all these frets and
passions. But he knew, if he did so, that his cause would be lost for
ever--that nothing could save him or his reputation. Perhaps in no case
could anything save him: but if he fled, his ruin was certain. "What did
it matter," he thought, with bitterness, "that he had no witnesses to
produce, that nobody would believe him? And if he were condemned, what
would any one care? His mother, indeed, would feel the shame, but more
the shame than anything else; and her name was not Erskine, nor that of
any of her family. There was no one who actually belonged to him in the
wide world, to whom his living or dying could be of any consequence." As
he stood alone with these bitter thoughts, on the terrace, looking out
upon the night, feeling the wind blow upon him from the fields of sleep,
but no other trace in the darkness of the great wide landscape which he
knew lay stretched out like a map under cover of the clouds, something
breathed another name in his ear. Ah! how did he know if she would care?
Sometimes he had thought so, hoped so, vaguely, with a tremor of alarmed
delight. But if this shadow of crime came over him, would Edith stoop
under it to say a word of consolation?--would she? could she? He stood
still for a long time on the terrace, with the lighted window and common
life behind him, and all the secrets of the hidden night before, and
asked himself what she would do. What would she do? That question, and
not the other, was, after all, the great one in life.

Next morning John awoke with the sense of a coming trial, which made his
heart jump in his breast the moment he opened his eyes, though it was
some time before he recollected what it was. But he did so at last, and
accepted the certainty with outward calm. He came down-stairs with a
steady conviction of what was about to happen. To make up his mind to it
was something. He sat down at the breakfast-table opposite to
Beaufort--who was restless and uncomfortable--with a calm which he felt
to be fictitious, but which nevertheless was calm.

"You must remember," he said, "Beaufort, whatever happens, that
Dalrulzian is altogether at your command."

"What can happen?" Beaufort asked.

"I scarcely know. I can be taken away, I suppose, and examined
somewhere. You had better come with me. You are a barrister, and might
help; and besides, it will always be for your advantage to get a little
insight into Scotch law."

"I might be of use, perhaps; but in that case, you must tell me
everything," Beaufort said.

"I ask no better," said the young man; and he repeated the narrative
which he had told to Sir James Montgomery. "Don't you disbelieve me.
What I say to you is the whole truth," he said,--"everything that there
is to say."

"To disbelieve you would be impossible," said Beaufort, which was the
first gleam of consolation he had. They had a long consultation, some of
which was surprised by Rolls, who went and came, busy about the door,
with sombre and undisguised anxiety.

Beaufort scouted the idea that there could be any question of murder.
"Had you done as they suppose--seized the bridle in self-defence, and
forced the horse a step too far--it would still only be accident," he
said,--"at the very worst and bitterest, manslaughter; though I don't
see how it could bear even such a verdict as that. There is no occasion
for unnecessary alarm. Anything more is impossible."

At this moment Rolls came in; his countenance was lightened, yet
excited. "There is one--that would like to speak to you, sir," he said.

There could be no doubt as to what the summons was. Rolls lingered
behind when his master, with changing colour, but self-possession, left
the room. He came up to Beaufort stealthily. "Sir," he said--"sir, will
_yon_ be all true?"

"What? Neither Mr Erskine nor myself is in the habit of saying what is
not true."

"That's no doubt the case. I'm saying nothing of him; but you might have
smoothed it off a bit, just to soothe him. Will it be all exact yon you
said about manslaughter? Manslaughter is just culpable homicide, so far
as I can see. And what's the punishment for manslaughter (as you call
it), if you'll be so kind as say?"

"That depends on the gravity of the case, on the character of the judge,
on many things. A year's, two years' imprisonment--perhaps only a month
or two. I have known it but a day."

"And previous character would be taken into account?" said Rolls; "and
aggravation, and--many a thing more?"

"No doubt; it is a thing upon which no certain rule can be observed. It
may be next to no harm at all, or it may be close upon murder. In such a
case as this, severity is very unlikely."

"But it will make a pairting," said Rolls, solemnly, "atween him and all
he maist cares for. I'm no' of the young maister's mind myself. There
are some would have set him far better, and in every way more suitable;
but what a man likes himself, it's that will please him, and no' what
another man likes. It takes us a' a lang time," said Rolls, shaking his
head, "to learn that. Many's the one in my place would think here's just
a grand opportunity to pairt him and--them; but you see I take his ain
wishes into consideration."

The old servant spoke less to Beaufort than to himself; but the visitor
was not accustomed to hold such colloquies with a family butler. He
stared, then grew impatient, and disposed to resent the old fellow's
familiarity. The next moment the bell rang, and Rolls hurried away.
Beaufort followed him out into the hall, where a man was standing
evidently on guard. John was at the door of the drawing-room, pale, but
perfectly composed. "The dogcart immediately," he said to Rolls, and
beckoned to Beaufort to come in. "I am going before the
sheriff-substitute about this matter," he said. "Beaufort, you will come
with me. Mr Granger, this is my friend Mr Beaufort, an English
barrister. He may go with me, I suppose, to watch over my interests? You
see that what we were threatened with yesterday has come to pass."

"I see, indeed," said Beaufort, "with sorrow and surprise. What is it
that has to be done now?"

"The sheriff will make no objection," said the head of the county
police, a plain, grave man, with regret in his face. "It's my duty to
take Mr Erskine before the sheriff. The result of the examination will
be, let us hope, that he'll come cannily home again, when all has been
inquired into in due form. There is no reason to take a gloomy view. The
sheriff will maybe find there's no case: and I'm sure I wish so with all
my heart."

They all sat round with the utmost gravity to listen to this little
speech. It was not a moment for light-heartedness. John sat between the
table and the door, in perfect self-command, yet very pale.
Notwithstanding all the respect shown to him, and the good feeling from
which he had everything to hope, the most innocent of men may be excused
a feeling of dismay when he is, to all intents and purposes, arrested on
a criminal charge, with issues to his good fame and social estimation,
even if nothing more, which it is impossible to calculate. They sat in
silence while the dogcart was getting ready, a strange little company.
After a while, the officer, to lessen the embarrassment of the moment,
and make everything pleasant, began to address various little remarks
about the weather and other commonplace topics to the two gentlemen,
such as, "This is a very agreeable change from all the wet we've been
having;" or, "The news this morning is more satisfactory about that
Afghan business." The responses made, as may be supposed, were not very
effusive. It was a relief when the dogcart came to the door. Old Rolls
stood and watched it go down the avenue, with his countenance firmly
set, and a stern resolution gathering about his mouth. Bauby stole out
and stood by his side in the morning light, with her apron to her eyes,
and her capacious bosom convulsed with sobs. "Eh, that I should have
lived to see this day, and shame come to oor dwallin'!" cried Bauby;
"and as bonny a young lad as ever steppit, and as good!"

"Hold your peace, woman!" said her brother; "ye may see shame come
nearer hame or a's done."

"Eh, Tammas, man! what do you ca' nearer hame? My heart's just broken;
and what will his mammaw say?" the faithful creature cried.

Meanwhile it might have been a party of pleasure that threaded its way
among the trees, somewhat closely packed in the dogcart, but no more
than they might have been, starting for the moors. John Erskine drove
himself to the examination which was to decide his fate one way or
another, with all the appearance of a perfectly free agent. The horse
was fresh, the morning bright; and though the four men were a heavy
load, they skimmed along the country road as gaily as if all had been
well. Tinto was visible for the greater part of the way. They passed by
the very gates of Lindores. John had shaken himself together as he took
the reins in his hand, and with perhaps a little unconscious bravado,
paused now and then to indicate a favourite point of view to his friend.
But he had harder work in store. Just before they reached Dunearn, he
perceived drawn up by the roadside Lady Lindores's carriage, in which
Edith was seated alone. Impossible to describe the feelings with which,
as across a gulf of pain and trouble, the unfortunate young man, at this
crisis of his fate, looked at the girl with whom, when he last saw her,
he had been so near the edge of a mutual understanding. It was
impossible for him now to do other than draw up by the side of the
carriage to speak to her; and there, in the hearing of the two men who
formed his escort, and whose presence was heavy on his heart, the
following conversation took place. Edith looked up at him with a smile
and an expression of pleasure which brightened her whole aspect. She was
in mourning, and somewhat pale.

"I am waiting for mamma," she said. "One of her pensioners is ill in
that cottage. I was glad of the chance of bringing her out for a little
air. We are with poor Carry, you know."

"How is Lady Caroline?" John asked.

"Oh, well enough, when one considers all things," said Edith, hastily;
and to escape that subject, which was not to be entered on before
strangers, she said, "You are going to Dunearn?"

"On painful business," he said. "I wonder if I may ask you one thing?"
She looked up at him with a smile which said much--a smile of trust and
belief, which might have encouraged any man to speak. Edith had no fear
of what he might ask her. For John it was more difficult to command
himself and his voice at that moment than at any previous one since his
trial began. He cleared his throat with an effort, and his voice was
husky. "You will hear things said of me--that may make you turn from--an
old friend altogether. I want you not to believe them. And tell Lady
Lindores. Do not believe them. It is not true."

"Mr Erskine, what is it--what is it? You may be sure I shall believe
nothing against you--nor mamma either! Is it--is it----" her eyes fixed
upon him anxiously and upon the stranger beside him, whose face was
unknown to her, and who sat blank and passive like a servant, yet who
was not a servant. Edith rose in the carriage in her great anxiety, and
gazed as if she would have read a volume in John's face. What it cost
him to look at her and to keep a kind of smile on his, it would be hard
to tell.

"I cannot enter into explanations now. I may not be able to do so soon.
Only--tell Lady Lindores."

She held out her hand to him, which he stooped to touch--it was all he
could do--and once more gave him an anxious, tender smile. "You may
trust both mamma and me," she said.

And in another moment, so it seemed, the dogcart stopped again. John
went over the streets of Dunearn like a man in a dream--in a sort of
exquisite anguish, a mingled sweetness and bitterness such as never went
into words. Their looks seemed to cling together, as, with a start, the
horse went on; and now they stopped again and got down--for a very
different encounter. Even now, however, John's progress was to be
interrupted. Some one called to him as he was about to go into the
sheriff's court in the little Town-house of Dunearn. "Is that you, John
Erskine? and what has brought you here?" in peremptory tones. He turned
round quickly. It was Miss Barbara in her pony-carriage, which Nora was
driving. The old lady leaned across the young one and beckoned to him
with some impatience. "Come here. What are you doing in Dunearn without
coming to me? It's true I'm out, and you would not have found me; but
Janet would have understood to be prepared for your luncheon. And what's
your business in the Town-house this fine morning, and with strange
company?" Miss Barbara said. She cast a keen glance at the man, who
stood aside respectfully enough, and yet, backed by his assistant, kept
a watchful eye on John.

"I am afraid I cannot wait to tell you now. It is not pleasant
business," John said.

"Come round here," said the old lady, imperiously; "can I keep on
skreighing to you before all the town? Come round here." Her keen eyes
took in the whole scene: John's glance at his grave companion, the most
imperceptible gesture with which that person made way for him. Miss
Barbara's perceptions were keen. She gripped her nephew by the arm.
"John Erskine, have ye done anything to bring ye within the power of the
law?"

"Nothing," he said firmly, meeting her eye.

"Then what does that man mean glowering at you? Lord guide us! what is
it, boy? It cannot be money, for money has none of these penalties now."

"It is not money--nor anything worth a thought."

"Mr Erskine," said the officer, civilly, "the sheriff is waiting." And
after that, there was no more to be said.




CHAPTER XXXIII.


Rolls went up-stairs and dressed himself in his best--his "blacks,"
which he kept for going to funerals and other solemnities--not the dress
in which he waited at table and did his ordinary business. The coat,
with its broad, square tails, gave him an appearance something between
that of a respectable farmer and a parish minister--a little too solemn
for the one, too secular for the other; and to show that he was "his own
man," and for to-day at least no man's servant, he enveloped his throat
in a large black silk neckerchief, square in shape, and folded like a
substantial bandage with a little bow in the front. His forehead was
lined with thought. When he had finished his toilet, he opened the large
wooden "kist" which stood in a corner of his room, and was the final
receptacle of all his worldly goods. Out of that he took a blue-spotted
handkerchief, in which a pocket-book was carefully wrapped up, and took
from it a few somewhat dirty pound-notes. Then restoring the
pocket-book, he locked the kist carefully, and went down-stairs with the
key--a very large one--in his hand. This he gave to Bauby, who still
hung about the door with her apron to her eyes. "You should go ben to
your work, my woman," said Rolls, "and no make the worst of what's
happened: in a' likelihood the master will be back afore the dinner's
ready." "Do you think that, Tammas? do you really think that?" cried
Bauby, brightening up and showing symptoms of an inclination to cry for
joy as she had done for sorrow. "I'm no' saying what I think. I'm
thinking mony things beyond the power o' a woman person to faddom," said
Rolls, solemnly. "And if the maister should be back, it's real possible
I mayna be back. You'll just behave conformably, and put forrit Marget.
If she wasna so frightened, she's no' a bad notion at a' of waiting at
table. And if there's ony question where I am, or what's become of
me----"

"Oh, Tammas, what will I say? It will be the second time in a week.
He'll no' like it," cried Bauby, diverted from one trouble to another.
The absence of her brother when the dinner was ready was almost as
extraordinary as her master's conveyance away to unknown dangers by the
functionaries of the law.

"If he's here to be angry, a' will be well," said Rolls, grimly; and
then he handed her the key. "If there should be any question about me,
when I'm no', here to answer for myself, you'll inform whoever it
concerns that the kist is yours and everything in it, in proof of which
you'll produce the key. That's no' to say but what you'll respect the
bits of things in it, and hand me back possession when I come, soon or
late," said Rolls. "You'll mind what I say to you, Bauby. It's yours in
the one case, but no' in the other. You'll take possession if there is
ony other claimant; but me being back, you'll respect my rights."

"I wuss I would ken what you meant first," said Bauby, gazing at him
wistfully. Rolls had an air of satisfaction on his face for the first
time: he was pleased to have puzzled her. His face relaxed almost into a
smile as he said, "According to a' probabilities, you'll soon understand
that."

With these words he set out from the hall-door, walking very
deliberately, and crushing the pebbles under his feet at every step. He
had taken his best silk umbrella, which, loosened from its habitual
folds, and used as a stick, made a sort of flapping accompaniment to his
progress, like a large bird walking by him. As he turned from the door
the solemnity of his aspect returned. He walked slowly, thinking as he
went--thinking so profoundly that he scarcely saw Peggy at the lodge,
and passed her, taking no notice of her in the gravity of his
preoccupation. She said afterwards that it was awfu' evident he had
something on his mind. She told Jean Tamson, who was in the lodge at the
moment--come for a crack, and talking of nothing else but this very
subject,--"I wouldna wonder," she said, "but Mr Rolls kens more about it
than any of us." This at least was what she informed the world she had
said to her gossip when all was known.

It was four miles to Dunearn; but old Rolls was a steady, good walker,
with no irregularity about him. Every step he took was just of the same
length as the step before. Yard for yard he did his four miles in the
regulated time, neither shorter nor longer. When he arrived at the
Town-house, there was a little flutter about the door as of people
dispersing; but there had not been any number of people, and though the
rumour of what had transpired had begun to blow about the place, there
were not as yet many gazers. By-and-by, as he stood outside, his master
came out, with one of the emissaries of the morning close by him, and
Beaufort behind. John Erskine was pale; but there was a sort of smile on
his face--a smile which had no pleasure in it, but some contempt, and
that sort of outward looking to heaven and earth, with the head held
high, and the nostrils somewhat dilated, which is so often the
aspect of a man unjustly accused. He was making light of it to
himself--persuading himself that it was nothing and meant nothing. He
saw Rolls standing by, and waved his hand to him. "What! have you walked
all this way," he said, "old Truepenny,"--with something of the same
levity of despair which dictated the same words to Hamlet,--"to see the
last of me?"

"It's not come to that, sir, I hope," said Rolls, with a seriousness
which was as solemn as if what John had said was real. The young man
laughed.

"You will pack my portmanteau and send it after me: I suppose I may be
allowed that?" he said. The officer who was in attendance bowed his
head. The people about gathered round, staring at John with too much
surprise to express any other emotion; and by-and-by the party drove off
again, nobody apparently divining exactly what it all meant. There were
a number of petty cases to be tried by the sheriff, who was in the
Town-house, as it was called, and as many different interests as there
were loungers about. Rolls went in with hesitating steps after his
master had disappeared. The old man had come, in full expectation of the
event which had happened; but fact is always different from
anticipation. When he saw what he had only looked for, the effect upon
him was something overwhelming. He stood staring and gaping in the
little crowd which gradually drew together, realising only after it was
over what had taken place before their eyes. "What's wrang with the
young maister, Mr Rolls?" said one of the bystanders. "Let me be!" cried
the old man, shaking himself free; and he went into the Town-house with
tottering steps. He had intended taking certain bold and immediate
steps, carrying out the project he had been framing in his mind; but his
nerves were shaken when the moment came. The law terrified him. If his
master, in all the strength and confidence of his youth, was thus
peremptorily dealt with, what aggravations might not he, an old and
humble individual--nothing but a servant--look for? He was cowed. He
stole up to an attendant and made faltering inquiries. "What will they
have settled about yon case?" he said. "About what case?--the
sheep-lifting, or the unlawfu' wounding, or the robbery at Willyam
Tamson's----" "Nane o' thae things--nane o' thae things," said old
Rolls. "It's about young Mr Erskine of Dalrulzian." "Oh, ay, ay," said
the attendant, shaking his head; "that's very serious. The circumstances
a' point to some agent mair than accident--that's what the sherra says,
and he canna see his way to discharging the panel." "The panel![1]--he's
nae panel!--mind what you're saying," cried Rolls. "Well, maybe that's
going owre fast. I would say the gentleman under suspicion. He maun just
bide the result of a mair formal examination--that's a' I can tell ye;
I have nae time to enter into particulars," the official said.

[Footnote 1: _Scotticè_, accused.]

Rolls, who had meant such heroic things, turned away tremulously. He
went out again, scarcely knowing where he was going, into the streets of
Dunearn. There everybody looked at him with curious eyes. The town had
at last become conscious of what had happened: from a public-house in
the environs a stone had been thrown at John Erskine as he went past,
and hootings had risen on his path. This roused the population fully,
and now the streets were full of groups discussing the matter. Torrance,
as has been said, was popular in his way, especially now in that warmth
of pity and charity which follows a sudden and unexpected death; and
John Erskine was comparatively unknown. The tide was strongly against
him, as a semi-foreigner--a man who had come from "abroad." "He'll find
here that gentle and simple must keep the laws alike," said one. "A man
daurna ride roughshod over his fellows here."

Old Rolls heard the growl of popular excitement, and it alarmed him
still more. "If it was me they would tear me in bits," he said to
himself. His alarm on this point, as much as his original intention,
drove him in at Mr Monypenny's door, which was in his way. He was afraid
of being recognised as the butler at Dalrulzian ("for everybody kens
me," he said to himself, with mingled pride and panic), and he was
anxious to consult the "man of business" who had Dalrulzian estate in
his hands.

Mr Monypenny was out; and Rolls requested permission to sit down and
wait. He had a long time of quiet to think over his plan again, and he
did think it over, and recovered his courage. After a time Mrs
Monypenny, hearing who it was, sent to request him to have some cold
beef in the kitchen, an offer of which Rolls availed himself at once.
"For what is the use of punishing yourself?" he said. "A man's more
qualified for everything when he has eaten his dinner." He was very
serious, and unlike his usual cheerfully communicative mood, in Mr
Monypenny's kitchen. The maids did not know what had come over him. To
have such a grand subject of discourse as his master's arrest, and yet
to be so silent, struck them with astonishment; but they, too, remarked
his perturbed countenance afterwards, and said to one another, "I told
you there was mair in him than met the eye."

Meanwhile Miss Barbara and her young companion had been driving up and
down in the pony-carriage in a state of great excitement. They had
passed the Town-house half-a-dozen times, always looking for the
reappearance of John; but he, as was to be expected, had come out and
gone away in the interval between. Miss Barbara had maintained during
the whole time a lively monologue, scarcely interrupted by her young
companion. "I've heard what they daured to say," Miss Barbara cried; "as
if one of my family would stoop to soil his fingers with any Tinto of
them all! What were the Torrances but bonnet-lairds till old Torrance
married the railway man's daughter? But I never thought they would have
dared to do anything against an Erskine. Times are changed. (Go round by
the Stone Bridge, Nora; it's an easier road for the pony.) What would my
father have said if he had heard a descendant of his evened with one of
that race? That's what your Radicalism comes to."

"But death is the same, whether it comes to a saint or--a bully; and
life has to be protected," said Nora, fired with political ardour.

"Life--and death. They're grand words to use: a drunk man falling over a
steep bank that it was the wonder of the whole country-side he had not
gone over years and years before."

Nora did not say any more. She was not so warm a partisan as Miss
Barbara's companion ought to have been. She drove along quietly, taking
no further part in the talk, which the old lady maintained alone. "How
can I go in to my peaceful house and eat my comfortable dinner, not
knowing but my own flesh and blood may be shut up in a jail?" she said.
Then she added quickly, "There's that lad, young Rintoul. I'm not fond
of any of his family; but I suppose he's a gentleman. He'll go in and
ask what has happened. Fast--to your right hand, Nora. Now draw up. He
sees what I mean. Lord Rintoul," added Miss Barbara, "I have a favour to
ask of you. You may have heard my nephew John Erskine's name bandied
about these late days. He's been in the Town-house before the sheriff
and the procurator-fiscal this hour and a half or more. It's not for me
to ask the town-bodies about what has happened. Will you go and bring me
word?"

Rintoul stood silent for a moment before he made any reply. Her voice
seemed to have called him from painful reflections of his own, the chain
of which he could not in a moment break. He gave her a half-bewildered
look, then turned to Nora, who looked at him more gently, with
sympathetic eyes. How haggard he looked, and worn!--he who had been so
ruddy and manly, only too much flesh and blood, almost too little
inclination to be moved by emotion or sentiment,--was all this because
of the sudden death of his brother-in-law, a man for whom he cared
nothing? Nora was extraordinarily impressed by Rintoul's changed
appearance. Miss Barbara, preoccupied by her own anxieties, scarcely
noticed him at all.

"In the Town-house with the sheriff? What does that mean?"

"I forgot you were English," said Miss Barbara with a touch of contempt.
"It means some examination of witnesses anent the death of Pat Torrance,
your brother-in-law. What my nephew should have to do with it, I cannot
tell you. It's just that I would have you inquire."

"He can have nothing to do with it," said Rintoul; and then he stopped
short, and the momentary animation died out of his face. He shivered as
he stood in the sunshine, which was as warm as September ever is in
Scotland. "It must be a mistake; we have heard nothing of this," he
said. "I am sure Carry--would be averse to any fuss. It was such a thing
for her that there was no coroner's inquest. I made sure we were all
safe. You must be mistaken," he said.

"Lord Rintoul," said Nora, who was given to opposition, "though there is
no coroner's inquest, there must be justice; and if they think Mr
Erskine has anything to do with it----"

"He has nothing to do with it," said Rintoul, with petulant impatience.
Miss Barbara stretched her hand over Nora to grasp his, but this gesture
seemed to drive him back into himself. He withdrew a little from the
side of the pony-carriage, and made a pretence of not seeing the old
lady's outstretched hand. Miss Barbara was shocked, and gave him a
curious look; but she was not prepared for disrespect, and did not
expect it. She went on more eagerly than before--

"And here I am helpless," she said. "I cannot go in myself. I will not
send Nora. Will you do my errand, Lord Rintoul? Bring me word, not here,
but to my house. I am going home."

He gave a little bow of assent, and stood on the pavement looking after
them as they drove away. He stood longer than was necessary for that,
till they had disappeared round the corner of the High Street, till the
children about--of whom there was always a large supply in
Dunearn--began to gape at him with expectations of amusement. "Look at
the man glowering frae him," these spectators cried, and a small pebble
tumbled along the flags where he stood--a harmless experiment to see if
there was any fun in him. He did not notice this, nor any other outside
occurrence, but after a while got slowly under way again, as if the
operation was difficult, and went on to the Town-house. When he got
there, he went in reluctantly, with evident disinclination. The
attendant who had talked to Rolls made way for him respectfully. The
other people about opened the doors and took off their hats to the young
potentate. A small case which was going on at the time was even
suspended while the sheriff, not nearly so great a man, answered his
lordship's questions in his own person. "Yes, there has been an
examination," the sheriff said. "The circumstances are very suspicious.
I have thought it best to order that young Erskine should be detained
till there can be a more complete investigation. That, it is to be
hoped, will clear the matter up; but if not----"

Lord Rintoul's fair and ruddy countenance was dark with anxiety and
pain. "You cannot mean," he said, "that you believe Erskine----"

"I believe nothing but what there is evidence for," the sheriff said.
"We are not men of theories, Lord Rintoul. Experience shows every day
that men do the most unlikely things. I hear he's shown an
_animus_,--and there are two or three points very strange. I saw it my
duty to give orders that he should be detained----"

"You have sent him to prison, do you mean?" There was a sharp tone as of
personal anguish in Rintoul's voice. "But you'll admit him to bail? My
father, I, Millefleurs, any gentleman in the country----"

"Will be his bail? I doubt if it's a bailable offence: but if Lord
Lindores were willing to do that, no doubt it would have a good effect.
However, nothing can be done before the investigation," said the
sheriff; "a day or two will do the young man no harm."

This was all he could elicit. The sheriff was a man who had a great idea
of his office, and it was not often that he had a case so interesting
and important. The attendants thought Lord Rintoul had been drinking, as
he stumbled out. He went along the quiet street with an uncertain step,
now and then taking off his hat that the air might refresh him. He, too,
stopped at Mr Monypenny's door, as Rolls had done a very short time
before. It was afternoon now, and the shadows were lengthening as he
reached Miss Barbara's house. What a sunny glimpse there was from door
to door, across the little hall to the garden, where the brightness of
the autumn flowers made a flush of colour! Rintoul saw a figure against
the light which was not Miss Barbara's. There was in him a forlorn
desire for consolation. "Don't tell Miss Barbara I am here just yet," he
said hastily to the maid, and opened the glass-door, beyond which Nora
stood among all the geraniums and mignonette. There was no agitation
about her. She was not sufficiently interested in John Erskine to be
deeply troubled by the idea of annoyance to him as his old aunt was, or
alarmed by a passing shadow upon his name. She was serene and calm in
this quiet world of flowers and greenness where no trouble was. She
welcomed him with a smile. "Miss Barbara is very anxious," she said.
"She has gone up-stairs to rest, but I am to let her know when you
come."

"Wait a little," he said, glad of the interval; "_you_ are not anxious."

"Not so much. Of course I am interested in my friends' friends--but I
don't know very much of Mr Erskine," said Nora, unable to divest herself
altogether of the imaginative offence that lay between John and her.
"And it cannot do him much harm, can it? It will only be
disagreeable--till the facts are known. Young men," she said, with a
smile, "have a right to have something unpleasant happen to them now and
then; they have so much the best of it in other ways."

"Do you think so," he said, with a seriousness which put her levity to
shame. "To be sent to prison--to have a stigma put upon you--perhaps to
be tried for your life!--that is rather worse than mere unpleasantness."

Nora was greatly impressed, not only by the gravity of what he said, but
the air with which he said it. "It surely cannot be so bad as that: and
he--is innocent, Lord Rintoul?"

"I have no doubt of it," cried Rintoul, eagerly,--"no doubt of it! If
there is any one to blame, it is some one--whom most likely nobody
suspects. What would you think of the man who had done it, and yet said
nothing, but let John Erskine suffer for his fault?"

"I do not believe," said Nora, like Desdemona, "that there could be any
such man. It is impossible. You think too badly of human nature. How
can you suppose another would do what you know you would not do
yourself? Oh no, no, never! Lord Rintoul----" She paused after this
little outburst, and drawing a step nearer to him, asked in a low and
horror-stricken tone--"Do you really think that poor Mr Torrance
was--murdered?"

"No, no!" he cried almost violently--"no, no!" He stopped short, with a
dryness in his throat, as if he could not speak; then resumed, in a
quieter tone--"But I think in all likelihood there was, as people
imagine, a quarrel, a scuffle--and that somebody--took hold of the
mare's bridle----"

"Some tramp, no doubt," said Nora, sympathetically, much affected by his
emotion, "who perhaps doesn't even know----"

"That is it," said Rintoul, eagerly--"who perhaps never dreamt at the
moment. And even if he knows now, such a man might think, as you did,
that it would come to nothing with Erskine. I believe it will come to
nothing--a day, or two days, in prison."

"But if it should turn out more serious," said Nora, "even a
tramp--would give himself up, surely--would never let an innocent man
suffer?"

"We must hope so, at least," said Lord Rintoul. His countenance had
never relaxed all this time. It was almost solemn, set, and rigid--the
muscles about his mouth unmoving. "There should not be any question
about right and wrong, I know," he said, "but such a man might say to
himself--he might think--Young Erskine is a gentleman, and I'm only a
common fellow--they will treat him better than they would treat me. He
might say to himself----"

"I cannot believe it," cried Nora. "In such a case there could be no
question of what any one would do. It is like A B C. What! let another
man suffer for something you have done! Oh no, no--even in the nursery
one knows better than that!"

"I don't think," said Rintoul, "that you ever can understand all the
excuses a man will make for himself till you've been in the same
position. Things look so different when you've done it--from what they
do when some one else has done it. There are so many things to be taken
into consideration. Punishment is not the same to all; it might ruin
one, and not do much harm to another. A man might feel justified, or at
least there would be excuses for him, if he let another bear the
punishment which would not hurt _him_ much, but would be destructive to
himself. Of course it would be his business to make it up somehow."

"Lord Rintoul, this is dreadful doctrine!" said Nora; "if it were
carried out, then you might do any wickedness you wished, and hire
somebody to be punished instead of you." She laughed half nervously,
shaking off the graver turn the conversation had taken. "But this is
absurd," she said; "of course you don't mean that. I think I know what
you mean;--but I must not delay longer, I must tell Miss Barbara."

"Don't disturb her now," said Rintoul, eagerly. "Besides, I really have
not time. If you would say that it is unfortunately true--that Erskine
is--detained till there can be a full investigation. I am hurrying off
to get bail for him, for of course they must accept bail--and it will
only be for a few days. The investigation--at which we shall all be
examined," he said, with a nervous tremor,--"will clear up everything, I
hope."

"I hope so, with all my heart," said Nora, waving her hand to him as he
hurried away. Rintoul had reached the garden door on his way out, when
he suddenly paused, and came back to her, and took that hand, holding it
for a moment between his own.

"All this is very hard upon me," he said, incoherently; "it gives me a
great deal of misery. Feel for me--stand by me. Will you, Nora? I don't
care for the rest, if you----"

And he wrung her hand almost violently, dropped it, and hurried away.
The girl stood looking after him with wonder and dismay, and yet with a
gush of a different kind of feeling, which filled her heart with a
confusing warmth. "A great deal of misery!" Was it the tenderness of his
heart for his sister, for the unfortunate man who had been summoned out
of the world so abruptly--though he did not love him--and for his friend
who was unjustly accused, which made Rintoul say this? But anyhow, Nora
was not capable of resisting such an appeal. Poor Rintoul: though he did
not show it to any one, how tender he was, how full of sympathy! John
Erskine (against whom she could not help entertaining a little grudge)
died out of her mind altogether. She was so much more sorry for the
other, who felt it so deeply though it was not his concern.




CHAPTER XXXIV.


Beaufort drove home on that eventful afternoon by himself. He had left
his friend in the county jail, in a state in which surprise was still
perhaps the predominant feeling. John had said little on the way, except
to point out, with something which perhaps bore the character of
bravado, the new features of the landscape beyond Dunearn. "It is an
opportunity for you to see a little more of the country," he said, with
a smile. Something of the same indignant amusement which had been his
first apparent sensation on hearing the sheriff's decision was still in
his manner now. He held his head high and a little thrown back, his
nostrils were dilated, his eyes more widely open and alert than usual,
and a smile in which there was a little scorn was upon his face. Those
who did not know John or human nature might have thought him unusually
triumphant, excited by some occurrence which enhanced instead of
humiliating his pride. "I cannot tell you how surprised I am to see you
here, Mr Erskine," said the governor of the jail with consternation.
"You cannot be more surprised than I am," said John. He gave his orders
about the things he wanted in the same tone, taking no notice of the
anxious suggestion that it would only be for a few days. He was too
deeply offended with fate to show it. He only smiled and said, "The
first step is so extraordinary that I prefer not to anticipate the
next." "But they must allow you bail," said Beaufort; "that must be my
first care." John laughed. He would not condescend to be anxious. "Or
hang me," he said; "the one just as sensible as the other." Beaufort
drove away with the strangest feelings, guiding his friend's horse along
the road with which he was so little acquainted, but from which
presently he saw the great house of Tinto on one side, and on the other
the towers of Lindores appearing from among the trees. How hard it was
to keep his thoughts to John, with these exciting objects on either side
of him! This country road, which all its length kept him in sight of the
big castellated front of Tinto, with its flag half-mast high--the house
in which she was who had been his love and promised bride--seemed to
Beaufort to have become the very thread of his fate. That Carry should
be there within his reach, that she should be free and mistress of
herself, that there should be even a certain link of connection which
brought him naturally once more within the circle of her immediate
surroundings, was so wonderful that everything else seemed of less
importance. He could not disengage his thoughts from this. He was not a
man in whose mind generosity was the first or even a primary quality,
and it is so difficult to think first of another when our own affairs
are at an exciting stage. The only step which he could think of for
John's advantage confused him still more, for it was the first direct
step possible to put him once more in contact with Carry. He turned up
the avenue of Lindores with a thrill of sensation which penetrated his
whole being. He was relieved indeed to know that the ladies were not
there--that he would not at least be exposed to their scrutiny, and to
the self-betrayal that could scarcely fail to follow; but the very sight
and name of the house was enough to move him almost beyond his errand.
The last rays of the sunset had gone out, and the autumn evening began
to darken by the time he got there. He went on like a man in a dream,
feeling the very air about him tremulous with his fate, although he made
an attempt to think of John first. How could he think of anything but of
Carry, who was free? or recollect anything except that the mistress of
this house had allowed him to call her mother; and that even its lord,
before he was its lord, had not refused to permit the suggestion of a
filial relationship? There was a carriage already standing before the
door when he drove up, but his mind was by this time too much excited to
be moved by any outside circumstance. But when he stepped into the hall
upon his mission, and, following the servant to the presence of Lord
Lindores, suddenly found himself face to face with the two ladies going
out, Beaufort's agitation was extreme. They were returning to Tinto,
after a day's expedition in search of those "things" which seem always
necessary in every domestic crisis. Lady Lindores recognised him with a
start and cry of amazement. "Mr Beaufort! you here!" she cried, unable
to contain herself. She added, "at such a time!" in a lower tone, with
the self-betrayal to which impulsive persons are always liable, and with
so much indignation mingled with her astonishment, that a man in full
possession of his faculties might have drawn from it the most favourable
auguries. But Beaufort, to do him justice, was not cool enough for this.
He said hurriedly, "I came on Thursday--I knew nothing. I came--because
it was impossible to help it." Edith had come close up behind her
mother, and grasped her arm, half in support, half in reproof. "You knew
Mr Beaufort was coming, mamma; why should you be surprised?" she said,
with a certain disdain in the tone with which she named him. Edith was
unreasonable, like all the rest. She would have had him throw away
everything rather than come here to interfere with Carry's comfort,
notwithstanding that her own father had invited him to come, and though
it had been explained to her that all his prospects depended upon the
favour of the Duke, Lord Millefleurs's gracious papa. Her idea was, that
a man should have thrown away all that, rather than put himself in a
false position, or expose a woman whom he had once loved to
embarrassment and pain. They were all unreasonable together, but each in
his or her characteristic way. After these first utterances of
agitation, however, they all stopped short and looked at each other in
the waning light, and awoke to a recollection of the ordinary
conventionalities which in such circumstances are so great a relief to
everybody concerned.

"We must not detain you, Mr Beaufort," Lady Lindores said; "you were
going to my husband--or Lord Millefleurs--who is still here."

The last four words were said with a certain significance, as if
intended for a hint,--persuade him, they seemed to say, that this is not
a time to remain here. "It is getting late, mother," said Edith, with a
touch of impatience.

"One moment, Lady Lindores. I must tell you why I have come: not for
myself--to ask help for Erskine, whom I have just left in custody,
charged with having occasioned somehow--I can't tell you how--the death
of--the late accident--your son-in-law," Beaufort stammered out.

The next moment he seemed to be surrounded by them, by their cries of
dismay, by their anxious questions. A sharp keen pang of offence was the
first feeling in Beaufort's mind,--that John should be so much more
interesting to them than he was! It gave him a shock even in the
excitement of the moment.

"This was what he meant"--he could at last hear Edith distinctly after
the momentary babel of mutual exclamations--"this was what he meant:
that we might hear something, which he might not be able to explain, but
that we were to believe in him--you and I, mamma."

"Of course we believe in him," cried Lady Lindores; "but something else
must be done, something more. Come this way, Mr Beaufort; Lord Lindores
is here."

She called him Mr Beaufort without any hesitation now--not pausing, as
she had done before, with the more familiar name on her lips. It was
John who was in the foreground now--John who, perhaps, for anything they
knew, had caused the event which had put them in mourning. With a
whimsical mortification and envy, Beaufort exaggerated in his own mind
the distress caused by this event. For the moment he looked upon it as a
matter of real loss and pain to this unthinking family who showed such
interest in the person who perhaps----But the sentiment did not go so
far as to be put into words; it resolved itself into a half-indignant
wonder at the interest taken in John, and sense of injured superiority
on his own account--he, of whom no man could say that he had been
instrumental in causing the death even of a dog.

Lady Lindores led the way hastily into the library, where three figures
were visible against the dim light in the window as the others came in.
Lord Lindores, seated in his chair; little Millefleurs, leaning against
the window, half turned towards the landscape; and in front of the
light, with his back to it, Rintoul, who was speaking. "With you as
bail," he was saying, "he may be set free to-night. Don't let him be a
night in that place."

"Are you speaking of John Erskine, Robin, my dear boy? Oh, not a night,
not an hour! Don't lose any time. It is too dreadful, too preposterous.
Your father will go directly. Take the carriage, which is at the door.
If we are a little late, what does it matter?" said Lady Lindores,
coming forward, another shadow in the dim light. Millefleurs turned half
round, but did not come away from the window on which he was leaning.
He was somewhat surprised too, very curious, perhaps a trifle indignant,
to see all this fuss made about Erskine. He drew up his plump little
person, altogether indifferent to the pronounced manifestation of all
its curves against the light, and looked beyond Lady Lindores to
Edith,--Edith, who hurried after her mother, swift and silent, as if
they were one being, moved by the same unnecessary excitement.
Millefleurs had not been in a comfortable state of mind during these
last days. The delay irritated him; though Lord Lindores assured him
that all was well, he could not feel that all was well. Why should not
Edith see him, and give him his answer? She was not so overwhelmed with
grief for that brute. What did it mean? And now, though she could not
see him on such urgent cause, she was able to interest herself in this
eager way on behalf of John Erskine! Millefleurs was very tolerant, and
when the circumstances demanded it, could be magnanimous, but he thought
he had reason of offence here.

There was a momentary pause--enough to show that Lord Lindores did not
share the feeling so warmly expressed. "I am surprised that you should
all be so inconsiderate," he said; "you, at least, Rintoul, who
generally show more understanding. I have understood that Erskine had
laid himself under suspicion. Can you imagine that I, so near a
connection of poor Torrance, am the right person to interfere on behalf
perhaps of his--murd--that is to say, of the cause--of the
instrument----"

"It is impossible," cried Edith, with such decision that her soft voice
seemed hard--"impossible! Can any one suppose for a moment----"

"Be silent, Edith," cried her father.

"Why should she be silent?" said Lady Lindores. "Robert, think what you
are saying. We have all known John Erskine for years. He is as incapable
as I am--as unlikely as any one of us here. Because you are so near a
connection, is not that the very reason why you should interfere? For
God's sake, think of that poor boy in prison--in prison! and lose no
time."

"I will do it, mother," said Rintoul.

"Oh, God bless you, my boy! I knew you were always right at heart."

"Rintoul," said his father, "enthusiasm of this sort is new in you. Let
us take a little common-sense into the question. In the first place,
nothing can be done to-night--that is evident. Then consider a moment:
what does 'in prison' mean? In the governor's comfortable rooms, where
he will be as well off as at home; and probably--for he is not without
sense--will be taking the most reasonable view of the matter. He will
know perfectly well that if he deserves it he will find friends; in
short, that we are all his friends, and that everybody will be too glad
to assist him--as soon as he has cleared himself----"

"As soon as he wants it no longer," cried Lady Lindores.

"My dear, you are always violent; you are always a partisan," said her
husband, drawing back his chair a little, with the air of having ended
the discussion; and there was a pause--one of those breathless pauses of
helplessness, yet rebellion, which make sick the hearts of women. Lady
Lindores clasped her hands together with a despairing movement. "This is
the curse of our life," she cried. "I can do nothing; I cannot go
against your father, Edith, and yet I am neither a fool nor a child. God
help us women! we have to stand by, whatever wrong is done, and
submit--submit. That is all that is left for us to do----"

"Submit!" Edith said. She was young and strong, and had not learned her
lesson. It galled her beyond endurance. She stood and looked round her,
seeing the whiteness of the faces, but little else in the evening gloom.
Was it true that there was nothing--nothing in her power? In poetry, a
girl can throw herself on her knees, can weep and plead--but only weep
and plead; and she, who had not been trained to that, who was conscious
of her individuality, her independent mind and judgment in every
nerve--heaven above! was she as helpless still? She stood breathless
for a moment, with wondering eyes fixed on the darkness, with a gasp of
proud resistance to fate. Submit to injustice, to cruel heartlessness of
those who could aid, to still more cruel helplessness--impotence, on her
own part? She stood for a moment gazing at the blank wall that seemed to
rise before her, as the poor, the helpless have to do,--as women have to
do in all circumstances. It was her first experience in this kind. She
had been proud to know that she was not as Carry, that no tyranny could
crush her spirit: but this was different. She had not anticipated such a
trial as this. There came from her bosom one sob of supreme pain which
she could not keep in. Not for John only, whom she could not help in his
moment of need, but for herself also--to feel herself impotent,
helpless, powerless as a child.

Millefleurs came forward from the window hurriedly. Perhaps being so
much a man of his time it was he who understood that gasp of suffering
best. He said, "Lady Edith, if I can help----" quickly, on the impulse
of the moment; then, thorough little gentleman as he was, checked
himself. "Lady Lindores, though I am a stranger, yet my name is good
enough. Tell me what to do and I will do it. Perhaps it is better that
Lord Lindores should not commit himself. But I am free, don't you know,"
he said, with something of the easy little chirrup of more ordinary
times. Why was it that, at such a moment, Edith, of all others, in her
personal despair, should burst out into that strange little laugh? She
grasped her mother's arm with both hands in her excitement. Here was a
tragic irony and ridicule penetrating the misery of the crisis like a
sharp arrow which pricked the girl to the very heart.

This sympathiser immediately changed the face of affairs. Lord Lindores,
indeed, continued to hold himself apart, pushing back his chair once
more; but even to Lord Lindores, Millefleurs made a difference. He said
no more about enthusiasm or common-sense, but listened, not without an
occasional word of direction. They clustered together like a band of
shadows against the great window, which was full of the paleness of the
night. Beaufort, who was the person most acquainted with all the
circumstances, recovered his sense of personal importance as he told his
story. But after all, it was not as the narrator of John Erskine's story
that he cared to gain importance in the eyes of Carry's family, any more
than it was as bail for John Erskine that Lord Millefleurs desired to
make himself agreeable to the ladies at Lindores. Both of the strangers,
thus caught in the net of difficulties and dangers which surrounded
their old comrade, resented it more or less; but what could they do?
Edith took no further part in the consultation. She retired behind her
mother, whose arm she continued to hold firm and fast in both her hands.
When she was moved by the talk going on at her side she grasped that arm
tightly, which was her only sign of emotion, but for the rest retired
into the darkness where no one could see, and into herself, a still more
effectual retirement. Lady Lindores felt that her daughter's two hands
clasping her were like a sort of anchor which Edith had thrown out in
her shipwreck to grasp at some certainty. She bore the pressure with a
half smile and sigh. She too had felt the shipwreck with keen passion,
still more serious than that of Edith: but she had no one to anchor to.
She felt this, half with a grateful sense of what she herself was still
good for; but still more, perhaps, with that other personal sense which
comes to most--that with all the relationships of life still round her,
mother and wife, she, for all solace and support, was like most of us
virtually alone.




CHAPTER XXXV.


"Your master is just a young fool. Why, in the name of a' that's
reasonable," cried Mr Monypenny, "did he not send for me?"

"Sir," said Rolls, "you're too sensible a man not to know that the last
thing a lad is likely to do is what's reasonable, especially when he's
in that flurry, and just furious at being blamed."

Mr Monypenny was walking up and down his business room with much haste
and excitement. His house was built on the side of a slope, so that the
room, which was level with the road on one side, was elevated on the
upper floor at the other, and consequently had the advantage of a view
bounded, as was general, by "that eternal Tinto," as he was in the habit
of calling it. The good man, greatly disturbed by what he heard, walked
to his window and stared out as Rolls spoke. And he shook his fist at
the distant object of so many troubles. "Him and his big house and his
ill ways--they've been the trouble of the country-side those fifteen
years and more," cried the excited "man of business"; "and now we're not
done with him, even when he's dead."

"Far from done with him," said Rolls, shaking his head. He was seated on
the edge of a chair with his hat in his lap and a countenance of dismay.
"If I might make so bold as to ask," he said, "what would ye say, sir,
would be done if the worst came to the worst? I'm no' saying to Mr
Erskine indiveedually," added Rolls--"for it's my belief he's had
nothing ado with it--but granting that it's some person and no mere
accident----"

"How can I tell--or any man?" said Mr Monypenny. "It depends entirely on
the nature of the act. It's all supposition, so far as I can see. To
pitch Pat Torrance over the Scaur, him and his big horse, with murderous
intent, is more than John Erskine could have done, or any man I know.
And there was no quarrel or motive. Culpable homicide----"

"That'll be what the English gentleman called manslaughter."

"Manslaughter is a wide word. It would all depend on the circumstances.
A year; maybe six months only----If it were to turn out so--which I do
not for a moment believe----" said Mr Monypenny, fixing his eyes upon
Rolls with a determination which betrayed internal feebleness of belief.

"Nor me, sir--nor me!" cried Rolls, with the same look. They were like
two conspirators regarding each other with the consciousness of the
plot, which, even between themselves, each eyeing the other, they were
determined to deny.

"But if by any evil chance it were to turn out so--I would advise a
plain statement," said Mr Monypenny--"just a plain statement, concealing
nothing. That should have been done at the moment: help should have been
sought at the moment; there's the error. A misadventure like that might
happen to any man. We might any of us be the means of such an accident:
but panic is just the worst policy. Panic looks like guilt. If he's been
so far left to himself as to take fright--to see that big man on his big
horse thunderin' over the Scaur would be enough to make any man lose his
head," the agent added, with a sort of apology in his tone.

"If you could think of the young master as in that poseetion," said
Rolls.

"Which is just impossible," Mr Monypenny said, and then there was a
little pause. "The wisest thing," he went on, "would be, just as I say,
a plain statement. Such and such a thing happened. I lost my head. I
thought there was nothing to be done. I was foolish enough to shrink
from the name of it, or from the coolness it would make between me and
my friends. Ay, very likely that might be the cause--the coolness it
would make between him and the family at Lindores----"

"You're meaning always if there was onything in it at a'?"

"That is what I'm meaning. I will go and see him at once," Mr Monypenny
said, "and that is the advice I will give. A plain story whatever it may
be--just the facts; neither extenuate nor set down aught in malice. And
as for you, Rolls, that seem to be mixed up in it yourself----"

"Ay, sir; I'm mixed up in it," said Rolls, turning upon him an inquiring
yet half-defiant glance.

"It was you that found the body first. It was you that met your master
at the gate. You're the most important witness, so far as I can see.
Lord bless us, man!" said Mr Monypenny, forgetting precaution, "had you
not the judgment, when you saw the lad had been in a tuilzie, to get him
out of other folk's sight, and keep it to yourself?"

"There was John Tamson as well as me," said Rolls, very gravely; and
then he added, "but ye canna see yet, Mr Monypenny, how it may a' turn."

"I see plenty," said the man of business, impatiently; and then he
added, "the best thing you can do is to find out all you can about the
ground, and other details. It was always unsafe; and there had been a
great deal of rain. Very likely it was worse than ordinary that day. And
call to mind any circumstances that might tell on our side. Ye had
better come to me and make me acquainted with all your observations.
Neglect nothing. The very way the beast was lying, if ye can rightly
remember, might be a help. You're not without sense, Rolls. I've always
had a high opinion of your sense. Now here's a chance for you to prove
it----And come back to me, and we'll judge how the evidence tends.
There's no need," he said, standing at the window once more with his
back to his pupil, "to bring out any points that might turn--the other
way."

"I'm not just such a fool as--some folk think," said Rolls; "and yet,"
he added, in an undertone, "for a' that, you canna see, Mr Monypenny,
how it may all turn----"

"Don't haver, Rolls," said the agent, turning upon him angrily; "or
speak out what you mean. There is no man can say how a thing will turn
but he that has perfect knowledge of all the circumstances--which is not
my case."

"That's what I was saying, sir," said Rolls, with a tranquil assumption
which roused Mr Monypenny's temper; but the old man was so solemn in his
air of superior knowledge, so full of sorrowful decision and
despondency, that anger seemed out of place. The other grew alarmed as
he looked at him.

"For God's sake, man," he cried, "if there's anything behind that I
don't know, tell it! let me hear the worst. We must know the worst, if
it's to make the best of it. Hide nothing from me."

"I give ye my word, sir, I'll hide nothing--when the time comes," said
Rolls, with a sigh; "but I canna just unburden my bozume at this moment.
There's mair thought needful and mair planning. And there's one thing I
would like to make sure of, Mr Monypenny. If I'm put to expenses, or
otherwise laid open to risk and ootlay--there's no doubt but it would be
made up to me? And if, as might happen, anything serious was to
befall----without doubt the young maister would think himself bound to
take good care o' Bauby? She's my sister, maybe you'll mind: an
aixcellent housekeeper and a good woman, though maybe I should leave her
praises to ither folk. You see he hasna been brought up in the midst o'
his ain folk, so to speak, or I would have little doubt."

"I cannot conceive what you mean, Rolls. Of course I know Bauby and her
cookery both; but what risk you should run, or what she can have to do
with it! Your expenses of course," said the agent, with a contemptuous
wave of his hand, "you may be sure enough of. But you must have done
pretty well in the service of the Dalrulzian family, Rolls. I'm
surprised that you should think of this at such a moment----"

"That's just what I expectit, sir," said Rolls; "but maybe I ken my ain
affairs best, having no man of business. And about Bauby, she's just
what I care for most. I wouldna have her vexed or distresst for siller,
or put out of her ordinar. The maister he's but a young man, and no'
attached to us as he would have been had he been brought up at hame.
It's a great drawback to a young lad, Mr Monypenny"--Rolls broke off his
personal argument to say sententiously--"not to be brought up at hame."

"Because he does not get the chance of becoming attached to his
servants?" said Mr Monypenny, with an impatient laugh. "Perhaps it may
be so, but this is a curious moment to moralise on the subject."

"No' so curious as you think, sir; but I will not weary you," said
Rolls, with some dignity. "When I was saying ootlay, I meant mair than
just a sixpence here or there. But Bauby's the grand question. I'm in a
strange kind of a poseetion, and the one thing I'm clear in is my duty
to her. She's been a rael guid sister to me; aye made me comfortable,
studiet my ways, took an interest in all my bits o' fykes. I would ill
like either scorn or trouble to come to Bauby. She's awfu'
soft-hearted," said the old butler, solemnly gazing into vacancy with a
reddening of his eyes. Something of that most moving of all sentiments,
self-pity, was in his tone. He foresaw Bauby's apron at her eyes for
him, and in her grief over her brother, his own heart was profoundly
moved. "There will be some things that nobody can save her from: but for
all that concerns this world, if I could be sure that nothing would
happen to Bauby----"

"Well, Rolls, you're past my comprehension," said Mr Monypenny; "but so
far as taking care of Bauby in case anything happens to you--though what
should happen to you I have yet to learn."

"That is just so," said Rolls, getting up slowly. There was about him
altogether a great solemnity, like a man at a funeral, Mr Monypenny said
afterwards. "I cannot expect you to know, sir--that's atween me and my
Maker. I'm no' going back to Dalrulzian. I cannot have my mind disturbed
at this awfu' moment, as ye say, with weemen and their ways. If ye see
the English gentleman, ye'll maybe explain. Marget has a very guid
notion o' waitin'; she can do all that's necessary; and for me, I've
ither work in hand."

"You must not look at everything in so gloomy a spirit, Rolls," said Mr
Monypenny, holding out his hand. He was not in the habit of shaking
hands with the butler, but there are occasions when rules are
involuntarily broken through.

"No' a gloomy spirit, sir, but awfu' serious," said Rolls. "You'll tell
the young maister no' to be down-hearted, but at the same time no' to be
that prood. Help may come when it's little looked for. I'm no' a man of
mony words, but I've been, as you say, sir, attached to the family all
my days, and I have just a feeling for them more than common. The
present gentleman's mother--her that married the English minister--was
no' just what suited the house. Dalrulzian was nothing to her; and
that's what I compleen o', that the young man was never brought up at
hame, to have confidence in his ain folk. It would have been greatly for
his advantage, sir," continued Rolls, "if he had but had the discernment
to see that our bonnie Miss Nora was just the person;--but I mustna
think now of making conditions," he said, hurriedly--"we'll leave that
to his good sense. Mony thanks to you, sir, for hearing me out, and
shaking my hand as ye've done; though there's maybe things I have said
that are a wee hard to understand."

"Ay, Rolls," said Mr Monypenny, laughing, "you're just like the other
prophets; a great deal of what you've said is Greek and Hebrew to me."

"No doubt, no doubt," said Rolls, shaking his head; there was no smile
in him, not a line in his countenance that marked even incipient humour.
Whatever he meant it was deadly earnest to Rolls. Mr Monypenny stood
and watched him go out, with a laugh gurgling low down in his throat.
"He was always a conceited body," he said to himself. But his
inclination to laughter subsided as his visitor disappeared. It was no
moment for laughing. And when Rolls was gone, the temptation to
speculate on his words, and put meaning into them, subsided also, and Mr
Monypenny gave himself up with great seriousness to consider the
position. He ordered his little country carriage--something of the
phaeton order, but not elegant enough for classification--and drove away
as quickly as his comfortable cob would consent to go, to where John
was. Such a thing had not happened to any person of importance in the
county since he could remember. Debt, indeed--debt was common enough,
and plenty of trouble always, about money, Mr Monypenny said to himself,
shaking his head, as he went along. There had been borrowings and
hypothecations of all sorts enough to make a financier's hair stand on
end; but crime never! Not that men were better here than in other
quarters; but among the gentry that had never happened. The good man ran
on, in a rambling inaudible soliloquy, or rather colloquy with himself,
as he drove on, asking how it was, after all, that incidents of the kind
were so rare among the gentry. Was the breed better? He shook his head,
remembering himself of various details which interfered with so easy a
solution. Or was it that things were more easily hushed up? or that
superior education enforced a greater respect for the world's opinion,
and made offences of this sort almost impossible? It was a strange thing
(he thought) when you came to think of it. A fellow, now, like the late
Tinto would have been in every kind of scrape had he been a poor man;
but somehow, being a rich one, he had kept out of the hands of the law.
Such a thing never happened from year's end to year's end. And to think
now that it was not one of our ordinary Scots lairds, but the pink of
education and good breeding, from England and abroad! This gave a
momentary theoretical satisfaction to his musings by the way. But
immediately after, he thought with self-reproach that it was young
Erskine of whom he was permitting himself such criticism: young
Dalrulzian, poor lad! all the more to be pitied that he had been brought
up, as Rolls said, away from home, and with no father to look after him.
The cob was used to take his own way along those roads which he knew so
well, but at this point Mr Monypenny touched him with the indignity of a
whip, and hurried along. He met Beaufort returning, driving, with a
little hesitation at the corner of the road, John's dogcart homeward;
and Mr Monypenny thought he recognised the dogcart, but he did not stop
to say anything to the stranger, who naturally knew nothing of him. Nor
was his interview with John at all satisfactory when he came to his
journey's end. The young man received his man of business with that air
of levity which, mixed with indignation, had been his prevailing mood
since his arrest. He laughed when he said, "This is a curious place to
receive you in," and for some time he would scarcely give any heed to
the anxious questions and suggestions of Mr Monypenny. At length,
however, this veil was thrown off, and John permitted the family friend,
of whose faithfulness he could have no doubt, to see the depth of
wounded feeling that lay below. "Of course it can be nothing to me," he
said, still holding his head high. "They cannot prove a falsehood,
however they may wish it; but to think that of all these men with whom I
have eaten and drunk, who have professed to welcome me for my father's
sake--to think that not one of them would step in to stand by a fellow,
or give him the least support----"

"When you reflect that even I knew nothing about it," said Mr
Monypenny--"not a word--till old Rolls came----"

"Did you hear none of the talk?" said John. "I did not hear it, indeed,
but I have felt it in the air. I knew there was something. Everybody
looked at me suspiciously; the very tone of their voice was changed--my
own servants----"

"Your servants are very anxious about you, Mr Erskine, if I may judge
from old Rolls. I have seldom seen a man so overcome; and if you will
reflect that your other friends throughout the county can have heard
nothing, any more than myself----"

"Then you did not hear the talk?" said John, somewhat eagerly. Mr
Monypenny's countenance fell.

"I paid no attention to it. There's some story for ever going on in the
country-side. Wise men just shut their ears," he said.

"Wise men are one thing and friends another," said John. "Had I no one
who could have told me, at least, on how small a thread my reputation
hung? I might have gone away," he said, with some vehemence, "at the
height of it. If business, or even pleasure, had called me, no doubt I
should, without a notion of any consequences. When I think of that I
shiver. Supposing I had gone away?"

"In that case," said Mr Monypenny, clearing his throat; but he never got
any further. This alarm affected him greatly. He began to believe that
his client might be innocent altogether--an idea which, notwithstanding
all the disclaimers which he and Rolls had exchanged, had not crossed
his mind before; but when he heard John's story, his faith was shaken.
He listened to it with the deepest interest, waiting for the moment
when the confession would be made. But when it ended, without any end,
so to speak, and John finally described Torrance as riding up towards
the house, while he himself went down, Mr Monypenny's countenance fell.
He was disappointed. The tale was such as he expected, with this
important difference--it wanted a conclusion. The listener gave a gasp
of interest when the crisis arrived, but his interest flagged at once
when it was over, and nothing had happened. "And then?" he said,
breathlessly. And then?--but there was no _then_. John gazed at him
wondering, not perceiving the failure of the story. "That is all," he
said. Mr Monypenny grew almost angry as he sat gazing at him across the
table.

"I have just been telling Rolls," he said, "that the best policy in such
a case is just downright honest truth. To get into a panic and keep back
anything is the greatest mistake. There is no need for any panic. You
will be in the hands of those that take a great interest in you, Mr
John--begging your pardon for using that name."

"You do not seem satisfied with what I have told you," John said.

"Oh, _me_! it's little consequence what I think; there's plenty to be
thought upon before me. I would make no bones about it. In most things
the real truth is the best, but most especially when you're under an
accusation. I'm for no half measures, if you will let me say so."

"I will let you say whatever you please--so long as you understand what
I am saying. I have told you everything. Do I look like a man in a
panic?" said John.

"Panic has many meanings. I make no doubt you are a brave man, and ready
to face fire and sword if there was any need. But this is different. If
you please, we'll not fail to understand each other for want of plain
speaking. Mr Erskine, I make no doubt that's all as true as gospel; but
there's more to come. That's just a part of the story, not the whole."

"I don't mean to be offended by anything you say," said John,
cheerfully. "I feel that it means kindness. There is nothing more to
come. It is not a part, but the whole. It is the truth, and everything I
know."

Mr Monypenny did not look up; he was drumming his foot softly against
the table, and hanging his head with a despondent air as he listened. He
did not stop the one nor raise the other, but went on working his under
lip, which projected slightly. There is no such tacit evidence of
dissatisfaction or unbelief. Some little sign invariably breaks the
stillness of attention when the teller of a tale comes to its end, if
his story has been believed. There is, if no words, some stir, however
slight--movement of one kind or another, if only the change of an
attitude. But Mr Monypenny did not pay this usual tribute when John's
voice stopped. It was a stronger protest than if he had said, "I don't
believe you," in ordinary words.

"I understand," said John, after a pause of a full minute, which seemed
to him an hour. He laughed with something between despair and defiance.
"Your mode of communication is very unmistakable, Mr Monypenny. It is
Scotch, I suppose. One has always heard of Scotch caution and
cannyness." If he had not been very bitter and sore at heart he would
not have snatched at this aimless weapon of offence.

"Mr Erskine," said the agent, "a sneer is always easy. Gibes break no
bones, but neither have they any healing in them. You may say what you
like to me, but an argument like that will do you terrible little good
with them that will have to judge at the end. I am giving no opinion
myself. On my own account I will speak frankly. I would rather not have
heard this story--unless I was to hear----"

"What?" cried John, in the heat of personal offence.

"More," said Mr Monypenny, regretfully--"more; just another dozen words
would have been enough; but if there is no more to say----"

"I am not a man to make protestations of truth. There is no more to say,
Mr Monypenny."

"Well-a-well," said the agent gloomily, shaking his head; "we must take
just what is given--we must try to make the best of it. And you think
there's nothing can be _proved_ against you?" he said, with a slight
emphasis. It required all John's self-command to keep his temper. He had
to remind himself forcibly of the true and steady and long-tried
kindness with which this doubter had stood by him, and cared for his
interests all his life--a wise steward, a just guardian. These thoughts
kept unseemly expressions from his lips, but he was not the less sore at
heart. Even after the first blow of the criminal examination and his
detention in prison, it had all seemed to him so simple. What could be
necessary but to tell his story with sufficient distinctness (in which
he thought he had failed before the sheriff)? Surely truth and falsehood
were distinguishable at a glance, especially by those who are accustomed
to discriminate between them. But the blank of unbelief and
disappointment with which Mr Monypenny heard his story chilled him to
the heart. If he did not believe him, who would? He was angry, but anger
is but a temporary sentiment when the mind is fairly at bay and finds
itself hemmed in by difficulties and danger. He began to realise his
position, the place in which he was, the circumstances surrounding him,
as he had not yet done. The sheriff himself had been very civil, and
deeply concerned to be the means of inflicting such an affront upon a
county family; and he had added encouragingly that, on his return to
Dunearn, in less than a week, when all the witnesses were got together,
there was little doubt that a different light might be thrown on the
affair; but Mr Monypenny's question was not so consolatory. "You think
there's nothing can be _proved_ against you?" John had been gazing at
his agent across the table while all these painful reflections went
through his mind.

"I must be careful what I say. I am not speaking as a lawyer," he said,
with an uncomfortable smile. "What I meant was, that nothing could be
proved which was untrue."

The agent shook his head. "When it's circumstantial evidence, you can
never build upon that," he said. "No man saw it, you may say; but if all
the facts point that way, it goes far with a jury. There are some other
things you will perhaps tell me. Had you any quarrel ever with poor
Tinto? Was there ill blood between you? Can any man give evidence, for
example, 'I heard the panel say that he would have it out with Pat
Torrance'? or----"

"For heaven's sake, what is the panel? and what connection is there
between poor Torrance and----"

"Sir," said Mr Monypenny, sternly, "this is no time for jests; the panel
is a Scotch law term, meaning the defender; or what you call the
defendant in England. It's a terrible loss to a young man to be
unacquainted even with the phraseology of his own country."

"That is very true," John said, with a laugh; "but at least it is no
fault of mine. Well, suppose I am the panel, as you say--that does not
make me a vulgar brawler, does it, likely to display hostile intentions
in that way? You may be sure no man can say of me that I threatened to
have it out with Pat Torrance----"

"It was inadvertent--it was inadvertent," said Mr Monypenny, waving his
hand, with a slight flush of confusion; "I daresay you never said
Pat--but what has that to do with it?--you know my meaning. Is there any
one that can be produced to say----"

"I have quarrelled with Torrance almost as often as I have met him,"
said John, with obstinate decision. "I thought him a bully and a cad. If
I did not tell him so, it was out of regard for his wife, and he was at
liberty to find out my sentiments from my looks if it pleased him. I
have never made the least pretence of liking the man."

Mr Monypenny went on shaking his head. "All this is bad," he said,
"bad!--but it does not make a quarrel in the eye of the law," he added,
more cheerfully; and he went on putting a variety of questions, of which
John grew very weary. Some of these questions seemed to have very little
bearing upon the subject; some irritated him as betraying beyond all a
persistent doubt of his own story. Altogether, the first dreary
afternoon in confinement was not made much more endurable by this visit.
The room in which John had been placed was like the parlour of a
somewhat shabby lodging-house--not worse than he had inhabited many a
time while travelling. But the idea that he could not step outside, but
was bound to this enclosure, was first ludicrous, and then intolerable.
The window was rather higher than usual, and there were bars across it.
When it became dark, a paraffin-lamp, such as is now universal in the
country--smelling horribly, as is, alas! too universal also--was brought
in, giving abundance of light, but making everything more squalid than
before. And as Mr Monypenny made his notes, John's heart sank, and his
impatience rose. He got up and began to pace about like a wild beast in
a cage, as he said to himself. The sensation was more extraordinary than
can be imagined. Not to be able, whatever might happen, to leave this
shabby room. Whosoever might call to you, whatsoever might appeal to
you, to be fixed there, all your impulses checked, impotent, unable for
the first time in your life to do what you had done every day of your
life, to move out and in, to and fro as you pleased! John felt that if
he had been a theatrical felon in a play, manacled and fettered, it
would have been easier, more comprehensible. But to know that these four
walls were his absolute boundaries, and that he could not go beyond
them, was more astounding than any other sensation that had ever
happened to him in his life. And when Mr Monypenny, with his careful
brow, weighted with doubts and fears, unable to clear his countenance
from the disapprobation that clouded it, got up to take his leave, and
stood holding his client's hands, overwhelmed with sympathy, vexation,
dissatisfaction, and pity, the impatience and bitter sense of the
intolerable in John's mind could scarcely be restrained. "Whatever there
may be more to say, whatever may come to your mind, you have but to send
me a word, and I'll be at your call night or day," Mr Monypenny said.

"It is very unlikely that I should have anything more to say," said
John; "but must I stay here?" It seemed incredible to him that he should
be left even by his own "man of business." He had seen Beaufort go away
with a sort of contemptuous certainty of speedy liberation; but Mr
Monypenny had said nothing about liberation. "Surely there is nothing to
prevent bail being accepted?" he said, with an eagerness he could not
disguise.

"I will see about it," Mr Monypenny said. But the good agent went away
with a dissatisfied countenance; and with a feeling that he must break
through the walls or the barred window, must make his escape
somehow--could not, would not, endure this extraordinary intolerable new
thing--John Erskine heard the key turn in his door, and was left shut up
with the paraffin-lamp, flaming and smelling more than ever, a prisoner
and alone. Whether it was more ludicrous or more terrible, this annoying
impossible farce-tragedy, it was hard to say.




CHAPTER XXXVI.


The day after John's incarceration was the funeral day at Tinto. The
whole country was moved by this great ceremonial. The funeral was to be
more magnificent than ever funeral had been before for hundreds of miles
around; and the number of the procession which followed the remains was
greater than that of any assembly known in the country since the '45,
when the whole district on one side or the other was "out." That
everybody concerned should have found it impossible to think of John in
the county jail, in face of the necessity of "showing respect" on this
great occasion to the memory of Torrance, was natural. It was, indeed,
out of the question to make any comparison between the two necessities.
After all, what did it matter for one day? Those who were out of prison,
and had never been in prison, and whose imagination was not affected
like John's by that atmosphere of restraint, did not see any great harm
that could happen. And the ceremony was one which could not be
neglected. A Scotch funeral is somewhat terrible to those who have been
accustomed to the pathetic and solemn ritual of the English Church; but
there was something, too, impressive to the imagination, in that silent
putting away of the old garment of humanity,--a stern submission, an
acceptance of absolute doom, which, if it suggested little consolation,
at least shed a wonderful awe on that conclusion no longer to be
disturbed by mortal prayers or hopes. But Dr Stirling, the parish
minister, was of the new school of the Scotch Church, and poor
Torrance's body became, as it were, the flag of a religious party as it
was laid in the grave. The great dining-room at Tinto, the largest room
in the county, was crowded with a silent assembly gathered round the
coffin while the first portion of the ceremony was carried out. It was
such a scene as would have filled the heart of the dead man with
exultation. Not one of the potentates of the county was absent; and
behind them, in close ranks, with scarcely standing-room, came the
smaller notabilities--bonnet lairds, village doctors, clergymen,
schoolmasters, lost in the sea of the tenantry behind. At the upper end
of the room, a very unusual group, stood the ladies. Lady Caroline in
her widow's weeds, covered with crape from head to foot, her tall
willowy figure drooping under the weight of those long clinging funeral
robes, her face perfectly pale and more abstract and high-bred than
ever, encircled by the whiteness of the cap--with her two little
children standing by, and her mother and sister behind to support
her--thrilled many an honest heart in the assembly. Women so seldom take
part in funeral ceremonies in Scotland, that the farmers and
country-folk were touched beyond measure by this apparition. It was
described in scores of sympathetic houses for long after: "A snowdrift
could not be whiter than the face of her; and the twa little bairns,
puir things, glowering frae them, the image of poor Tinto himsel'." If
there was any sceptic ready to suggest "that my leddy was never so happy
a wife to be sic a mournin' widow," the spectators had a ready answer:
"Eh, but she would be thinking to herself if I had maybe been a wee
better to him----" Thus the popular verdict summed up the troubled
story. Lady Caroline was pale enough for the _rôle_ of the most
impassioned mourner. She might have been chilled to stone by grief and
pain for anything that was apparent. She did not speak or take notice of
any one, as was natural. Even for her father she had not a word; and
when her little boy was led away to follow his father to the grave, she
sank into a chair, having, no doubt, the sympathetic bystanders thought,
done all that her strength was capable of. This roused a very warm
sympathetic feeling for Lady Car throughout all the country-side. If it
had not been just perhaps a love-match, she had done her duty by Tinto,
poor fellow! She had kept him in the right way as far as a woman could;
and what was scarcely to be expected, but pleased the lookers-on most of
all, she had presented an aspect of utter desolation at his funeral. All
that a widow could feel was in her face,--or so at least the bystanders
thought.

The solemn procession filed out of the room: little Tom Torrance
clinging to his grandfather's hand, looking out with big projecting eyes
like his father's upon all the wonderful scene, stumping along at the
head of the black procession. Poor little Tommy! he had a feeling of his
own importance more than anything else. His little brain was confused
and buzzing. He had no real association in his mind between the black
thing in front of him and papa; but he knew that he had a right to walk
first, to hold fast hold of grandpapa's finger, and keep with his little
fat legs in advance of everybody. It is difficult to say how soon this
sense of importance makes up for other wants and troubles. Tommy was
only four, but he felt it; and his grandfather, who was nearly fifteen
times as old, felt it too. He felt that to have this child in his hands
and the management of a great estate for so long a minority, was worth
something in the list of his ambitions; and thus they all went forth,
trooping into the long line of carriages that shone in the veiled
autumnal sunlight, up and down the avenue among the trees in endless
succession. Even to get them under way was no small matter; and at the
lodge gates and down the road there was almost as great a crowd of women
and poor people waiting to see them go by. John Tamson's wife, by whose
very cottage the mournful line passed, was full of tragic consciousness.
"Eh!" she said, with bated breath, "to think that yon day when our John
brought ben young Dalrulzian a' torn and disjasket to hae the dirt
brushed off o' him--that yon day was the beginning of a'----" "Hold your
tongue, woman," said John Tamson; "what has the ane to do with the
ither? Ye're pitting things thegither that hae nae natural sequence; but
ye ken naething of logic." "No' me," said the woman; "and I wuss that
poor young lad just kent as little. If he hadna been so book-learned he
would have been mair friendly-like with them that were of his ain kind
and degree." And as the black line went past, which after a while became
tedious, she recounted to her gossips once more the story which by this
time everybody knew, but all were willing to hear over again under the
excitement of this practical commentary. "Losh! would he leave him lying
there and never cry for help?" some of the spectators said. "It was
never our master that did that," said Peggy Blair from the Dalrulzian
lodge, who had declared boldly from the beginning that she "took nae
interest" even in this grand funeral. "And if it wasna your maister, wha
was it that came ben to me with the red moul on his claes and his coat
a' torn?" said Janet Tamson. "I wasna here and I canna tell," Peggy
said, hot and furious. "I would never say what might happen in a moment
if a gentleman was angry--and Pat Torrance had an awfu' tongue, as the
haill county kens--but leave a man groanin' at the fit o' a rock, that's
what our maister never did, if I were to die for't," the woman cried.
This made a little sensation among the beholders; but when it was
remarked that Dalrulzian was the only gentleman of the county who was
absent from the funeral, and half-a-dozen voices together proclaimed the
reason,--"He couldna be twa places at once; he's in the jyel for
murder," Peggy was quenched altogether. Grief and shame were too much
for her. She continued to sob, "No' our master!" till her voice ceased
to be articulate in the midst of her tears.

Dr Stirling was seated in full canonicals--black silk gown and cambric
bands--in one of the first carriages. It was he that his wife looked for
when the procession passed the manse; and she put on her black bonnet,
and covered herself with a veil, and went out very solemnly to the
churchyard to see the burial. But it was not the burial she thought of,
nor poor Tinto, nor even Lady Car, for whom all day she had been
uttering notes of compassion: it was the innovation of the funeral
service which occupied the mind of the minister's wife. With mingled
pride and trembling she heard her husband in the silence begin his
prayer by the side of the vault. It was a beautiful prayer--partly, no
doubt, taken from the English liturgy, for which, she said, "the Doctor
always had a high admiration;" but partly--"and that was far the
best"--his own. It was the first time anything of the kind had been done
in the county; and if ever there could be a funeral important enough for
the introduction of a new ceremonial to mark it, it was this one: but
what if the Presbytery were to take notice of the innovation? Perhaps
the thrill of excitement in her enhanced the sense of the greatness of
the step which the Doctor was taking, and his nobility in doing it. And
in her eyes no ritual could have been more imposing. There were a great
many of the attendants who thought it was "just Poppery," and a most
dangerous beginning; but they were all hushed and reverential while the
minister's voice went on.

When every one had left, and the house was perfectly silent after the
hum and sound of so many feet, Lady Car herself went forward to the
window and drew up the blind which covered it. The gloom disappeared,
and the noonday sunshine streamed in in a moment. It was premature, and
Lady Lindores was grieved that she had not been quick enough to
forestall her daughter; for it would have been better, she thought, if
her hand had been the first to let in the light, and not that of the
new-made widow. Carry went further, and opened the window. She stepped
out upon the heavy stone balcony outside, and received the light full
upon her, raising her head to it, and basking in the sunshine. She
opened her pale lips to draw in great draughts of the sweet autumn air,
and threw up her arms to the sunshine and to the sky. Lady Lindores
stepped out after her, laying her hand upon her arm, with some alarm.
"Carry--my darling, wait a little----" Carry did not make any reply. She
said, "How long is it, mother?" still looking up into the clear depths
of the sky. "How long is what, my love?" They were a strange group. A
spectator might have thought that the pale creature in the midst, so
ethereal, so wan, wrapped in mourning so profound, had gone distraught
with care; while her child at her feet sat on the carpet in front of the
window, the emblem of childish indifference, playing with her new
shoes, which glittered and pleased her; and the two attendant figures,
the anxious mother and sister, kept watch behind. In Carry the mystery
all centred; and even those two who were nearest to her were bewildered,
and could not make her out. Was she an Ophelia, moved out of her sweet
wits by an anguish beyond bearing? Was she a woman repentant, appealing
to heaven for forgiveness? Carry was none of these things. She who had
been so dutiful all her life, resisting nobody, fulfilling all
requirements to the letter, bearing the burden of all her
responsibilities without rebellion or murmur, had ceased in a moment to
consider outside necessities, even the decorum of her sorrowful
condition. She gave a long sigh, dismissing, as it were, a weight from
her breast. "It is five years and a half," she said. "I ought to
remember, I that have counted every day,--and now is it possible, is it
possible?"

"What, my dearest? Carry, come in; you are excited----"

"Not yet, mother. How soft the air is! and the sunshine flooding
everything. I have been shut up so long. I think the colours never were
so lovely before."

"Yes, my darling; you have been shut up for a whole week. I don't wonder
you are glad of the fresh air."

"A week!" Carry said. "Five years: I have got no good of the sunshine,
and never tasted the sweetness of the air, for five years. Let me feel
it now. Oh, how have I lived all this time! What a beautiful country it
is! what a glorious sky! and I have been in prison, and have never seen
them! Is it true? is it all over?--all, all?" She turned round and gazed
into the room where the coffin had been with a gaze full of meaning
which no one could mistake. _It_ was gone--all was gone. "You must not
be horrified, mother," she said. "Why should I be false now? I think if
it had lasted any longer I must have died or run away."

"Dear Carry, you would have done neither; you would have done your duty
to the end," her mother said, drawing Carry into her arms. "It is
excitement that makes you speak so."

"Not excitement, but deliverance," said Lady Car with solemnity. "Yes,
mother, you are right; I should have stood to the end; but do you think
that would have been a credit to me? Oh, you don't know how hard
falsehood is! Falsehood and slavery--they are the same thing; they make
your heart like iron: you have no feeling even when you ought perhaps to
have feeling. I am cruel now; I know you think I am cruel: but how can
one help it? slaves are cruel. I can afford to have a heart now."

"Come to your room, Carry. It is too dismal for you here."

"No, I don't think it is dismal. It is a fine handsome room--better than
a bedroom to sit in. It is not so much like a prison, and the view is
lovely. There is poor Edith looking at me with her pitiful face. Do you
think I ought to cry? Oh, I could cry well enough, if that were all--it
would be quite easy; but there is so much to smile about," said poor
Lady Car; then suddenly, leaning upon her mother's shoulder, she burst
into a flood of tears.

It was at this moment that the housekeeper came in, solemn in her new
mourning, which was almost as "deep" as Carry's, with a housemaid in
attendance, to draw up the blinds and see that the great room was
restored to order. The gentlemen were to return for the reading of the
will, and it was meet that all should be prepared and made ready. And
nothing could so much have touched the hearts of the women as to see
their mistress thus weeping, encircled in her mother's arms. "Poor
thing! he was not over good a man to her; but there's nae rule for
judging marriet folk. It's ill to hae and waur to want with them.
There's naebody," said the housekeeper, "but must respect my lady for
her feeling heart." Lady Caroline, however, would not take the credit of
this when she had retired to a more private room. She would not allow
her mother and sister to suppose that her tears were tears of sorrow,
such as a widow ought to shed. "You were right, mother--it is the
excitement," she avowed; "every nerve is tingling. I could cry and I
could laugh. If it had not been for your good training, mamma, I should
have had hysterics; but that would be impossible to your daughter. When
shall I be able to go away? I know: I will not go sooner than is right.
I will do nothing I ought not to do;--but you could say my nerves are
shattered, and that I want rest."

"And very truly, Carry," said Lady Lindores; "but we must know first
what the will is. To be sure, your fortune is secured. You will be well
off--better than any of us; but there may be regulations about the
children--there may be conditions."

"Could the children be taken from me?" Carry said, but not with any
active feeling; her powers of emotion were all concentrated on one
thought. Lady Lindores, who was watching her with all a mother's anxious
criticism, fearing to see any failure of right sentiment in her child,
listened with a sensation of alarm. She had never been contented with
herself in this particular. Carry's children had been too much the
children of Pat Torrance to awaken the grandmother's worship, which she
thought befitting, in her own heart. She felt a certain repulsion when
she looked at these black-browed, light-eyed creatures, who were their
father's in every feature--not Carry's at all. Was it possible that
Carry, too, felt the same? But by-and-by Carry took up that little
stolid girl on whom Lady Lindores could not place her tenderest
affections, do what she would, and pressed her pale cheek against that
undisturbed and solid little countenance. The child's face looked bigger
than her mother's, Lady Lindores thought--the one all mind and feeling,
the other all clay. She went and gave little Edith a kiss in her
compunction and penitence for this involuntary dislike; but fortunately
Carry herself was unconscious of it, and caressed her babies as if they
were the most delicate and beautiful in the world.

Carry was not present at the reading of the will. She shrank from it,
and no one insisted. There were father and brother to look after her
interests. Rintoul was greatly shaken by the events of the day. He was
ghastly pale, and very much excited and agitated. Whatever his sister
might do, Rintoul certainly exhibited the truest sentiment. Nobody had
given him credit for half so much feeling. He carried back his little
nephew asleep after the long drive home, and thrust him into Carry's
arms. "I am not much of a fellow," he said, stooping over her, with a
voice full of emotion, "but I'll do a father's part to him, if I'm good
enough for it, Carry." Carry by this time was quite calm, and wondered
at this exhibition of feeling, at which Lady Lindores shed tears, though
in her heart she wondered too, rejoicing that her inward rebellion
against Torrance's children was not shared by her son. "Robin's heart
was always in the right place," she said, with a warmth of motherly
approval, which was not diminished by the fact that Rintoul's emotion
made her still more conscious of the absence of "right feeling" in
herself. There was not much conversation between the ladies in the small
morning room to which they had withdrawn--a room which had never been
used and had no associations. Carry, indeed, was very willing to talk;
but her mother and sister did their best, with a natural prejudice and
almost horror of the manner in which she regarded her own circumstances,
to keep her silent. Even Edith, who would have dissolved the marriage
arbitrarily, did not like to hear her sister's cry of satisfaction over
the freedom which death had brought her. There was something impious and
cruel in getting free that way. If it had been by a divorce or
separation, Edith would have been as glad as any; but she was a girl
full of prejudices and superstitions, and this candour of Carry's was a
thing she shrank from as an offence to human nature. She kept
behind-backs, often with her little niece on her knee, but sometimes by
herself, keeping very quiet, revolving many thoughts in her heart; while
Lady Lindores kept close to Carry, like a sick-nurse, keeping watch over
all her movements. It was dusk when the reading of the will was over,
and the sound in the house of footsteps going and coming began to cease.
Then Lord Lindores came in with much subdued dignity of demeanour, like
an ambassador approaching a crowned head. He went up to Carry, who lay
back in a great easy-chair beside the fire with her hands clasped,
pursuing the thoughts which she was not permitted to express, and gave
her a formal kiss on the forehead: not that he was cold or unsympathetic
as a father, but he had been a little afraid of her since her marriage,
and she had not welcomed the condolences he had addressed to her when he
saw her first after Tinto's death.

"My dear," he said, "this is not a moment for congratulations: and yet
there is something to a woman in having earned the entire confidence of
her husband, which must be a subject of satisfaction----"

Carry scarcely moved in her stillness. She looked at him without
understanding what he meant. "It would be better, perhaps," she said,
"father, not to speak of the circumstances."

"I hope I am not likely to speak in a way that could wound your
feelings, Carry. Poor Patrick--has done you noble justice in his will."

A hysterical desire to laugh seized poor Lady Car. Lord Lindores himself
was a little confused by the name he had coined on the spot for his dead
son-in-law. He had felt that to call him Torrance would be cold, as his
wish was to express the highest approval; and Pat was too familiar. But
his "Poor Patrick" was not successful. And Carry knew that, even in the
midst of her family, she must not laugh that day, whatever might happen.
She stopped herself convulsively, but cried, "Papa, for heaven's sake,
don't talk to me any more!"

"Do you not see, Robert, that she is exhausted?" said Lady Lindores.
"She thinks nothing of the will. She is worn out with--all she has had
to go through. Let her alone till she has had time to recover a little."

His wife's interposition always irritated Lord Lindores. "I may surely
be permitted to speak to Carry without an interpreter," he said,
testily. "It is no doubt a very--painful moment for her. But if anything
could make up----Torrance has behaved nobly, poor fellow! It must be
gratifying to us all to see the confidence he had in her. You have the
control of everything during your boy's minority, Carry. Everything is
in your hands. Of course it was understood that you would have the
support of your family. But you are hampered by no conditions: he has
behaved in the most princely manner; nothing could be more gratifying,"
Lord Lindores said.

Carry sat motionless in her chair, and took no notice--her white hands
clasped on her lap; her white face, passive and still, showed as little
emotion as the black folds of her dress, which were like a tragic
framework round her. Lady Lindores, with her hand upon the back of her
daughter's chair, came anxiously between, and replied for her. She had
to do her best to say the right thing in these strange circumstances--to
be warmly gratified, yet subdued by the conventional gloom necessary to
the occasion. "I am very glad," she said--"that is, it is very
satisfactory. I do not see what else he could have done. Carry must have
had the charge of her own children--who else had any right?--but, as you
say, it is very gratifying to find that he had so much confidence----"

Lord Lindores turned angrily away. "Nerves and vapours are out of place
here," he said. "Carry ought to understand--but, fortunately, so long as
I know what I am about--the only one among you----"

At this Carry raised herself hastily in her chair. She said "Papa,"
quickly, with a half gasp of alarm. Then she added, without stopping,
almost running her words into each other in her eagerness, "They are my
children; no one else has anything to do with them; I must do
everything--everything! for them myself; nobody must interfere."

"Who do you expect to interfere?" said her father, sternly. He found
himself confronting his entire family as he turned upon Carry, who was
so strangely roused and excited, sitting up erect in her seat, clasping
her pale hands. Rintoul had gone round behind her chair, beside his
mother; and Edith, rising up behind, stood there also, looking at him
with a pale face and wide-open eyes. It was as if he had made an attack
upon her--he who had come here to inform her of her freedom and her
rights. This sudden siding together of all against one is bitter, even
when the solitary person may know himself to be wrong. But Lord Lindores
felt himself in the right at this moment. Supposing that perhaps he had
made a mistake in this marriage of Carry's, fate had stepped in and made
everything right. She was nobly provided for, with the command of a
splendid fortune--and she was free. Now at least his wisdom ought to be
acknowledged, and that he had done well for his daughter. But
notwithstanding his resentment, he was a little cowed "in the
circumstances" by this gathering of pale faces against him. Nothing
could be said that was not peaceful and friendly on the day that the
dead had gone out of the house.

"Do you think I am likely to wish to dictate to her," he said, with a
short laugh, "that you stand round to defend her from me? Carry, you are
very much mistaken if you think I will interfere. Children are out of my
way. Your mother will be your best adviser. I yield to her better
information now. You are tired, you are unhappy--you are--left
desolate----"

"Oh, how do you dare to say such words to me?" cried Carry, rising,
coming forward to him with feverish energy, laying her hands upon his
shoulders, as if to compel him to face her, and hear what she had to
say. "Don't you know--don't you know? I was left desolate when you
brought me here, five years--five dreadful years ago. Whose fault is
that? I am glad he is dead--glad he is dead! Could a woman be more
injured than that? But now I have neither father nor mother," she cried.
"I am in my own right; my life is my own, and, my children; I will be
directed no more."

All this time she stood with her hands on his shoulders, grasping him
unconsciously to give emphasis to her words. Lord Lindores was startled
beyond measure by this personal contact--by the way in which poor Carry,
always so submissive, flung herself upon him. "Do you mean to use
violence to me? do you mean to turn me out of your house?" he said.

"Oh, father!--oh, father! how can I forgive you?" Carry cried, in her
excitement and passion; and then she dropped her hands suddenly and
wept, and begged his pardon like a child. Lord Lindores was very glad to
take advantage of this sudden softening which he had so little expected.
He kissed her and put her back in her chair. "I would recommend you to
put her to bed," he said to his wife; "she has been overdone." And he
thought he had got the victory, and that poor Carry, after her little
explosion, was safe in his hands once more. He meant no harm to Carry.
It was solely of her good and that of her children that he thought. It
could do no harm either to the one or the other if they served his aims
too. He drove home with his son soon after, leaving his wife behind him:
it was proper that Carry should have her mother and sister with her at
so sad a time. And the house of Tinto, which had been so dark all these
nights, shone demurely out again this evening, at a window here and
there,--death, which is always an oppression, being gone from it, and
life resuming its usual sway. The flag still hung half-mast high,
drooping against the flagstaff, for there was no wind. "But I'm
thinking, my lord, well put it back to-morrow," said the butler as he
stood solemnly at the carriage-door. He stood watching it roll down the
avenue in that mood of genial exhaustion which makes men communicative.
"It's a satisfaction to think all's gane well and everybody satisfied,"
he said to his subordinate; "for a death in a family is worse to manage
than ony other event. You're no' just found fault with at the moment,
but it's minded against you if things go wrong, and your 'want o'
feelin'.' My lady will maybe think it want o' feelin' if I put up the
flag. But why should I no'? For if big Tinto's gane, there's wee Tinto,
still mair important, with all the world before him. And if I let it be,
they'll say it's neglect."

"My lady will never fash her head about it," said the second in command.

"How do you ken? Ah, my lad, you'll find a change. The master might give
you a damn at a moment, but he wasna hard to manage. We'll have all the
other family, _her_ family, to give us our orders now."




CHAPTER XXXVII.


It is a strange experience for a man whose personal freedom has never
been restrained to find himself in prison. The excitement and amazement
of the first day made it something so exceptional and extraordinary,
that out of very strangeness it was supportable: and Erskine felt it
possible to wind himself up to the necessity of endurance for one night.
But the dead stillness of the long, long morning that followed, was at
once insupportable and incomprehensible to him. What did it mean? He saw
the light brighten in his barred window, and persuaded himself, as long
as he could, that it was as yet too early for anything to be done; but
when he heard all the sounds of life outside, and felt the long moments
roll on, and listened in vain for any deliverance, a cold mist of
amazement and horror began to wrap John's soul. Was he to be left there?
to lie in jail like any felon, nobody believing him, abandoned by all?
He could not do anything violent to relieve his feelings; but it was
within him to have dashed everything wildly about the room,--to have
flown at the window and broken it to pieces,--to have torn linen and
everything else to shreds. He stood aghast at himself as this wild fury
of impatience and misery swept over him. He could have beaten his head
against the wall. To sit still, as a man, a gentleman, is compelled to
do, restraining himself, was more hard than any struggles of Hercules.
And those slow sunny moments stole by, each one of them as long as an
hour. The sun seemed to be stationary in the sky: the forenoon was a
century. When he heard some one at last approaching, he drew a long
breath of satisfaction, saying to himself that now at last the suspense
would be over. But when it proved to be Miss Barbara with her arms full
of provisions for his comfort, her maid coming after, bearing a large
basket, it is impossible to describe the disappointment, the rage that
filled him. The effort to meet her with a smile was almost more than he
was capable of. He did it, of course, and concealed his real feelings,
and accepted the butter and eggs with such thanks as he could give
utterance to; but the effort seemed almost greater than any he had ever
made before. Miss Barbara, for her part, considered it her duty to her
nephew to maintain an easy aspect and ignore the misery of the
situation. She exerted herself to amuse him, to talk as if nothing was
amiss. She told him of Tinto's grand funeral, with which the whole
country-side was taken up. "Everybody is there," Miss Barbara said, with
some indignation,--"great and small, gentle and simple, as if auld
Torrance's son was one of the nobles of the land."

"They care more for the dead than the living," John said, with a laugh.
It was well to laugh, for his lip quivered. No doubt this was the reason
why no one had leisure to think of him. And his heart was too full of
his own miseries to be capable of even a momentary compassion for the
fate of Torrance--a man not very much older than himself, prosperous and
rich and important--snatched in a moment from all his enjoyments. He had
been deeply awed and impressed when he heard of it first; but by this
time the honours paid to the dead man seemed to John an insult to his
own superior claims--he who was living and suffering unjustly. To think
that those who called themselves his friends should have deserted him to
show a respect which they could not feel for the memory of a man whom
they had none of them respected while he lived! He was no cynic, nor
fond of attributing every evil to the baseness of humanity, but he could
not help saying now, between his closed teeth, that it was the way of
the world.

He had another visitor in the afternoon, some time after Miss Barbara
took her departure, but not one of those he expected. To his great
surprise, it was the white erect head of old Sir James which was the
next he saw. The veteran came in with a grave and troubled countenance.
He gave a shudder when he heard the key turn in the door. "I have come
to see if there was--anything I could do for you?" Sir James said.

John laughed again. To laugh seemed the only possible way of expressing
himself. It is permissible for a man to laugh when a woman would cry,
and the meaning is much the same. This expressed indignation,
incredulity, some contempt, yet was softened by a gentler sentiment, at
sight of the old soldier's kind and benign but puzzled and troubled
face. "I don't know what any one can do for me but take me out of this,"
he said, "and no one seems disposed to do that."

"John Erskine," said the old General solemnly, "the circumstances are
very serious. If you had seen, as I have seen, a young, strong man laid
in his grave this day, with a little toddling bairn, chief mourner." His
voice broke a little, as he spoke. He waved his hand as if to put this
recollection away. "And your story was not satisfactory. It did not
commend itself to my mind. Have patience and hear me out. I came away
from you in displeasure, and I've done nothing but turn it over and
over in my thoughts ever since. It's very far from satisfactory; but I
cannot find it in my heart to disbelieve you," the old man cried, with a
quiver of emotion in his face. He held out his large, soft, old hand
suddenly as he spoke. John, who had been winding himself up to indignant
resistance, was taken entirely by surprise. He grasped that kind hand,
and his composure altogether failed him.

"I am a fool," he cried, dashing the tears from his eyes, "to think that
one day's confinement should break me down. God bless you, Sir James! I
can't speak. If that's so, I'll make shift to bear the rest."

"Ay, my lad, that's just so. I cannot disbelieve you. You're a
gentleman, John Erskine. You might do an act of violence,--any man might
be left to himself; but you would not be base, and lie. I have tried to
think so, but I cannot. You would never deceive an old friend."

"If I had murdered poor Torrance in cold blood, and meaning it," said
John, "there is no telling, I might have lied too."

"No, no, no," said Sir James, putting out his hand--"at the worst it was
never thought to be that; but you have no look of falsehood in you.
Though it's a strange story, and little like the truth, I cannot
disbelieve you. So now you will tell me, my poor lad, what I can do for
you. We're friends again, thank God! I could not bide to be
unfriends--and my old wife was at me night and day."

"If Lady Montgomery believes in me too----"

"Believes in you! she would give me no rest, I tell you--her and my own
spirit. She would not hear a word. All she said was, 'Hoots, nonsense,
Sir James!' I declare to you that was all. She's not what you call a
clever woman, but she would not listen to a word. 'Hoots, nonsense!'
that was all. We could not find it in our hearts."

He was a little disposed, now that he had made his avowal, to dwell upon
it, to the exclusion of more important matters; but when at last he
permitted John to tell him what his expectations had been, and what his
disappointment, as the long, slow morning stole over unbroken, Sir James
was deeply moved. "Why did not Monypenny come to me?" he said. "He was
taken up, no doubt, with what was going on to-day. But I would have been
your bail in a moment. An old friend like me--the friend not only of
your father, but of your grandfather before him!" But when he had said
so much he paused, and employed a little simple sophistry to veil the
position. "The sheriff will be round in the end of the week. I would not
trouble him, if I were you, before that. What's three or four days? You
will then come out with every gentleman in the county at your back. It's
not that I think it would be refused. People say so, but I will not
believe it, for one; only I would not stir if I were you. A day or two,
what does that matter? _My_ pride would be to bide the law, and stand
and answer to my country. That is what I would do. Of course I'll be
your caution, and any other half dozen men in the county; but I'll tell
you what I would do myself,--I would stand it out if I were you."

"You never were shut up in a jail, Sir James?"

"Not exactly in a jail," said the old soldier; "but I've been in prison,
and far worse quarters than this. To be sure, there's an excitement
about it when you're in the hands of an enemy----"

"In the hands of an enemy," cried John--"a thing to be proud of; but
laid by the heels in a wretched hole, like a poacher or a thief!"

"I would put up with it if I were you. There is nothing disgraceful in
it. It is just a mistake that will be put right. I will come and see
you, man, every day, and Lady Montgomery will send you books. I hope
they will not be too good books, John. That's her foible, honest woman.
You seem to be victualled for a siege," Sir James added, looking round
the room. "That is Miss Barbara Erskine, I will be bound."

"I felt disposed to pitch them all out of the window," said John.

"Nothing of the sort; though they're too good to fall into the hands of
the turnkeys. Keep up your heart, my fine lad. I'll see Monypenny
to-night before I dine, and if we cannot bring you out with flying
colours, between us, it will be a strange thing to me. Just you keep up
your heart," said Sir James, patting John kindly on the back as he went
away. "The sheriff will be round here again on the 25th, and we'll be
prepared for the examination, and bring you clear off. It's not so very
long to wait."

With this John was forced to be content. The 25th was four days off, and
to remain in confinement for four days more was an appalling
anticipation; but Sir James's visit gave him real cheer. Perhaps Mr
Monypenny, too, on thinking it over, might turn to a conviction of his
client's truth.

While Sir James rode home, pleased with himself that he had obeyed his
own generous impulse, and pleased with John, who had been so unfeignedly
consoled by it, Lord Lindores and his son were driving back from Tinto
together in the early twilight. There was not a word exchanged between
them as they drove down the long avenue in the shadow of the woods; but
as they turned into the lighter road, Lord Lindores returned to the
subjects which occupied his mind habitually. "That is a business well
over," he said, with a sigh of satisfaction. "It is always a relief when
the last ceremonies are accomplished; and though Carry chose to meet me
with heroics, it is very satisfactory to know that her position is so
good. One could never be sure with a man of Torrance's temper. He was as
likely as not to have surrounded his widow with annoyances and
restraints. He has erred just a little on the other side now, poor
fellow! Still he meant it, no doubt, for the best." Lord Lindores spoke
to his son with an ease and confidence which he could not feel with the
other members of his family. Rintoul himself, indeed, had been somewhat
incomprehensible for a little time past; but indigestion, or any other
trifling reason, might account for that. "And now that all is over, we
must think of other matters," he continued. "This business about Edith
must be settled. Millefleurs must have his answer. He has been very
patient; but a young fellow like that knows his own importance, and
Edith must hear reason. She will never have another such chance."

Rintoul made a little movement in his corner, which was all that stood
for a reply on his part; and his father could not even see the
expression of his face.

"I can only hope that she will be more amenable to his influence than to
mine," said Lord Lindores, with a sigh. "It is strange that she, the
youngest of my children, should be the one to give me the most trouble.
Rintoul, it is also time that I should speak to you about yourself. It
would give your mother and me great satisfaction to see you settled. I
married early myself, and I have never had any reason to repent it.
Provided that you make a wise choice. The two families will no doubt see
a great deal of each other when things are settled between Edith and
Millefleurs; and I hear on all hands that his sister, Lady Reseda--you
met her several times in town----"

"Yes,--I met her," said Rintoul, reluctantly. He turned once more in his
corner, as if he would fain have worked his way through and escaped; but
he was secured for the moment, and in his father's power.

"And you admired her, I suppose, as everybody does? She is something
like her brother; but what may perhaps be thought a little--well,
comical--in Millefleurs, is delightful in a girl. She is a merry little
thing, the very person I should have chosen for you, Rintoul: she would
keep us all cheerful. We want a little light-heartedness in the family.
And though your father is only a Scotch peer, your position is
unimpeachable; and I will say this for you, that you have behaved very
well; few young men would have conducted themselves so irreproachably in
such a sudden change of circumstances. I feel almost certain that
though a daughter of the Duke's might do better, you would not be looked
upon with unfavourable eyes."

"I--don't know them. I have only met them--two or three times----"

"What more is necessary? You will be Millefleurs's brother-in-law----"

"Are you so sure of that?" asked Rintoul. There was something in his
tone which sounded like nascent rebellion. Lord Lindores pricked up his
ears.

"I do not willingly entertain the idea that Edith would disobey me," he
said with dignity. "She has high-flown notions. They are in the air
nowadays, and will ruin the tempers of girls if they are not checked.
She makes a fight to have her own way, but I cannot believe that she
would go the length of downright disobedience. I have met with nothing
of the kind yet----"

"I think you are likely to meet with it now," said Rintoul; and then he
added, hastily, "Carry has not been an encouraging example."

"Carry!" said Lord Lindores, opening his eyes. "I confess that I do not
understand. Carry! why, what woman could have a nobler position? Perfect
control over a very large fortune, a situation of entire
independence--too much for any woman. That Carry's unexampled good
fortune should be quoted against me is extraordinary indeed."

"But," cried Rintoul, taken by surprise, "you could not hold up to Edith
the hope of what might happen if--Millefleurs were to----"

"Break his neck over a scaur," said Lord Lindores, almost with a sneer.
He felt his son shrink from him with an inarticulate cry, and with
instant perception remedied his error in taste, as he thought it. "I
ought not to speak so after such a tragedy; you are right, Rintoul. No:
Millefleurs is a very different person; but of course it is always a
consolation to know that whatever happens, one's child will be
abundantly and honourably provided for. My boy, let us look at the other
matter. It is time you thought of marrying, as I say."

Rintoul flung himself against the side of the carriage with a muttered
curse. "Marrying!--hanging is more what I feel like!" he cried.

"Rintoul!"

"Don't torture me, father. There is not a more wretched fellow on the
face of the earth. Link an innocent woman's name with mine? Ask a girl
to?----For heaven's sake let me alone--let me be!"

"What is the meaning of this?" Lord Lindores cried. "Are you mad,
Rintoul? I am altogether unprepared for heroics in you."

The young man made no reply. He put his head out to the rushing of the
night air and the soft darkness, through which the trees and distant
hills and rare passengers were all like shadows. He had looked stolidly
enough upon all the shows of the external world all his life, and
thought no more of them than as he saw them.

    "A primrose by the river's brim,
    A yellow primrose was to him."

There had been no images or similitudes in light or darkness; but now
another world had opened around him. He had a secret with the
silence--the speechless, inanimate things about knew something of him
which nobody else knew: and who could tell when they might find a voice
and proclaim it to the world? He uncovered his head to the air which
blew upon him and cooled his fever. The touch of that cool fresh wind
seemed the only thing in earth or heaven in which there was any
consolation. As for Lord Lindores, he sat back in his corner, more angry
than concerned, and more contemptuous than either. A woman has perhaps
some excuse for nerves; but that his son, upon whose plain understanding
he could always rely, and whose common-sense was always alive to the
importance of substantial arguments, should thus relapse into tragedy
like his sisters, was more than he could tolerate. He would not even
contemplate the idea that there was any cause for it. Rintoul had always
been well behaved. He was in no fear of any secrets that his son might
have to reveal.

"Rintoul," he said, after a pause, "if you have got into any scrape, you
should know well enough that I am not the sort of man to take it
tragically. I have no faith in making molehills into mountains. I don't
suppose you have done anything disgraceful. You must be off your head, I
think. What is it? You have been out of sorts for some time past."

These words came like beatings of a drum to Rintoul's ears, as he leant
out into the rushing and sweep of the night air. There was a composure
in them which brought him to himself. Anything disgraceful meant
cheating at cards, or shirking debts of honour, or cowardice.
Practically, these were about the only things disgraceful that a young
man could do. An "entanglement," a heavy loss at cards or on the turf,
any other minor vice, could be compounded for. Lord Lindores was not
alarmed by the prospect of an explanation with his son. But that Rintoul
should become melodramatic, and appeal to earth and heaven, was
contemptible to his father. This cool and common-sense tone had its
natural effect, Lord Lindores thought. Rintoul drew in his head, sat
back in his corner, and was restored to himself.

"I have been out of sorts," he said--"I suppose that's what it is. I see
everything _en noir_. All this business--seeing to things--the black,
the house shut up----"

"Let me warn you, Rintoul; don't cultivate your susceptibilities," said
his father. "What is black more than blue or any other colour? This sort
of thing is all very well for a woman; but I know what it is. It's
stomach--that is really at the bottom of all tragedy. You had better
speak to the doctor. And now, thank heaven, this Tinto business is over;
we can get back to the affairs of life."

The rest of the drive passed in complete silence. And all the time they
were together, Rintoul said not a word to his father about John Erskine.
His situation was altogether ignored between them. It was not that it
was forgotten. If these two men could have opened Dunnottar jail--nay,
could they have swept John Erskine away into some happy island where he
would have been too blessed to think anything more about them--they
would have done it,--the one with joyous alacrity, the other with
satisfaction at least. This gloomy incident was over, and Lord Lindores
had no desire to hear any more of it. It was just the end that anybody
might have expected Torrance to come to. Why could not the officious
blockheads of the country-side let the matter alone? But he did not
feel that desire to help and right John Erskine which his warm adoption
of the young man to his friendship would have warranted. For why? such
an incident, however it ended, would certainly spoil young Erskine's
influence in the county. He would be of no more advantage to any one. A
quarrel was nothing; but to escape from the consequences of that
quarrel, to let a man die at the foot of a precipice without sending
help to him, that was a thing which all the country-side turned against.
It was this that had roused so strong a feeling against John, and Lord
Lindores made up his mind philosophically, that though Erskine would
probably be cleared of all imputation of blood-guiltiness, yet, innocent
or guilty, he would never get over it, and, consequently, would be of no
further use in any public projects. At the same time, his own views had
changed in respect to the means of carrying these projects out. Lord
Millefleurs was a better instrument than country eminence. A seat gained
was of course always an appreciable advantage. But it was not certain
even that the seat could have been gained; and a son-in-law in hand is
better than many boroughs in the bush. The Duke could not ignore Lord
Lindores's claims if Edith was a member of the family. This was far more
important than anything that could concern John Erskine, though Lord
Lindores would have been heartily thankful--now that he was good for
nothing but to excite foolish sympathies--if he could have got John
Erskine happily out of the way.

Millefleurs had reached Lindores some time before: he had returned
direct from the funeral along with Beaufort, who, much marvelling at
himself, had stood among the crowd, and seen Carry's husband laid in his
grave. The sensation was too extraordinary to be communicated to any
one. It had seemed to him that the whole was a dream, himself a spectre
of the past, watching bewildered, while the other, whom he had never
seen, who was nothing but a coffin, was removed away and deposited among
the unseen. He had not been bold enough to go into the house to see
Carry, even from the midst of the crowd. Whether she was sorrowing for
her husband, or feeling some such thrills of excitement as were in his
own bosom at the thought that she was free, Beaufort could not tell; but
when he found himself seated at table that evening with her father and
brother, he could not but feel that his dream was going on, and that
there was no telling in what new scene it might unfold fresh wonders.
The four gentlemen dined alone, and they were not a lively party. After
dinner they gathered about the fireplace, not making any move towards
the forsaken drawing-room. "This is a sad sort of amusement to provide
for you," Lord Lindores said. "We hoped to have shown you the more
cheerful side of Scotch life."

"I have had a very good time: what you might call a lovely time," said
Millefleurs. Then he made a pause, and drawing closer, laid his plump
finger on Lord Lindores's arm. "I don't want to make myself a nuisance
now; but--not to be troublesome--if I am not likely soon to have an
opportunity of addressing myself to Lady Edith, don't you think I had
better go away?"

"You may well be tired of us; a house of mourning," said Lord Lindores,
with a smile of benevolent meaning. "It was not for this you came into
those wilds."

"They are far from being wilds: I have enjoyed myself very much," said
little Millefleurs. "All has been new; and to see a new country, don't
you know, is always the height of my ambition. But such a thing might
happen as that I wasn't wanted. When a lady means to have anything to
say to a fellow, I have always heard she lets him know. To say nothing
is, perhaps, as good a way of saying no as any. It may be supposed to
save a man's feelings----"

"Am I to understand that you have spoken to my daughter, Millefleurs?"

"I have never had the chance, Lord Lindores. On the very evening, you
will remember, when I hoped to have an explanation, this unfortunate
accident happened. I am very sorry for the gentleman whom, in the best
of circumstances, I can never now hope to call my brother-in-law; but
the position is perhaps a little awkward. Lady Edith is acquainted with
my aspirations, but I--know nothing; don't you know?" said the little
Marquis. He had his hand upon his plump bosom, and raised himself a
little on one foot as he spoke. "It makes a fellow feel rather
small--and, in my case, that isn't wanted," he added, cheerfully.
Nothing less like a despairing lover could be imagined; but though he
resembled a robin-redbreast, he was a man quite conscious of the
dignities of his position, and not to be played with. A cold chill of
alarm came over Lord Lindores.

"Edith will return to-morrow, or next day," he said; "or if you choose
to go to Tinto, her mother regards you so much as a friend and
favourite, that she will receive you gladly, I am sure. Go, then----"

"No," said Millefleurs, shaking his head, "no, that would be too strong.
I never saw the poor fellow but once or twice, and the last time I had
the misfortune to disagree with him; no--I can't convey myself to his
house to learn if I'm to be taken or not. It is a droll sort of
experience. I feel rather like a bale of goods, don't you know, on
approval," he said with a laugh. He took it with great good-humour; but
it was possible that even Millefleurs's good-humour might be exhausted.

"I undertake for it that you shall not have to wait much longer," said
Lord Lindores.




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


Rintoul had bad nights, and could not sleep. He had been in such
constant movement that day that he was fatigued, and had hoped for rest;
but after tossing on his uneasy bed, he got up again, as for several
nights past he had been in the habit of doing, and began to pace up and
down his room. The house was all buried in repose and silence--the woods
rustling round, the river flowing, the silence outside tingling with the
never altogether hushed movements of nature; but indoors nothing
stirring--all dark; nothing but the heavy breath of sleep within the
thick old walls. The fire was dying out on the hearth; the candles,
which he lighted hastily, did not half light the room, but rather
cleared a little spot in the darkness, and left all else in gloom. A
nervous tremor was upon the young man,--he to whom nerves had been all
folly, who had scoffed at them as affectation or weakness; but he had no
longer that command of himself of which he had once been proud. His
mind strayed involuntarily into thoughts which he would fain have shut
out. They dwelt upon one subject and one scene, which he had shut his
mind to a hundred times, only to feel it the next moment once more
absorbing every faculty. His shadow upon the window paced up and down,
up and down. He could not keep quiet. He did not care to have the door
of his room behind him, but kept it in sight as if he feared being taken
at a disadvantage. What did he fear? he could not tell. Imagination had
seized hold upon him--he who had never known what imagination was. He
could not rest for it. The quiet was full of noises. He heard the
furniture creaking, as it does at night, the walls giving out strange
echoes; and never having kept any vigil before, thought that these
strange voices of the night had to do with himself, and in his soul
trembled as if he had been surrounded by enemies or spies searching his
inmost thoughts.

Thus he walked up and down the room, keeping his face to the door. Did
he expect any one, anything to come in? No, no; nothing of the kind. But
it is certain that sometimes along the long passage he heard sounds as
of a horse's hoofs. He knew it was nonsense. It was the sound of the
river, to which he was perfectly accustomed; but yet it sounded somehow
like a horse's hoofs. He never would have been surprised at any moment
to see the door pushed open and something come in. He knew it was
ridiculous, but still he could not help the feeling. And the silence of
the house was a pain to him beyond telling. One of these nights one of
the servants had been ill, and Rintoul was glad. The sense that some one
was waking, moving about, was a relief. It seemed somehow to give him a
sort of security,--to deliver him from himself. But while he thus felt
the advantage of waking humanity near him, he was thankful beyond
description that the society of the house was diminished--that his
mother and Edith were away. He knew that they must have found him
out--if not what was in his mind, at least that there was something on
his mind. During the last twenty-four hours particularly they would have
been worse spies than the trees and the winds. How could he have kept
himself to himself in their presence, especially as they would have
besieged him with questions, with incitements to do something. They
would have assumed that they knew all about it in their ignorance. They!
They were always assuming that they knew. There was a fierce momentary
satisfaction in Rintoul's mind to think how completely out they would
be, how incapable of understanding the real state of the case. They
thought they knew everything! But he felt that there was a possibility
that he might have betrayed himself in the very pleasure he would have
had in showing them that they knew nothing. And it was better, far
better, that they should be out of the way.

He did not, however, yield to this fever of the mind without doing what
he could manfully to subdue it. He made a great effort now to fix his
mind upon what his father had said to him--but the names of Millefleurs
and Lady Reseda only swept confusedly through his brain like straws upon
the surface of the stream. Sometimes he found himself repeating one of
them vaguely, like a sort of idiotical chorus, while the real current of
his thoughts ran on. Lady Reseda, Lady Reseda: what had she to do with
it?--or Millefleurs, Millefleurs!--they were straws upon the surface,
showing how rapidly the torrent ran, not anything he could catch hold
of. There was one name, however, round which that dark current of his
thoughts eddied and swirled as in a whirlpool--the name of John Erskine.
There could not be any doubt that _he_ had something to do with it. He
had thrust himself into a matter that did not concern him, and he was
paid for his folly. It was not _his_ place to stand up for Carry, to
resent her husband's rudeness--what had he to do with it? He was an
intrusive, officious fool, thrusting himself into other people's
business. If he brought himself into trouble by it, was that Rintoul's
fault? Was he bound to lay himself open to a great deal of annoyance
and embarrassment in order to save John Erskine from the consequences of
his own folly? This was the question that would not let him rest.
Nothing Rintoul had been a party to had compromised John Erskine. It was
all his own doing. Why did he, for his pleasure, take the Scaur road at
all? Why did he stop and quarrel, seeing the other was excited? Why rush
down in that silly way with his coat torn to make an exhibition of
himself? All these things were folly,--folly beyond extenuation. He
ought to have known better; and whatever followed, was it not his own
fault?

Along with this, however, there were other thoughts that flashed at
Rintoul, and would not let him carry on steadily to the conclusion he
desired. There are some things that are permissible and some that are
not permissible. A gentleman need not betray himself: it is not
indispensable that he should take the world into his confidence, if any
accident happens to him, and he gets himself into trouble; but he must
not let another get into trouble for him,--that comes into the category
of the "anything disgraceful" which Lord Lindores was assured his son
had never been guilty of. No! he had never done anything disgraceful.
How was he to escape it now? And then, looking back upon all the
circumstances, Rintoul sadly perceived what a fool he had been not to
put everything on a straightforward footing at once. He reflected that
he could have given almost any account of the occurrence he pleased.
There was nobody to contradict him: and all would have been over without
complication, without any addition from the popular fancy. It seemed to
him now, reflecting upon everything, all the details that had filled him
with an unreflecting panic then, that nothing could have been easier
than to explain the whole matter. But he had lost that good moment, and
if he made the confession now, every false conception which he had
feared would be realised. People would say, If this was all, why make
any mystery about it? Why expose another to disgrace and suffering?
Rintoul had not intelligence enough, though he had always plumed himself
on his common-sense, to thread his way among those conflicting
reasonings. He grew sick as the harpies of recollection and thought
rushed upon him from all quarters. He had no power to stand against
them,--to silence her who cried, "Why did you not do this?"--while he
held at bay the other who swooped down upon him, screaming, "How could
you do that?" When it grew more than he could bear he retreated to his
bed, and flung himself exhausted upon it, throwing out his arms with the
unconscious histrionic instinct of excitement, appealing to he knew not
what. How could he do this thing? How could he leave it undone? Rintoul
in his despair got up again and found an opiate which had been given
him when he had toothache, long ago, in days when toothache was the
worst torture he knew. He swallowed it, scarcely taking the trouble to
mark how much he was taking, though the moment after he took a panic,
and got up and examined the bottle to assure himself that all was right.
It was nearly daybreak by the time that this dose sent him to
sleep,--and he scarcely knew he had been asleep, so harassing were his
dreams, till he came to himself at last, to find that it was eleven
o'clock in a dull forenoon, his shutters all open, and the dim light
pouring in. The horrors of waking when the mind is possessed by great
misery is a well-worn subject,--everybody knows what it is to have Care
seated by his bedside, ready to pounce upon him when he opens his eyes;
but Rintoul had scarcely escaped from that dark companion. She had been
with him in his dreams: he felt her grip him now, with no surprise, if
with a redoublement of pain.

It was nearly mid-day when he got down-stairs, and he found nobody. His
father was out. Millefleurs was out. His breakfast was arranged upon a
little table near the fire, his letters laid ready, the county
newspaper--a little innocent broadsheet--by his plate. But he could not
take advantage of any of these luxuries; he swept his letters into his
pocket, flung the paper from him, then reflected that there might _be
something in it_, and picked it up again with trembling hands. There
was _something in it_. There was an account of the private examination
before the sheriff of Mr John Erskine of Dalrulzian on suspicion of
being concerned in the death of the late lamented Mr Torrance of Tinto.
"From circumstances which transpired," the sheriff, the newspaper
regretted to say, had thought it right to relegate Mr Erskine to
Dunnottar jail, there to await the result of a more formal inquiry, to
be held on the 25th at Dunearn. "We have little fear that a gentleman so
respected will easily be able to clear himself," it was added; and "a
tribute of respect to the late Patrick Torrance,--a name which, for
genial _bonhomie_ and sterling qualities, will long be remembered in
this county," wound up the paragraph. The greater portion of its
readers, already acquainted with the news by report, read it with
exclamations of concern, or cynical rustic doubt whether John Erskine
was so much respected, or Pat Torrance as sure of a place in the
county's memory, as the 'Dunearn Sentinel' said; but all Rintoul's blood
seemed to rush to his head and roar like a torrent in his ears as he
read the paragraph. He could hear nothing but that rushing of excitement
and the bewildered half-maddened thoughts which seemed to accompany it.
What was he to do? What was he to do?

There was a little interval, during which Rintoul literally did not
know what he was doing. His mind was not prepared for such an emergency.
He tossed about like a cork upon the boiling stream of his own
thoughts--helpless, bewildered, driven hither and thither. He only came
to himself when he felt the damp air in his face, and found himself
setting out on foot on the road to Dunearn: the irregular lines of the
housetops in front of him, the tall tower of the Town House pointing up
to the dull skies, standing out from the rest of the buildings like a
landmark to indicate what route he was to take. When he caught sight of
that he came violently to himself, and began at once to recover some
conscious control over his actions. The operations of his mind became
clear to him; his panic subsided. After all, who could harm John
Erskine? He had been very foolish; he had exposed himself to suspicion;
but no doubt a gentleman so respected would be able to clear himself--a
gentleman so respected. Rintoul repeated the words to himself, as he had
repeated the names of Millefleurs and Lady Reseda the night before. And
what would it matter to John Erskine to put off till the 25th his
emancipation and the full recognition of his innocence? If he had a bad
cold, it would have the same result--confinement to the house, perhaps
to his room. What was that? Nothing: a trifling inconvenience, that any
man might be subject to. And there could be no doubt that a gentleman
so respected----There would be evidence that would clear him: it was not
possible that any proof could be produced of a thing that never
happened; and the whole county, if need be, would bear witness to John
Erskine's character--that he was not quarrelsome or a brawler; that
there was no motive for any quarrel between him and----

Rintoul's feet, which had been going rapidly towards Dunearn, went on
slower and slower. He came to a pause altogether about a mile from the
town. Was it necessary to go any farther? What could he do to-day?
Certainly there would be no advantage to Erskine in anything he did
to-day. He turned round slowly, and went back towards Lindores. Walking
that way, there was nothing but the long sweep of the landscape between
him and Tinto, to which his eyes could not but turn as he walked slowly
on. The flag was up again--a spot of red against the dull sky--and the
house stood out upon its platform with that air of ostentation which
fretted the souls of the surrounding gentry. Rintoul could not bear the
sight of it: it smote him with a fierce impatience. Scarcely conscious
that his movement of hot and hasty temper was absurd, he turned round
again to escape it, and set his face towards the emblem of severe
justice and the law, the tower of the Town House of Dunearn. When this
second monitor made itself visible, a kind of dull despair took
possession of him. His steps were hemmed in on every side, and there was
no escape.

It was while he was moving on thus reluctantly, by a sort of vague
compulsion, that he recognised, with amazement, Nora Barrington coming
towards him. It was a piece of good fortune to which he had no right.
She was the only creature in the world whose society could have been
welcome to him. They met as they might have met in a fairy tale: fairy
tales are not over, so long as people do meet in this way on the
commonplace road. They had neither of them thought of any such
encounter--he, because his mind was too dolorous and preoccupied for any
such relief; she, because Rintoul seldom came into Dunearn, and never
walked, so that no idea of his presence occurred to her. She was going
to fulfil a commission of Miss Barbara's, and anxious if possible to see
Edith, which was far more likely than Edith's brother. They were both
surprised, almost beyond speech; they scarcely uttered any greeting. It
did not seem strange, somehow, that Rintoul should turn and walk with
her the way she was going, though it was not his way. And now a
wonderful thing happened to Rintoul. His ferment of thought subsided all
at once,--he seemed to have sailed into quiet seas after the excitement
of the head-long current which had almost dashed him to pieces. He did
not know what it meant. The storm ended, and there stole over him "a
sound as of a hidden brook, in the leafy month of June." And Nora felt a
softening of sympathetic feeling, she did not know why. She was sorry
for him. Why should she have been sorry for Lord Rintoul? He was
infinitely better off than she was. She could not account for the
feeling, but she felt it all the same. She asked him first how Lady
Caroline was--poor Lady Caroline!--and then faltered a little, turning
to her own affairs.

"I hope I shall see Edith before I go away. Do you know when they are
coming back? I am going home--very soon now," Nora said. She felt almost
apologetic--reluctant to say it,--and yet it seemed necessary to say it.
There were many people whom she might have met on the road to whom she
would not have mentioned the fact, but it seemed incumbent upon her now.

"Going away! No, that you must not do--you must not do it! Why should
you go away?" he cried.

"There are many reasons." Nora felt that she ought to laugh at his
vehemence, or that, perhaps, she should be angry; but she was neither
the one nor the other--only apologetic, and so sorry for him. "Of course
I always knew I should have to go: though I shall always think it home
here, yet it is not home any longer. It is a great pity, don't you
think, to live so long in a place which, after all, is not your home?"

"I cannot think it a great pity that you should have lived here," he
said. "The thing is, that you must not go. For God's sake, Nora, do not
go! I never thought of that; it is the last drop. If you knew how near I
am to the end of my strength, you would not speak of such a thing to
me."

"Lord Rintoul! I--don't understand. What can it matter?" cried Nora, in
her confusion. She felt that she should have taken a different tone. He
had no right to call her Nora, or to speak as if he had anything to do
with her coming or going. But the hurried tone of passion and terror in
his voice overwhelmed her. It was as if he had heard of the last
misfortune that could overwhelm a man.

"Matter! Do you mean to me? It may not matter to any one else; to me it
is everything," he said, wildly. "I shall give in altogether. I shall
not care what I do if you go away."

"Now, Lord Rintoul," said Nora, her heart beating, but trying to laugh
as she best could, "this, you must know, is nonsense. You cannot mean to
make fun of me, I am sure; but----I don't know what you mean. We had
better say no more about it." Then she melted again. She remembered
their last interview, which had gone to her heart. "I know," she said,
"that you have been in a great deal of trouble."

"You know," said Rintoul, "because you feel for me. Nobody else knows.
Then think what it will be for me if you go away--the only creature whom
I dare to speak to. Nora, you know very well I was always fond of
you--from the first--as soon as we met----"

"Don't, don't, Lord Rintoul! I cannot get away from you on this public
road. Have some respect for me. You ought not to say such things, nor I
to hear."

He looked at her, wondering. "Is it any want of respect to tell you that
you are the girl I have always wanted to marry? You may not feel the
same; it may be only your kindness: you may refuse me, Nora; but I have
always meant it. I have thought it was our duty to do the best we could
for the girls, but I never gave in to that for myself. My father has
spoken of this one and that one, but I have always been faithful to you.
That is no want of respect, though it is a public road. From the time I
first knew you, I have only thought of you."

What an ease it gave him to say this! All the other points that had so
occupied him before seemed to have melted away in her presence. If he
had but some one to stand by him,--if he had but Nora, who felt for him
always. It seemed that everything else would arrange itself, and become
less difficult to bear.

As for Nora, she had known very well that Rintoul was, as he said, fond
of her. It is so difficult to conceal that. But she thought he would
"get over it." She had said to herself, with some little scorn, that he
never would have the courage to woo a poor girl like herself,--a girl
without anything. He had a worldly mind though he was young, and Nora
had never allowed herself to be deluded, she thought.

"Don't you believe me?" he said, after a moment's pause, looking at her
wistfully, holding out his hand.

"Yes, I believe you, Lord Rintoul," said Nora; but she took no notice of
his outstretched hand, though it cost her something to be, as she said
to herself, "so unkind." "I do believe you; but it would never be
permitted, you know. You yourself would not approve of it when you had
time to think; for you are worldly-minded, Lord Rintoul: and you know
you ought to marry--an heiress--some one with money."

"You have a very good right to say so," he replied. "I have always
maintained that for the girls: but if you had ever taken any notice of
me, you would have found out that I never allowed it for myself. Yes, it
is quite true I am worldly-minded; but I never meant to marry money. I
never thought of marrying any one but you."

And now there was a pause again. He did not seem to have asked her any
question that Nora could answer. He had only made a statement to her
that she was the only girl he had ever wished to marry. It roused a
great commotion in her breast. She had always liked Rintoul, even when
his sisters called him a Philistine; and now when he was in trouble,
under some mysterious shadow, she knew not why, appealing to her
sympathy as to his salvation, it was not possible that the girl should
shut her heart against him. They walked on together for a few yards in
silence, and then she said, faltering, "I had better go back
now----I--did not expect to--meet any one."

"Don't go back without saying something to me. Promise me, Nora, that
you will not go away. I want you! I want you! Without you I should go
all wrong. If you saw me sinking in the water, wouldn't you put out your
hand to help me?--and that is nothing to what may happen. Nora, have you
the heart to go back without saying anything to me?" cried Rintoul, once
more holding out his hand.

There was nobody visible on the road, up or down. The turrets of
Lindores peeped over the trees in the distance, like spectators deeply
interested, holding their breath; at the other end the long thin tower
of the Town House seemed to pale away into the distance. He looked
anxiously into her face, as if life and death hung on the decision.
They had come to a standstill in the emotion of the moment, and stood
facing each other, trembling with the same sentiment. Nora held back
still, but there was an instinctive drawing closer of the two
figures--irresistible, involuntary.

"Your father will never consent," she said, with an unsteady voice; "and
my father will never allow it against his will. But, Lord Rintoul----"

"Not lord, nor Rintoul," he said.

"You never liked to be called Robin," Nora said, with a half malicious
glance into his face. But poor Rintoul was not in the humour for jest.
He took her hand, her arm, and drew it through his.

"I cannot wait to think about our fathers. I have such need of you,
Nora. I have something to tell you that I can tell to no one in the
world but you. I want my other self to help me. I want my wife, to whom
I can speak----"

His arm was quivering with anxiety and emotion. Though Nora was
bewildered, she did not hesitate--what girl would?--from the
responsibility thus thrust upon her. To be so urgently wanted is the
strongest claim that can be put forth upon any human creature.
Instinctively she gave his arm a little pressure, supporting rather than
supported, and said "Tell me," turning upon him freely, without blush or
faltering, the grave sweet face of sustaining love.




CHAPTER XXXIX.


Rolls disappeared on the evening of the day on which he had that long
consultation with Mr Monypenny. He did not return to Dalrulzian that
night. Marget, with many blushes and no small excitement, served the
dinner, which Bauby might be said to have cooked with tears. If these
salt drops were kept out of her sauces, she bedewed the white apron
which she lifted constantly to her eyes. "Maister John in jyal! and oor
Tammas gone after him; and what will I say to his mammaw?" Bauby cried.
She seemed to fear that it might be supposed some want of care on her
part which had led to this dreadful result. But even the sorrow of her
soul did not interfere with her sense of what was due to her master's
guest. Beaufort's dinner did not suffer, whatever else might. It was
scrupulously cooked, and served with all the care of which Marget was
capable; and when it was all over, and everything carefully put aside,
the women sat down together in the kitchen, and had a good cry over the
desolation of the house. The younger maids, perhaps, were not so deeply
concerned on this point as Bauby, who was an old servant, and considered
Dalrulzian as her home: but they were all more or less affected by the
disgrace, as well as sorry for the young master, who had "nae pride,"
and always a pleasant word for his attendants in whatever capacity.
Their minds were greatly affected, too, by the absence of Rolls. Not a
man in the house but the stranger gentleman! It was a state of affairs
which alarmed and depressed them, and proved, above all other signs,
that a great catastrophe had happened. Beaufort sent for the housekeeper
after dinner to give her such information as he thought necessary; and
Bauby was supported to the door by her subordinates, imploring her all
the way to keep up her heart. "You'll no' let on to the strange
gentleman." "Ye'll keep up a good face, and no' let him see how sair
cast down ye are," they said, one at either hand. There was a great deal
of struggling outside the door, and some stifled sounds of weeping,
before it was opened, and Bauby appeared, pushed in by some invisible
agency behind her, which closed the door promptly as soon as she was
within. She was not the important person Beaufort had expected to see;
but as she stood there, with her large white apron thrown over her arm,
and her comely countenance, like a sky after rain, lighted up with a
very wan and uncertain smile, putting the best face she could upon it,
Beaufort's sympathy overcame the inclination to laugh which he might
have felt in other circumstances, at the sight of her sudden entrance
and troubled clinging to the doorway. "Good evening," he said, "Mrs----"
"They call me Bauby Rolls, at your service," said Bauby, with a curtsey,
and a suppressed sob. "Mrs Rolls," said Beaufort, "your master may not
come home for a few days; he asked me to tell you not to be anxious;
that he hoped to be back soon; that there was nothing to be alarmed
about." "Eh! and was he so kind as think upon me, and him in such
trouble," cried Bauby, giving way to her emotions. "But I'm no alarmt;
no, no, why should I be?" she added, in a trembling voice. "He will be
hame, no doubt, in a day or twa, as ye say, sir, and glad, glad we'll a'
be. It's not that we have any doubt--but oh! what will his mammaw say to
me?" cried Bauby. After the tremulous momentary stand she had made, her
tears flowed faster than ever. "There has no such thing happened among
the Erskines since ever the name was kent in the country-side, and
that's maist from the beginning, as it's written in Scripture." "It's
all a mistake," cried Beaufort. "That it is--that it is," cried Bauby,
drying her eyes. And then she added with another curtsey, "I hope you'll
find everything to your satisfaction, sir, till the maister comes hame.
Tammas--that's the butler, Tammas Rolls, my brother, sir, if ye
please--is no' at hame to-night, and you wouldna like a lass aboot to
valet ye; they're all young but me. But if you would put out your cloes
to brush, or anything that wants doing, outside your door, it shall a'
be weel attended to. I'm real sorry there's no' another man aboot the
house: but a' that women can do we'll do, and with goodwill." "You are
very kind, Mrs Rolls," said Beaufort. "I was not thinking of myself--you
must not mind me. I shall get on very well. I am sorry to be a trouble
to you at such a melancholy moment." "Na, na, sir, not melancholy,"
cried Bauby, with her eyes streaming; "sin' ye say, and a'body must
allow, that it's just a mistake: we manna be put aboot by suchlike
trifles. But nae doubt it will be livelier and mair pleesant for
yoursel', sir, when Mr John and Tammas, they baith come hame. Would you
be wanting anything more to-night?" "Na, I never let on," Bauby said,
when she retired to the ready support of her handmaidens outside the
door--"no' me; I keepit a stout heart, and I said to him, 'It's of nae
consequence, sir,' I said,--'I'm nane cast down; it's just a
mistake--everybody kens that; and that he was to put his things outside
his door,' He got nothing that would go against the credit of the house
out of me."

But in spite of this forlorn confidence in her powers of baffling
suspicion, it was a wretched night that poor Bauby spent. John was
satisfactorily accounted for, and it was known where he was; but who
could say where Rolls might be? Bauby sat up half through the night
alone in the great empty kitchen with the solemn-sounding clock and the
cat purring loudly by the fire. She was as little used to the noises of
the night as Lord Rintoul was, and in her agony of watching felt the
perpetual shock and thrill of the unknown going through and through her.
She heard steps coming up to the house a hundred times through the
night, and stealing stealthily about the doors. "Is that you, Tammas?"
she said again and again, peering out into the night: but nobody
appeared. Nor did he appear next day, or the next. After her first
panic, Bauby gave out that he was with his master--that she had never
expected him--in order to secure him from remark. But in her own mind
horrible doubts arose. He had always been the most irreproachable of
men; but what if, in the shock of this catastrophe, even Tammas should
have taken to ill ways? Drink--that was the natural suggestion. Who can
fathom the inscrutable attractions it has, so that men yield to it who
never could have been suspected of such a weakness? Most women of the
lower classes have the conviction that no man can resist it. Heart-wrung
for his master, shamed to his soul for the credit of the house, had
Rolls, too, after successfully combating temptation for all his
respectable life, yielded to the demon? Bauby trembled, but kept her
terrors to herself. She said he might come back at any moment--he was
with his maister. Where else was it likely at such a time that he should
be?

But Rolls was not with his master. He was on the eve of a great and
momentous act. There were no superstitious alarms about him, as about
Rintoul, and no question in his mind what to do. Before he left
Dalrulzian that sad morning, he had shaped all the possibilities in his
thoughts, and knew what he intended; and his conversation with Mr
Monypenny gave substance and a certain reasonableness to his resolution.
But it was not in his nature by one impetuous movement to precipitate
affairs. He had never in his life acted hastily, and he had occasional
tremors of the flesh which chilled his impulse and made him pause. But
the interval, which was so bitter to his master, although all the
lookers-on congratulated themselves it could do him no harm, was exactly
what Rolls wanted in the extraordinary crisis to which he had come. A
humble person, quite unheroic in his habits as in his antecedents, it
was scarcely to be expected that the extraordinary project which had
entered his mind should have been carried out with the enthusiastic
impulse of romantic youth. But few youths, however romantic, would have
entertained such a purpose as that which now occupied Rolls. There are
many who would risk a great deal to smuggle an illustrious prisoner out
of his prison. But this was an enterprise of a very different kind. He
left Mr Monypenny with his head full of thoughts which were not all
heroic. None of his inquiries had been made without meaning. The
self-devotion which was in him was of a sober kind, not the devotion of
a Highland clansman, an Evan Dhu; and though the extraordinary expedient
he had planned appeared to him more and not less alarming than the
reality, his own self-sacrifice was not without a certain calculation
and caution too.

All these things had been seriously weighed and balanced in his mind. He
had considered his sister's interest, and even his own eventual
advantage. He had never neglected these primary objects of life, and he
did not do so now. But though all was taken into account and carefully
considered, Rolls's first magnanimous purpose was never shaken; and the
use he made of the important breathing-time of these intervening days
was characteristic. He had, like most men, floating in his mind several
things which he intended "some time" to do,--a vague intention which, in
the common course of affairs, is never carried out. One of these things
was to pay a visit to Edinburgh. Edinburgh to Rolls was as much as
London and Paris and Rome made into one. All his patriotic feelings, all
that respect for antiquity which is natural to the mind of a Scot, and
the pride of advancing progress and civilisation which becomes a man of
this century, were involved in his desire to visit the capital of his
own country. Notwithstanding all the facilities of travel, he had been
there but once before, and that in his youth. With a curious solemnity
he determined to make this expedition now. It seemed the most suitable
way of spending these all-important days, before he took the step beyond
which he did not know what might happen to him. A more serious visitor,
yet one more determined to see everything and to take the full advantage
of all he saw, never entered that romantic town. He looked like a rural
elder of the gravest Calvinistic type as he walked, in his black coat
and loosely tied white neckcloth, about the lofty streets. He went to
Holyrood, and gazed with reverence and profound belief at the stains of
Rizzio's blood. He mounted up to the Castle and examined Mons Meg with
all the care of a historical observer. He even inspected the pictures
in the National Collection with unbounded respect, if little knowledge,
and climbed the Observatory on the Calton Hill. There were many
spectators about the streets who remarked him as he walked about,
looking conscientiously at everything, with mingled amazement and
respect; for his respectability, his sober curiosity, his unvarying
seriousness, were remarkable enough to catch an intelligent eye. But
nobody suspected that Rolls's visit to Edinburgh was the solemn visit of
a martyr, permitting himself the indulgence of a last look at the scenes
that interested him most, ere giving himself up to an unknown and
mysterious doom.

On the morning of the 24th, having satisfied himself fully, he returned
home. He was quite satisfied. Whatever might now happen, he had
fulfilled his intention, and realised his dreams: nothing could take
away from him the gratification thus secured. He had seen the best that
earth contained, and now was ready for the worst, whatever that might
be. Great and strange sights, prodigies unknown to his fathers, were
befitting and natural objects to occupy him at this moment of fate. It
was still early when he got back: he stopped at the Tinto Station, not
at that which was nearest to Dalrulzian, and slowly making his way up by
the fatal road, visited the scene of Torrance's death. The lodge-keeper
called out to him, as he turned that way, that the road was shut up; but
Rolls paid no heed. He clambered over the hurdles that were placed
across, and soon reached the scene of the tragedy. The marks of the
horse's hoofs were scarcely yet obliterated, and the one fatal point at
which the terrified brute had dinted deeply into the tough clay, its
last desperate attempt to hold its footing, was almost as distinct as
ever.

The terrible incident with which he had so much to do came before him
with a confused perception of things he had not thought of at the time,
reviving, as in a dream, before his very eyes. He remembered that
Torrance lay with his head down the stream--a point which had not struck
him as important; and he remembered that Lord Rintoul had appeared out
of the wood at his cry for help so quickly, that he could not have been
far away when the accident took place. What special signification there
might be in these facts Rolls was not sufficiently clear-headed to see.
But he noted them with great gravity in a little notebook, which he had
bought for the purpose. Then, having concluded everything, he set out
solemnly on his way to Dunearn.

It was a long walk. The autumnal afternoon closed in mists; the moon
rose up out of the haze--the harvest moon, with a little redness in her
light. The landscape was dim in this mellowed vapour, and everything
subdued. The trees, with all their fading glories, hung still in the
haze; the river tinkled with a far-off sound; the lights in the cottages
were blurred, and looked like huge vague lamps in the milky air, as
Rolls trudged on slowly, surely, to the place of fate. It took him a
long time to walk there, and he did not hurry. Why should he hurry? He
was sure, went he ever so slowly, to arrive in time. As he went along,
all things that ever he had done came up into his mind. His youthful
extravagances--for Rolls, too, had once been young and silly; his
gradual settling into manhood; his aspirations, which he once had, like
the best; his final anchorage, which, if not in a very exalted post, nor
perhaps what he had once hoped for, was yet so respectable. Instead of
the long lines of trees, the hedgerows, and cottages which marked the
road, it was his own life that Rolls walked through as he went on. He
thought of the old folk, his father and mother; he seemed to see Bauby
and himself and the others coming home in just such a misty autumn night
from school. Jock, poor fellow! who had gone to sea, and had not been
heard of for years; Willie, who 'listed, and nearly broke the old
mother's heart. How many shipwrecks there had been among the lads he
once knew! Rolls felt, with a warmth of satisfaction about his heart,
how well it was to have walked uprightly, to have "won through" the
storms of life, and to have been a credit and a comfort to all belonging
to him. If anything was worth living for, that was. Willie and Jock had
both been cleverer than he, poor fellows! but they had both dropped, and
he had held on. Rolls did not want to be proud; he was quite willing to
say, "If it had not been for the grace of God!----" but yet it gave him
an elevating sense of the far superior pleasure it was to conquer your
inclinations in the days of your youth, and to do well whatever might
oppose. When the name of Rolls was mentioned by any one about Dunearn,
it would always be said that two of them had done very well--Tammas and
Bauby: these were the two. They had always held by one another; they had
always been respectable. But here Rolls stopped in his thoughts, taking
a long breath. After this, after what was going to happen, what would
the folk say then? Would a veil drop after to-day upon the unblemished
record of his life? He had never stood before a magistrate in all his
days--never seen how the world looked from the inside of a prison, even
as a visitor--had nothing to do, nothing to do with that side of the
world. He waved his hand, as if separating by a mystic line between all
that was doubtful or disreputable, and his own career. But now----Thus
through the misty darkening road, with now a red gleam from a smithy,
and now a softer glimmer from a cottage door, and anon the trees
standing out of the mists, and the landscape widening about him, Rolls
came on slowly, very seriously, to Dunearn. The long tower of the Town
House, which had seemed to threaten and call upon Lord Rintoul, was the
first thing that caught the eye of Rolls. The moon shone upon it, making
a white line of it against the cloudy sky.

Mr Monypenny was at dinner with his family. They dined at six o'clock,
which was thought a rather fashionable hour, and the comfortable meal
was just over. Instead of wine, the good man permitted himself one glass
of toddy when the weather grew cold. He was sitting between the table
and the fire, and his wife sat on the other side giving him her company
and consolation,--for Mr Monypenny was somewhat low and despondent. He
had been moved by Sir James Montgomery's warm and sudden partisanship
and belief of John Erskine's story; but he was a practical man himself,
and he could not, he owned, shaking his head, take a sensational view.
To tell him that there should have been just such an encounter as seemed
probable--high words between two gentlemen--but that they should part
with no harm done, and less than an hour after one of them be found
lying dead at the bottom of the Scaur--that was more than he could
swallow in the way of a story. To gain credence, there should have been
less or more. Let him hold his tongue altogether--a man is never called
upon to criminate himself--or let him say all. "Then you must just give
him a word, my dear, to say nothing about it," said Mrs Monypenny, who
was anxious too. "But that's just impossible, my dear, for he blurted it
all out to the sheriff just as he told it to me." "Do you not think it's
a sign of innocence that he should keep to one story, and when it's
evidently against himself, so far as it goes?" "A sign of innocence!" Mr
Monypenny said, with a snort of impatience. He took his toddy very
sadly, finding no exhilaration in it. "Pride will prevent him departing
from his story," he said. "If he had spoken out like a man, and called
for help like a Christian, it would have been nothing. All this fuss is
his own doing--a panic at the moment, and pride--pride now, and nothing
more."

"If ye please," said the trim maid who was Mr Monypenny's butler and
footman all in one--the "table-maid," as she was called--"there's one
wanting to speak to ye, sir. I've put him into the office, and he says
he can wait."

"One! and who may the one be?" said Mr Monypenny.

"Weel, sir, he's got his hat doon on his brows and a comforter aboot
his throat, and he looks sore for-foughten, as if he had travelled all
the day, and no' a word to throw at a dog; but I think it's Mr Rolls,
the butler at Dalrulzian."

"Rolls!" said Mr Monypenny. "I'll go to him directly, Jeanie. That's one
thing off my mind. I thought that old body had disappeared rather than
bear witness against his master," he said, when the girl had closed the
door.

"But oh, if he's going to bear witness against his master, it would have
been better for him to disappear," said the sympathetic wife. "Nasty
body! to eat folk's bread, and then to get them into trouble."

"Whesht with your foolish remarks, my dear: that is clean against the
law, and it would have had a very bad appearance, and prejudiced the
Court against us," Mr Monypenny said as he went away. But to tell the
truth, he was not glad; for Rolls was one of the most dangerous
witnesses against his master. The agent went to his office with a
darkened brow. It was not well lighted, for the lamp had been turned
down, and the fire was low. Rolls rose up from where he had been sitting
on the edge of a chair as Mr Monypenny came in. He had unwound his
comforter from his neck, and taken off his hat. His journey, and his
troubled thoughts, and the night air, had limped and damped him; the
starch was out of his tie, and the air of conscious rectitude out of
his aspect. He made a solemn but tremulous bow, and stood waiting till
the door was closed, and the man of business had thrown himself into a
chair. "Well, Rolls--so you have come back!" Mr Monypenny said.

"Ay, sir, I've come back. I've brought you the man, Mr Monypenny, that
did _yon_."

"Good Lord, Rolls! that did what? You take away my breath."

"I'll do it more or I'm done. The man that coupit yon poor lad Tinto and
his muckle horse ower the brae."

Mr Monypenny started to his feet. "Do you mean to tell me--Lord bless
us, man, speak out, can't ye! The man that----Are ye in your senses,
Rolls? And who may this man be?"

"You see before you, sir, one that's nae better than a coward. I thought
it would blow by. I thought the young master would be cleared in a
moment. There was nae ill meaning in my breast. I did the best I could
for him as soon as it was done, and lostna a moment. But my courage
failed me to say it was me----"

"You!" cried Monypenny, with a shout that rang through the house.

"Just me, and no other; and what for no' me? Am I steel and airn, to
take ill words from a man that was no master of mine? Ye can shut me up
in your prison--I meant him no hairm--and hang me if you like. I'll no'
let an innocent man suffer instead of me. I've come to give myself up."




CHAPTER XL.


"DEAR MR ERSKINE,--I do not know what words to use to tell you how
pained and distressed we are--I speak for my mother as well as
myself--to find that nothing has been done to relieve you from the
consequence of such a ridiculous as well as unhappy mistake. We found my
brother Robin as anxious as we were, or more so, if that were possible,
to set matters right at once; but unfortunately on the day after, the
funeral took up all thoughts: and what other obstacles intervened next
day I cannot rightly tell, but something or other--I am too impatient
and pained to inquire what--came in the way; and they tell me now that
to-morrow is the day of the examination, and that it is of no use now to
forestall justice, which will certainly set you free to-morrow. Oh, dear
Mr Erskine, I cannot tell you how sick and sore my heart is to think
that you have been in confinement (it seems too dreadful, too ludicrous,
to be true), in confinement all these long days. I feel too angry, too
miserable, to think of it. I have been crying, as if that would do you
any good, and rushing up and down abusing everybody. I think that in his
heart Robin feels it more than any of us: he feels the injustice, the
foolishness; but still he has been to blame, and I don't know how to
excuse him. We have not dared to tell poor Carry--though, indeed, I need
not attempt to conceal from you, who have seen so much, that poor Carry,
though she is dreadfully excited and upset, is not miserable, as you
would expect a woman to be in her circumstances. Could it be expected?
But I don't know what she might do if she heard what has happened to
you. She might take some step of her own accord, and that would be not
prudent, I suppose; so we don't tell her. Oh, Mr Erskine, did you ever
think how miserable women are? I never realised it till now. Here am I,
and, still more, here is my mother. She is not a child, or an incapable
person, I hope! yet she can do nothing--nothing to free you. She is as
helpless as if she were a baby. It seems to me ridiculous that Robin's
opinion should be worth taking, and mine not; but that is quite a
different matter. My mother can do nothing but persuade and plead with a
boy like Robin, to do that which she herself, at her age, wise as she
is, good as she is, cannot do. As you are a man, you may think this of
no importance; and mamma says it is nature, and cannot be resisted, and
smiles. But if you suppose she does not feel it!--if she could have been
your bail, or whatever it is, you may be sure you would not have been a
single night in _that_ place! but all that we can do is to go down on
our knees to the men who have it in their power, and I, unfortunately,
have not been brought up to go down on my knees. Forgive me for this
outburst. I am so miserable to think where you are, and why, and that
I--I mean _we_--can do nothing. What can I say to you? Dear Mr Erskine,
our thoughts are with you constantly. My mother sends you her love.

"EDITH."

       *       *       *       *       *

Edith felt perhaps that this was not a very prudent letter. She was not
thinking of prudence, but of relieving her own mind and comforting John
Erskine, oppressed and suffering. And besides, she was herself in a
condition of great excitement and agitation. She had been brought back
from Tinto, she and her mother, with a purpose. Perhaps it was not said
to her in so many words; but it was certainly conveyed to the minds of
the female members of the family generally that Millefleurs was at the
end of his patience, and his suit must have an answer once for all.
Carry had been told of the proposal by her mother, and had pledged
herself to say nothing against it. And she had kept her promise, though
with difficulty, reserving to herself the power to act afterwards if
Edith should be driven to consent against her will. "Another of us shall
not do it," Carry said; "oh, not if I can help it!" "I do not believe
that Edith will do it," said Lady Lindores; "but let us not
interfere--let us not interfere!" Carry, therefore, closed her mouth
resolutely; but as she kissed her sister, she could not help whispering
in her ear, "Remember that I will always stand by you--always, whatever
happens!" This was at Lindores, where Carry, pining to see once more the
face of the outer world since it had so changed to her, drove her mother
and sister in the afternoon, returning home alone with results which
were not without importance in her life. But in the meantime it is Edith
with whom we have to do. She reached home with the sense of having a
certain ordeal before her--something which she had to pass through, not
without pain--which would bring her into direct antagonism with her
father, and convulse the household altogether. Even the idea that she
must more or less vex Millefleurs distressed and excited her; for indeed
she was quite willing to admit that she was "very fond of" Millefleurs,
though it was ridiculous to think of him in any other capacity than that
of a brotherly friend. And it was at this moment she made the discovery
that, notwithstanding the promises of Rintoul and Millefleurs, nothing
had been done for John. The consequence was, that the letter which we
have just quoted was at once an expression of sympathy, very warm, and
indeed impassioned--more than sympathy, indignation, wrath, sentiments
which were nothing less than violent--and a way of easing her own
excited mind which nothing else could have furnished. "I am going to
write to John Erskine," she said, with the boldness produced by so great
a crisis; and Lady Lindores had not interfered. She said, "Give him my
love," and that was all. No claim of superior prudence, or even wisdom,
has been made for Lady Lindores. She had to do the best she could among
all these imperfections. Perhaps she thought that, having expressed all
her angry glowing heart to John, in the outflowing of impassioned
sympathy, the girl would be more likely, in the reaction and fear lest
she had gone too far, to be kind to Millefleurs; for who can gauge the
ebbings and flowings of these young fantastic souls? And as for Lady
Lindores's private sentiments, she would not have forced her daughter a
hairbreadth; and she had a good deal of pain to reconcile herself to
Millefleurs's somewhat absurd figure as the husband of Edith. But yet,
when all is said, to give your child the chance of being a duchess, who
would not sacrifice a little? If only Edith could make up her mind to
it! Lady Lindores went no further. Nevertheless, when the important
moment approached, she could not help, like Carry, breathing a word in
her child's ear, "Remember, there is no better heart in existence," she
said. "A woman could not have a better man." Edith, in her excitement,
grasped her mother's arms with her two hands; but all the answer she
gave was a little nervous laugh. She had no voice to reply.

"You will remember, Millefleurs, that my daughter is very
young--and--and shy," said Lord Lindores, on the other side. He was
devoured by a desire to say, "If she refuses you, never mind--I will
make her give in;" which indeed was what he had said in a kind of
paraphrase to Torrance. But Millefleurs was not the sort of person to
whom this could be said. He drew himself up a little, and puffed out his
fine chest, when his future father-in-law (as they hoped) made this
remark. If Edith was not as willing to have him as he was to have her,
she was not for Millefleurs. He almost resented the interference. "I
have no doubt that Lady Edith and I will quite understand each
other--whichever way it may be," Millefleurs added with a sigh, which
suited the situation. As a matter of fact, he thought there could not be
very much doubt as to the reply. It was not possible that they could
have made him stay only to get a refusal at the end--and Millefleurs
was well aware that the girls were very few who could find it in their
hearts to refuse a future dukedom: besides, had it not been a friendship
at first sight--an immediate liking, if not love? To refuse him now
would be strange indeed. It was not until after dinner that the fated
moment came. Neither Lord Lindores nor Rintoul came into the
drawing-room; and Lady Lindores, having her previous orders, left the
field clear almost immediately after the entrance of the little hero.
There was nothing accidental about it, as there generally is, or appears
to be, about the scene of such events. The great drawing-room, all
softly lighted and warm, was never abandoned in this way in the evening.
Edith stood before the fire, clasping her hands together nervously, the
light falling warm upon her black dress and the gleams of reflection
from its jet trimmings. They had begun to talk before Lady Lindores
retreated to the background to look for something, as she said; and
Millefleurs allowed the subject they were discussing to come to an end
before he entered upon anything more important. He concluded his little
argument with the greatest propriety, and then he paused and cleared his
throat.

"Lady Edith," he said, "you may not have noticed that we are alone." He
folded his little hands together, and put out his chest, and made all
his curves more remarkable, involuntarily, as he said this. It was his
way of opening a new subject, and he was not carried out of his way by
excitement as Edith was.

She looked round breathlessly, and said, "Has mamma gone?" with a little
gasp--a mixture of agitation and shame. The sense even that she was
false in her pretence at surprise--for did she not know what was
coming?--agitated her still more.

"Yeth," said Millefleurs, drawing out his lisp into a sort of sigh. "I
have asked that I might see you by yourself. You will have thought,
perhaps, that for me to stay here when the family was in--affliction,
was, to say the least, bad taste, don't you know?"

"No," said Edith, faltering, "I did not think so; I thought----"

"That is exactly so," said Millefleurs, seriously. "It is a great bore,
to be sure; but you and I are not like two nobodies. The truth is, I had
to speak to your father first: it seemed to be the best thing to
do,--and now I have been waiting to have this chance. Lady Edith, I hope
you are very well aware that I am--very fond of you, don't you know? I
always thought we were fond of one another----"

"You were quite right, Lord Millefleurs," cried Edith, nervously; "you
have been so nice--you have been like another brother----"

"Thanks; but it was not quite in that way." Here Millefleurs put out his
plump hand and took hers in a soft, loose clasp--a clasp which was
affectionate but totally unimpassioned. He patted the hand with his
fingers as he held it in an encouraging, friendly way. "That's very
pleasant; but it doesn't do, don't you know? People would have said we
were, one of us, trifling with the other. I told Lord Lindores that
there was not one other girl in the world--that is, in this
country--whom I ever could wish to marry but you. He was not displeased,
and I have been waiting ever since to ask; don't you think we might
marry, Lady Edith? I should like it if you would. I hope I have not been
abrupt, or anything of that sort."

"Oh no!--you are always considerate, always kind," cried Edith; "but,
dear Lord Millefleurs, listen to me,--I don't think it would do----"

"No?" he said, with rather a blank air, suddenly pausing in the soft pat
of encouragement he was giving her upon the hand; but he did not drop
the hand, nor did Edith take it from him. She had recovered her breath
and her composure; her heart fluttered no more. The usual half laugh
with which she was in the habit of talking to him came into her voice.

"No?" said Millefleurs. "But, indeed, I think it would do very nicely.
We understand each other very well; we belong to the same _milieu_"
(how pleased Lord Lindores would have been to hear this, and how amazed
the Duke!), "and we are fond of each other. We are both young, and you
are extremely pretty. Dear Edith--mayn't I call you so?--I think it
would do admirably, delightfully!"

"Certainly you may call me so," she said, with a smile; "but on the old
footing, not any new one. There is a difference between being fond of
any one, and being--in love." Edith said this with a hot, sudden blush;
then shaking her head as if to shake that other sentiment off, added, by
way of reassuring herself, "don't you know?" with a tremulous laugh.
Little Millefleurs's countenance grew more grave. He was not in love
with any passion; still he did not like to be refused.

"Excuse me, but I can't laugh," he said, putting down her hand; "it is
too serious. I do not see the difference, for my part. I have always
thought that falling in love was a rather vulgar way of describing the
matter. I think we have all that is wanted for a happy marriage. If you
do not love me so much as I love you, there is no great harm in that; it
will come in time. I feel sure that I should be a very good husband, and
you----"

"Would not be a good wife--oh no, no!" cried Edith, with a little
shudder, shrinking from him; then she turned towards him again with
sudden compunction. "You must not suppose it is unkindness; but
think,--two people who have been like brother--and sister."

"The only time," said Millefleurs, still more seriously, "that I ever
stood in this position before, it was the relationship of mother and son
that was suggested to me--with equal futility, if you will permit me to
say so;--brother and sister means little. So many people think they feel
so, till some moment undeceives them. I think I may safely say that my
feelings have never--except, perhaps, at the very first--been those of a
brother,--any more," he added in a parenthesis, "than they were ever
those of a son."

What Edith said in reply was the most curious request ever made perhaps
by a girl to the man who had just asked her to marry him. She laid her
hand upon his arm, and said softly, "Tell me about her!" in a voice of
mild coaxing, just tempered with laughter. Millefleurs shook his head,
and relieved his plump bosom with a little sigh.

"Not at this moment, dear Edith. This affair must first be arranged
between us. You do not mean to refuse me? Reflect a moment. I spoke to
your father more than a week ago. It was the day before the death of
poor Mr Torrance. Since then I have waited, hung up, don't you know,
like Mahomet's coffin. When such a delay does occur, it is generally
understood in one way. When a lady means to say No, it is only just to
say it at once--not to permit a man to commit himself, and leave him,
don't you know, hanging on."

"Dear Lord Millefleurs----"

"My name is Wilfrid," he said, with a little pathos; "no one ever calls
me by it: in this country not even my mother--calls me by my name."

"In America," said Edith, boldly, "you were called so by--the other
lady----"

He waved his hand. "By many people," he said; "but never mind. Never by
any one here. Call me Wilfrid, and I shall feel happier----"

"I was going to say that if you had spoken to me, I should have told you
at once," Edith said. "When you understand me quite, then we shall call
each other anything you please. But _that_ cannot be, Lord Millefleurs.
Indeed you must understand me. I like you very much. I should be
dreadfully sorry if I thought what I am saying would really hurt
you--but it will not after the first minute. I think you ought to marry
_her_----"

"Oh, there would be no hindrance there," said Millefleurs; "that was
quite unsuitable. I don't suppose it could ever have been. But with
you," he said, turning to take her hand again, "dear Edith! everything
is as it should be--it pleases your people, and it will delight mine.
They will all love you; and for my part, I am almost as fond of dear
Lady Lindores as I am of you. Nothing could be more jolly (to use a
vulgar word--for I hate slang) than the life we should lead. I should
take you _over there_, don't you know, and show you everything, as far
as San Francisco if you like. I know it all. And you would form my
opinions, and make me good for something when we came back. Come! let it
be settled so," said Millefleurs, laying his other hand on Edith's, and
patting it softly. It was the gentlest fraternal affectionate clasp. The
hands lay within each other without a thrill in them--the young man kind
as any brother, the girl in nowise afraid.

"Do you think," said Edith, with a little solemnity, from which it cost
her some trouble to keep out a laugh, "that if I could consent (which I
cannot: it is impossible), do you think it would not be a surprise, and
perhaps a painful one, to--the other lady--if she heard you were coming
to America _so_?"

Lord Millefleurs raised his eyes for a moment to the ceiling, and he
sighed. It was a tribute due to other days and other hopes. "I think
not," he said. "She was very disinterested. Indeed she would not hear of
it. She said she regarded me as a mother, don't you know? There is
something very strange in these things," he added, quickly forgetting
(as appeared) his position as lover, and putting Edith's hand
unconsciously out of his. "There was not, you would have supposed, any
chance of such feelings arising. And in point of fact it was not
suitable at all. Still, had she not seen so very clearly what was my
duty----"

"I know now," said Edith; "it was the lady who--advised you to come
home."

He did not reply directly. "There never was anybody with such a keen eye
for duty," he said; "when she found out I hadn't written to my mother,
don't you know, that was when she pulled me up. 'Don't speak to me,' she
said. She would not hear a word. I was just obliged to pack up. But it
was perfectly unsuitable. I never could help acknowledging that."

"Wilfrid," said Edith, half in real, half in fictitious enthusiasm,--for
it served her purpose so admirably that it was difficult not to assume a
little more than she felt--"how can you stand there and tell me that
there was anything unsuitable in a girl who could behave so finely as
that. Is it because she had no stupid little title in her family, for
example? You have titles enough for half-a-dozen, I hope. Are you not
ashamed to speak to one girl of another like that----"

"Thank you," said Millefleurs, softly,--"thank you; you are a darling.
All you say is quite true. But she is not--exactly a girl. The fact
is--she is older than--my people would have liked. Of course that was a
matter of complete indifference to me."

"O--oh! of course," said Edith, faintly: this is a point on which girls
are not sympathetic. She was very much taken aback by the intimation.
But she recovered her courage, and said with a great deal of interest,
"Tell me all about her now."

"Are you quite decided?" he said solemnly. "Edith,--let us pause a
little; don't condemn me, don't you know, to disappointment and
heartbreak, and all that, without sufficient cause. I feel sure we
should be happy together. I for one would be the happiest man----"

"I could not, I could not," she cried, with a sudden little effusion of
feeling, quite unintentional. A flush of hot colour ran over her, her
eyes filled with tears. She looked at him involuntarily, almost
unconscious, with a certain appeal, which she herself only half
understood, in her eyes. But Millefleurs understood, not at the half
word, as the French say, but at the half thought which he discovered in
the delicate transparent soul looking at him through those two
involuntary tears. He gazed at her for a moment with a sudden startled
enlargement of his own keen little eyes. "To be sure!" he cried. "How
was it I never thought of that before?"

Edith felt as if she had made some great confession, some cruel
admission, she did not know what. She turned away from him trembling.
This half comic interview suddenly turned in a moment to one of intense
and overwhelming, almost guilty emotion. What had she owned to? What was
it he made so sure of? She could not tell. But now it was that
Millefleurs showed the perfect little gentleman he was. The discovery
was not entirely agreeable to his _amour propre_, and wounded his pride
a little; but in the meantime the necessary thing was to set Edith at
her ease so far as was possible, and make her forget that she had in any
way committed herself. What he did was to set a chair for her, with her
back to the lamp, so that her countenance need not be revealed for the
moment, and to sit down by her side with confidential calmness. "Since
you wish it," he said, "and are so kind as to take an interest in her,
there is nothing I should like so much as to tell you about my dear Miss
Nelly Field. I should like you to be friends."

Would it were possible to describe the silent hush of the house while
these two talked in this preposterous manner in the solitude so
carefully prepared for them! Lord Lindores sat breathless in his
library, listening for every sound, fixing his eyes upon his door,
feeling it inconceivable that such a simple matter should take so long
a time to accomplish. Lady Lindores in her chamber, still more anxious,
foreseeing endless struggles with her husband if Millefleurs persevered,
and almost worse, his tragical wrath and displeasure if Millefleurs (as
was almost certain) accepted at once Edith's refusal, sat by her fire in
the dark, and cried a little, and prayed, almost without knowing what it
was that she asked of God. Not, surely, that Edith should sacrifice
herself? Oh no; but that all might go well--that there might be peace
and content. She did not dictate how that was to be. After a while both
father and mother began to raise their heads, to say to themselves that
unless he had been well received, Millefleurs would not have remained so
long oblivious of the passage of time. This brought a smile upon Lord
Lindores's face. It dried his wife's eyes, and made her cease praying.
Was it possible? Could Edith, after all, have yielded to the seductions
of the dukedom? Her mother felt herself struck to the heart by the
thought, as if an arrow had gone into her. Was not she pleased? It would
delight her husband, it would secure family peace, it would give Edith
such a position, such prospects, as far exceeded the utmost hopes that
could have been formed for her. Somehow, however, the first sensation of
which Lady Lindores was conscious was a humiliation deep and bitter.
Edith too! she said to herself, with a quivering smile upon her lips, a
sense of heart-sickness and downfall within her. She had wished it
surely--she had felt that to see her child a duchess would be a fine
thing, a thing worth making a certain sacrifice for; and Millefleurs had
nothing in him to make a woman fear for her daughter's happiness. But
women, everybody knows, are inaccessible to reason. It is to be doubted
whether Lady Lindores had ever in her life received a blow more keen
than when she made up her mind that Edith was going to do the right
thing, the prudent wise thing, which would secure family peace to her
mother, and the most dazzling future to herself.

When a still longer interval had elapsed, and no one came to tell her of
the great decision, which evidently must have been made, Lady Lindores
thought it best to go back to the drawing-room, in which she had left
Edith and her lover. To think that Edith should have found the love-talk
of Millefleurs so delightful after all, as to have forgotten how time
passed, and everything but him and his conversation, made her mother
smile once more, but not very happily. When she entered the drawing-room
she saw the pair at the other end of it, by the fire, seated close
together, he bending forward talking eagerly, she leaning towards him,
her face full of smiles and interest. They did not draw back, or change
their position, as lovers do, till Lady Lindores, much marvelling, came
close up to them, when Millefleurs, still talking, jumped up to find a
chair for her. "And that was the last time we met," Millefleurs was
saying, too much absorbed in his narrative to give it up. "An idea of
duty like that, don't you know, leaves nothing to be said."

Lady Lindores sat down, and Millefleurs stood in front of the two
ladies, with his back to the fire, as Englishmen love to stand. There
was a pause--of extreme bewilderment on the part of the new-comer. Then
Millefleurs said, in his round little mellifluous voice, folding his
hands,--"I have been telling dear Edith of a very great crisis in my
life. She understands me perfectly, dear Lady Lindores. I am very sorry
to tell you that she will not marry me; but we are friends for life."




CHAPTER XLI.


Carry drove away from Lindores in the afternoon sunshine, leaning back
in her corner languidly watching the slanting light upon the autumnal
trees, and the haze in which the distance was hid, soft, blue, and
ethereal, full of the poetry of nature. She had about her that soft
languor and delicious sense of freedom from pain which makes
convalescence so sweet. She felt as if she had got over a long and
painful illness, and, much shattered and exhausted, was yet getting
better, in a heavenly exemption from suffering, and perfect rest. This
sense of recovery, indeed, is very different from the languor and
exhaustion of sorrow; and yet without any intention of hers, it veiled
with a sort of innocent hypocrisy those feelings which were not in
consonance with her supposed desolation and the mourning of her
widowhood. Her behaviour was exemplary, and her aspect all that it ought
to be, everybody felt; and though the country-side was well aware that
she had no great reason to be inconsolable, it yet admired and respected
her for appearing to mourn. Her fragility, her paleness, her smile of
gentle exhaustion and worn-out looks, did her unspeakable credit with
all the good people about. They were aware that she had little enough to
mourn for, but there are occasions on which nature demands hypocrisy.
Any display of satisfaction at another's death is abhorrent to mankind.
Carry in her convalescence was no hypocrite, but she got the credit of
it, and was all the better thought of. People were almost grateful to
her for showing her husband this mark of respect. After all, it is hard,
indeed, when a man goes out of this world without even the credit of a
woman's tears. But Carry had no sorrow in her heart as she drove away
from the door of her former home. It had not been thought right that she
should go in. A widow of not yet a fortnight's standing may, indeed,
drive out to get a little air, which is necessary for her health, but
she cannot be supposed to be able to go into a house, even if it is her
father's. She was kissed tenderly and comforted, as they took leave of
her. "My darling Carry, Edith and I will drive over to see you
to-morrow; and then you have the children," her mother said, herself
half taken in by Carry's patient smile, and more than half desirous of
being taken in. "Oh yes, I have the children," Carry said. But in her
heart she acknowledged, as she drove away, that she did not even want
the children. When one has suffered very much, the mere absence of pain
becomes a delicious fact, a something actual, which breathes delight
into the soul. Even when your back aches or your head aches habitually,
to be free of that for half an hour is heaven; and Carry had the
bewildering happiness before her of being free of it for ever. The world
bore a different aspect for her; the air blew differently, the clouds
floated with another motion. To look out over the plain, and away to the
blue hills in the distance, with all their variety of slopes, and the
infinite sweet depths of colour and atmosphere about them, was beyond
all example delightful, quite enough to fill life and make it happy. In
the heavenly silence she began to put her thoughts into words, as in her
youth she had done always when she was deeply moved. Oh, who are they
that seek pleasure in the world, in society, in feasts and merrymakings,
when it is here, at their hand, ready for their enjoyment? This was her
theme. The sunset upon the hills was enough for any one; he who could
not find his happiness in that, where would he find it? Carry lay back
in her corner, and felt that she would like to kiss the soft air that
blew upon her, and send salutations to the trees and the sun. What could
any one want more? The world was so beautiful, pain had gone out of it,
and all the venom and the misery. To rest from everything, to lie still
and get better, was of itself too exquisite. Carry had not for a long
time written any of those little poems which Edith and Nora and some
other choice readers had thought so lovely. Her tears had grown too
bitter for such expression--and to feel herself flow forth once again
into the sweet difficulties of verse was another delight the more. She
was all alone, in deep weeds of widowhood, and almost every voice within
twenty miles had within the last fortnight more than once uttered the
words "Poor Lady Car!" but oh, how far from poor she felt herself! In
what exquisite repose and peace was she mending of all her troubles!

Sometimes she would ask herself, with a wonder which enhanced the
sweetness, Was it really all over--all over--come to an end, this
nightmare which had blotted out heaven and earth? Was it possible? never
to come back to her again round any corner, never to have any more power
over her. Henceforward to be alone, alone--what word of joy! It is a
word which has different meanings to different people. To many in
Carry's position it is the very knell of their lives--to her there was a
music in it beyond the power of words to say. Her weakness had brought
that misery on herself: and now, was it possible that she was to fare so
much better than she deserved, to get rid of it for ever? She drew a
long breath, and imagined how different things might have been: she
might have lived to be an old woman under that yoke; she might never
have got free--her mind, nor her imagination, nor her life. She
shuddered to think what might have been. But it was over, ended,
finished, and she was free--done with it for ever. She had not deserved
this; it was a happiness which it was scarcely possible to realise. Poor
Carry, futile even in her anticipations of relief! It never occurred to
her that the two little children to whom she was returning--now all her
own, she was so foolish as to think--were pieces of Torrance, not done
with, never to be done with as long as her life lasted; but she was as
unconscious of that, as incapable of thinking of any harm to come from
those round-faced, stolid babies, as--any other mother could be.

Thus she was driving along, very happy, very still, exhausted and
languid and convalescent, with all the beautiful world before her, full
of consolation and peace, when Trouble set out to meet her upon her way.
Poor Lady Car! she had suffered so much,--did not life owe her a little
quiet, a breathing moment--long enough to get better in--quite better,
as we say in Scotland--and get the good of her deliverance? Indeed it
seemed so: but to different souls different experiences. Some would have
escaped, would have gone on softly, never quite getting over the dismal
preface of their life to the sight of spectators, but in reality tasting
the sweetness of repose--till the inevitable moment came, as it does to
all, when the warfare has to be taken up again. But to Carry there was
left no interval at all. She so delicate, so sensitive, all her nerves
so highly strung, quiet would have been everything for her. But quiet
she was not to have. Trouble set out from the gate of Dalrulzian while
she rolled softly along to meet it, unconscious, thinking of nothing
which could justify that sudden apparition--not a feeling in her going
out towards it, or provoking the sight. The trouble which thus
approached Lady Car was in the shape of Edward Beaufort, his tall figure
slightly stooping, yet in the full vigour of manhood, his countenance
gently despondent, a habitual sigh hanging, as it were, about him; the
ends of his luxuriant beard lightly moved by the breeze. He walked
somewhat slowly, musing, with nothing particular to do, and Carry caught
sight of him for some time before they met. She gave a low cry and sat
upright. Her convalescent heart lying so still, so sweetly silent and
even in its gentle beatings, like a creature that had been hurt, and was
coming softly to itself, leaped up with a bound and spring, and began to
go again like a wild thing, leaping, palpitating, pulling at its leash.
The first movement was terror--for though her tyrant was gone, the
tradition of him was still upon her, and she could not get rid of the
instinct all at once. "My God!" she said to herself in the silence,
clasping her hands, "Edward!" with something of the wild passion of
alarm which John Erskine had once seen. But then all in a moment again
this terror subsided. Her sense of convalescence and repose flew away
like the wind. A wild flood of joy and happiness rushed into her heart.
"Edward!"--for the first time, feeling herself carried away by a
drowning and dazzling tide of life, which blinded and almost suffocated
her, Carry realised in one moment what it meant to be free. The effect
was too tremendous for any thought of prudence, any hesitation as to
what his sentiments might be, or what was suitable to her own position.
She called to the coachman to stop, not knowing what she did, and with
her head and her hands stretched out from the window, met him as he came
up.

For the first moment there was not a word said between them, in the
excess of emotion, he standing below, she looking out from above, her
white face surrounded by the widow's livery of woe, but suddenly flushed
and glowing with life and love, and a kind of triumphant ecstasy. She
had forgotten what it meant--she had not realised all that was in it;
and now it burst upon her. She could not think, scarcely breathe--but
held out her hands to him, with that look beyond words to describe. And
he took them in the same way, and bent down his face over them, silent,
not saying a word. The coachman and footman on the box thought it was
excess of feeling that made this meeting so silent. They were sorry for
their mistress, who was not yet able to meet any one with composure; and
the low brief conversation that followed, sounded to them like
condolence and sympathy. How astounded the men would have been, and the
still landscape around them, with its houses hidden in the trees, and
all its silent observers about, had they known what this colloquy
actually was.

"Edward!" was the first word that was said--and then "Carry! Carry! but
I ought not to call you so."

"Oh, never call me anything else," she cried; "I could not endure
another name from you. Oh, can you forgive me, have you forgiven me? I
have paid for it--bitterly, bitterly! And it was not my fault."

"I never blamed you. I have forgiven you always. My suffering is not
older than my forgiveness."

"You were always better than I;" and then she added eagerly, not pausing
to think, carried on by that new tide that had caught her, "it is over;
it is all over now."

It was on his lips to say Thank God--but he reflected, and did not say
it. He had held her hands all the time. There was nobody to see them,
and the servants on the box were sympathetic and silent. Then he asked,
"Will they let me go to you now?"

"You will not ask any leave," she said hastily--"no leave! There are so
many things I have to say to you--to ask your pardon. It has been on my
heart to ask your pardon every day of my life. I used to think if I had
only done that, I could die."

"No dying now," he said, with her hands in his.

"Ah," she cried, with a little shudder, "but it is by dying I am here."

He looked at her pitifully with a gaze of sympathy. He was prepared to
be sorry if she was sorry. Even over his rival's death Edward Beaufort
felt himself capable of dropping a tear. He could go so far as that.
Self-abnegation is very good in a woman, but in a man it is uncalled for
to this degree. He could put himself out of the question altogether, and
looked at her with the deepest sympathy, ready to condole if she thought
proper. He was not prepared for the honesty of Carry's profound sense of
reopening life.

"You have had a great deal to bear," he said, with a vague intention of
consoling her. He was thinking of the interval that had elapsed since
her husband's death; but she was thinking of the dismal abyss before,
and of all that was brought to a conclusion by that event.

"More than you can imagine--more than you could believe," she said; then
paused, with a hot blush of shame, not daring to look him in the face.
All that she had suffered, was not that a mountain between them? She
drew her hands out of his, and shrinking away from him, said, "When you
think of that, you must have a horror of me."

"_I_ have a horror of you!" he said, with a faint smile. He put his head
closer as she drew back. He was changed from the young man she had
known. His beard, his mature air, the lines in his face, the gentle
melancholy air which he had acquired, were all new to her. Carry thought
that no face so compassionate, so tender, had ever been turned upon her
before. A great pity seemed to beam in the eyes that were fixed with
such tenderness upon her. Perhaps there was not in him any such flood of
rosy gladness as had illuminated her. The rapture of freedom was not in
his veins. But what a look that was! A face to pour out all your
troubles to--to be sure always of sympathy from. This was what she
thought.

Then in the tremor of blessedness and overwhelming emotion, she awoke to
remember that she was by the roadside--no place for talk like this.
Carry had no thought of what any one would say. She would have bidden
him come into the carriage and carried him away with her--her natural
support, her consoler. There was no reason in her suddenly roused and
passionate sense that never again must it be in any one's power to part
them. Nor did she think that there could be any doubt of his sentiments,
or whether he might still retain his love for her, notwithstanding all
she had done to cure him of it. For the moment she was out of herself.
They had been parted for so long--for so many miserable years--and now
they were together. That was all--restored to each other. But still, the
first moment of overwhelming agitation over, she had to remember. "I
have so much to tell you!" she cried; "but it cannot be here."

"When shall I come?" he said.

Carry's impulse was to say "Now, now!" It seemed to her as if parting
with him again would be tempting fate. For the first time since she had
got her freedom, she put forth all her powers consciously, and
controlled herself. It seemed to her the utmost stretch of self-denial
when she said, "To-morrow," with a long-drawn breath, in which her whole
being seemed to go out to him. The next moment the carriage was rolling
along as it had done before, and Carry had dropped back into her corner,
but not as she was before. Her entire world was changed. The glow of
life which had come back to her was something which she had not known
for years. It belonged to her early bloom, when she had no thought of
ever being Lady Car or a great personage. It belonged to the time when
Edward Beaufort was the lord of the ascendant, and nobody thought him
beneath the pretensions of Carry Lindores. The intervening time had
rolled away and was no more. She put her hands over her eyes to shut out
everything but this that had been, and was, in spite of all obstacles.
Her heart filled all the silence with tumultuous joyful beating. It was
all over, the prison-time of her life--the evil time--gone like a bad
enchantment--past and over, leaving no sign. It seemed to her that she
could take up her life where she laid it down six years ago, and that
all would be as though this interruption had never been.




CHAPTER XLII.


No morning ever broke which brought more exciting expectations than the
morning of the 25th September in the various houses in which our history
lies. Of the dozen people whose interests were concerned, not one but
awoke early to the touch of the warm autumnal sunshine, and took up with
a start of troubled energy, painful or otherwise, the burden of
existence, of which for a few hours they had been partially oblivious.
The women had the best of it, which is not usual; although in the
mingled feelings of Lady Lindores, glad that her child had carried out
her expectations, yet half sorry, now it was over, that Edith had not
accepted the great matrimonial prize put into her hands--and in those of
Edith herself, happy in having so successfully surmounted the incident
Millefleurs, yet greatly disturbed and excited about the coming events
as concerned John Erskine, and doubtful whether she ought to have
written to him so very frank and undisguised a letter,--there was as
much pain as pleasure. As for Carry, when she woke in the gloomy
magnificence of Tinto, and all the warmth and glowing hopes of yesterday
came back to her mind with a bound, there was nothing in her thoughts
which prevented her lying still upon her pillows and letting the flood
of light sweep into her heart, in a luxury of happiness and peace which
was past describing. She did not for the moment even need to think of
the meeting to come. Blessedness seemed suddenly to have become habitual
to her once more. She woke to the delight of life. "Bliss was it in that
dawn to be alive." The past had flown away like a dream: was it a dream
altogether, a nightmare, some dark shadow of fear and pain, from which
the oppressed soul, having at last awoke, was free? Beaufort at
Dalrulzian got up a similar feeling. He had been obliged to find himself
something of a failure--but he, too, seemed to be restored to the hopes
and the standing-ground of youth. He would now have no excuse to himself
for his absence of energy and ambition. His youthful strength was still
unimpaired, though he had made so much less of it than he ought. And now
here were all the occasions for a fresh beginning--sympathy to support
him and to inspire him. Not only would he be happy, but at last he would
do something--he would carry out all hopes and prophecies of him now.

This was the brighter side--but in Lindores the sentiments of the chief
personages in the house were not so pleasant. Lord Lindores was angry
and humiliated, furious with his daughter and still more with his wife,
who, he had no doubt, with her ridiculous romance, had filled the girl's
head with follies--and not much less with Millefleurs, who had thus
suffered himself to be foiled. But his disturbed cogitations were as
nothing to the tumult of pain and alarm which rose up in Rintoul's mind
when he opened his eyes to the morning light. When the young man awoke
he had first a moment of bewildered consideration, what was the meaning
of the confused sense of disaster of which he became instantly
conscious--and then he sprang from his bed unable to rest, eager for
movement or anything which would counterbalance the fever of the crisis.
This was the day. He could delay no longer; he could not trifle with the
situation, or leave things to chance after to-day. It would be a new
beginning in his life. Hitherto all had gone on serenely enough. He had
gone with the stream, he had never set himself in opposition to the
world or its ways, never done anything to draw men's eyes upon him. But
after to-day all would be changed. To-morrow his name would be
telegraphed over all the world in newspaper paragraphs; to-morrow every
fellow he had ever known would be saying: "Rintoul! what Rintoul? You
never can mean?----" No, they would all feel it to be impossible.
Rintoul who was so safe, who never got into scrapes, whom they even
laughed at as a canny Scot, though he did not feel a Scot at all. It
would be incredible to all who had ever known him. And what a scandal,
what an outcry it would make! In his own family even! Rintoul knew that
Carry was not a broken-hearted widow, and yet it seemed to him that,
after she knew, she would never speak to him again. It made his heart
sink to think of all the changes that in a moment, in the twinkling of
an eye, would become inevitable. His father, with what rage, and misery,
and confusion of all his plans and hopes, would he hear it! with what
consternation his mother and sister! As for himself, everything would be
interrupted and set aside, his life in every way turned upside-down, his
ambition checked, his hopes destroyed. And all this to save John Erskine
from a certain amount of inconvenience! That was how at least it
appeared to him--really from inconvenience, nothing more. John was not a
man of rank like himself, full in the eyes of the world--he was not
responsible to a proud and ambitious father. A short term of
imprisonment to him would be like a disagreeable visit, nothing more.
Many people had to spend a certain part of every year, for instance,
with an old uncle or aunt, somebody from whom they had expectations. It
really would be little or nothing more than this. And it was not as if
it had been anything disgraceful. The county would not think the worse
of him; it was an accident, a thing that might have happened to any one.
But to Rintoul how much more terrible! he the brother-in-law of the man,
with a sort of interest in his death. He would have to leave his
regiment. All his projects for life would be interrupted. By the time he
was free again, he would be forgotten in society, and his name would be
_flétri_ for ever. These thoughts sent him pacing about his room with
hasty steps, the perspiration standing on his forehead. All to save John
Erskine, who was just as much to blame as he was--for the first quarrel
was the one which had excited that unfortunate fellow; all to save from
a little inconvenience another man!

Perhaps if he had been placed simply in front of the question whether he
would let another man be punished for what he had done, Rintoul would
have had spirit enough to say No; certainly if it had been put to him
quickly for an instant decision, without time to think, he would have
said No, and held by his honour. But something else more determined than
himself stood before him. Nora! He might use sophistries for the
confusing of his own intellect--but not hers. She would look at him, he
knew how. She would turn away from him, he knew how. The anticipation of
that glance of high scorn and unspoken condemnation made Rintoul tremble
to the depths of his being. When he thought of it he braced himself up
with a rapidity and certainty much unlike the previous hesitating strain
of his thoughts. "It must be done," he said to himself. He might beguile
himself with argument, but he could not beguile _her_. The thought might
intrude upon him whether he had been wise to let her know--whether it
might not have been better to keep it to himself; but, having done it,
the question was now not only whether he was content to lose Nora--but
if he was content to put up with her scorn and immeasurable contempt.

They all remarked how pale he was when he came to breakfast--ghastly
pale, lines under his eyes, the corners of his mouth drooping; his hair,
which he had tried hard to brush as usual, hung limp, and would not take
its accustomed curl. Lady Lindores tortured him by useless inquiries
about his health. "You are ill--I am sure you are ill. You must let me
send for the doctor." "For goodness' sake, mother, let a fellow alone. I
am as well as you are," had been his amiable answer. He all but swore at
the servants, all but kicked the dog, who thrust with confiding
importunity his head under his master's arm. The situation was
intolerable to him--his thoughts were buzzing in his ears and all about
him, so that he did not hear what the other people said; and they
talked--with what frivolous pertinacity they talked!--about nothing at
all, about the most trivial things; while he was balancing something
that, in his excitement, he felt inclined to call life or death.

But, indeed, Rintoul's impressions as to the gaiety and lively
conversation going on were as far as possible from the truth. There was
scarcely any conversation, but a general embarrassment. Millefleurs was
the only one who said much. He bore his disappointment so sweetly, and
was so entirely master of the situation, that Lord Lindores grew more
and more angry. He made various sharp replies, but the little Marquis
took no heed. He gushed forth, like a flowing stream, a great many
pleasant details about his going home. He was going home in a day or
two. His visit to Lindores was one which he could never forget; it had
gained him, he hoped, friends for life. Wherever he went he would carry
with him the recollection of the kindness he had received. Thus he
flowed forth, doing his best, as usual, to smooth down the embarrassment
of the others. But the hour of the repast was somewhat terrible to
everybody. Decorum required that they should all sit a certain time at
the table, and make a fashion of eating. People have to eat will they
nill they, that they may not betray themselves. They all came to the
surface, so to speak, with a gasp, as Millefleurs said in his round and
velvety voice, "I suppose you are going to Dunearn to this examination,
Lord Lindores?"

"It is a private affair, not an open court; but to show an interest, I
suppose I ought to be somewhere near----" was the answer; and there
arose at that moment a howl of fright and pain from the dog, upon whom
Rintoul had spilt a cup of tea. He got up white and haggard, shaking off
the deluge from his clothes. "These brutes get insufferable," he cried;
"why can we never have a meal without a swarm of them about?"

The proceedings had begun at Dunearn before any of the party from
Lindores arrived there. Rintoul, who was the first to set out, walked,
with a sort of miserable desire of postponing the crisis; and Lord
Lindores, with a kind of sullen friendliness towards John, followed in
his phaeton. They were both late, and were glad to be late; which was
very different from Miss Barbara, who, wound up by anxiety to an
exertion which she could not have believed herself capable of, had
walked from her house, leaning on Nora's arm, and was waiting on the
spot when John was driven up in a shabby old fly from Dunnottar. The old
lady was at the door of the fly before it could be opened, putting out
her hand to him. "My bonnie lad, you'll come to your luncheon with me at
half-past one; and mind that you're not late," she said, in a loud,
cheerful, and confident voice, so that every one could hear. She took no
notice of the lookers-on, but gave her invitation and her greeting with
a fine disdain of all circumstances. Nora, upon whom she was leaning,
was white as marble. Her eyes were strained with gazing along the
Lindores road. "Who are you looking for, Nora?" Miss Barbara had already
asked half-a-dozen times. It was not much support she got from the
tremulous little figure, but the old lady was inspired. She stood till
John had passed into the Town House, talking to him all the time in a
voice which sounded over all the stir of the little crowd which had
gathered about to see him. "Janet cannot bide her dishes to be spoilt.
You will be sure and come in time. I'll not wait for you, for I'm not a
great walker; but everything will be ready at half-past one."

When she had thus delivered her cheerful message, Miss Barbara turned
homeward, not without another remark upon Nora's anxious gaze along the
road. "You are looking for your fine friends from Lindores; we'll see
none of them to-day," said the old lady resolutely, turning her
companion away. She went on talking, altogether unaware how the girl was
suffering, yet touched by a perception of some anxiety in her. "You are
not to be unhappy about John Erskine," she said at last. These words
came to Nora's ears vaguely, through mists of misery, anger, bitter
disappointment, and that wrath with those we love which works like
madness in the brain. What did she care for John Erskine? She had almost
said so, blurting out the words in the intolerance of her trouble, but
did not, restrained as much by incapacity to speak as by any other
hindrance. To think that he for whom she was watching had proved himself
incapable of an act of simple justice! to think that the man whom she
had begun by thinking lightly of, but had been beguiled into loving she
did not know how, sure at all events of his honour and manliness--to
think that he should turn out base, a coward, sheltering himself at the
cost of another! Oh, what did it matter about John Erskine? John Erskine
was a true man--nothing could happen to him. Then there arose all at
once in poor Nora's inexperienced brain that bitterest struggle on
earth, the rally of all her powers to defend and account for, while yet
she scorned and loathed, the conduct of the man she loved. It is easy to
stand through evil report and good by those who are unjustly accused,
who are wronged, for whom and on whose behalf you can hold your head
high. But when, alas! God help them, they are base, and the accusation
against them just! Nora, young, unused to trouble, not knowing the very
alphabet of pain, fell into this horrible pit in a moment, without
warning, without escape. It confused all her faculties, so that she
could do nothing save stumble blindly on, and let Miss Barbara talk of
John Erskine--as if John Erskine and the worst that could happen to him
were anything, anything! in comparison with this passion of misery which
Nora had to bear.

And she was so little used to suffering. She did not know how to bear.
Spartans and Indians and all those traditionary Stoics are bred to
it--trained to bear torture and make no sign; but Nora had never had any
training, and she was not a Spartan or a Red Indian. She was a woman,
which is perhaps next best. She had to crush herself down; to turn away
from the road by which Rintoul might still appear; to go in to the quiet
rooms, to the ordinary morning occupations, to the needle-work which
Miss Barbara liked to see her do. Anything in the world would have been
easier; but this and not anything else in the world was Nora's business.
And the sunny silence of the gentle feminine house, only disturbed by
Miss Barbara's ceaseless talk about John, closed round her. Janet came
"ben" and had her orders. Agnes entered softly with her mistress's cap
and indoor shawl. All went on as it had done for years.

This calm, however, was soon interrupted. The Lindores' carriage drew up
at the door, with all the dash and splendour which distinguishes the
carriage of a countess when it stops at a humble house. Miss Barbara had
a standing prejudice against these fine half-foreign (as she supposed)
people. She rose up with the dignity of an archduchess to receive her
visitors. Lady Lindores was full of anxiety and sympathy. "We are as
anxious as you can be," she said, kissing Miss Barbara warmly before the
old lady could draw back.

"'Deed I cannot say that I am anxious at all," said Miss Barbara, with
her head high. "A thing that never happened cannot be proved against any
man. I am expecting my nephew to his luncheon at half-past one. As
there's nothing against him, he can come to no harm. I will be glad to
see your ladyship and Lady Edith to meet him--at half-past one," the old
lady said, with marked emphasis. She had no inclination to allow herself
to be intruded upon. But Edith attained what her mother failed to
achieve. She could not conceal her agitation and excitement. She grew
red and pale a dozen times in a minute. "Oh yes, Miss Barbara, I feel
with you. I am not anxious at all!" she cried.

Why should she be anxious? what had she to do with John? Her flutter of
changing colour touched Miss Barbara's heart in spite of herself. No,
she would not be a suitable wife for John Erskine; an earl's daughter
was too grand for the house of Dalrulzian. But yet----Miss Barbara could
not help being mollified. She pushed an easy-chair towards the mother of
this bonnie creature. "It will be a pleasure to him to hear that there
are kind hearts caring for what happens to him. If your ladyship will do
me the honour to sit down," she said, with punctilious yet suspicious
respect.

"Papa is there now," said Edith, whispering to Nora; "and Lord
Millefleurs came with us, and will bring us word how things are going.
Rintoul started before any of us----"

"Rintoul!" said Nora--at least she thought she said it. Her lips moved,
a warm suffusion of colour came over her, and she looked wistfully in
Edith's face.

"He thought he would get to Dunearn before us,--but, after all, horses
go faster than men. What is the matter? Are you ill, Nora?"

Nora was past making any reply. The cessation of pain, that is more, a
great deal more, than a negative good. For the first moment, at least,
it is bliss, active bliss--more than anything else known to men. Of
course Nora, when she came to herself, explained that it was a sudden
little spasm, a feeling of faintness,--something she was used to. She
was quite well, she declared; and so it proved by the colour that came
back to her face. "She has not been herself all the morning," said Miss
Barbara; "she will be the better of young company--of somebody like
herself."

After this the ladies tried to talk on indifferent subjects. There were
inquiries to be made for Lady Caroline, "poor thing!" and she was
described as being "better than we should have dared to hope," with as
near an approach to the truth as possible; and then a scattered fire of
remarks, now one, now another, coming to the front with sudden energy;
while the others relapsed into the listening and strain of curiosity.
Miss Barbara held her head high. It was she who was the most steady in
the conversation. She would not suffer it to be seen that she had any
tremor as to what was going on. But the girls were unequal to this
fortitude. They fluctuated from red to white, and from white to red.
They would stop in the middle of a sentence, their voices ending in a
quaver, as if the wind had blown them out. Why should they be so moved?
Miss Barbara noted it keenly, and felt with a thrill of pleasure that
John was getting justice. Two of them!--the bonniest creatures in the
county! How their rival claims were to be settled afterwards she did not
inquire; but in the meantime, at the moment when he was under so dark a
cloud, it warmed her heart to see him so much thought of: the Erskines
always were so; they were a race that women loved and men liked, and the
last representative was worthy of his sires.

Hours seemed to pass while the ladies thus held each other in a
wonderful tension and restraint, waiting for the news: until a little
commotion in the stair, a hurried step, brought them all to their feet
with one impulse. It was little Millefleurs who rushed in with his hat
pressed to his breast. "Forgive the intrusion," he cried, with pants of
utterance; "I'm out of breath; I have run all the way. Erskine is coming
after me with Lord Lindores." He shook hands with everybody vehemently
in his satisfaction. "They let me in because I was the Duke's son, don't
you know; it's convenient now and then; and I bolted with the news. But
nobody presents me to Miss Erskine," he said, aggrieved. "Madam, I am
Millefleurs. I was Erskine's fag at Eton. I have run miles for him to
buy his buns and jam; but I was slimmer in those days."

Miss Barbara had sunk upon a chair. She said, with a panting of her
ample bosom as if she had been running too, "You are too kind, my Lord
Millefleurs. I told John Erskine to be here at half-past one to his
luncheon. You will all wait and meet him. You will wait and meet
him----" She repeated the words with a little sob of age, half laughter
half tears. "The Lord be praised!--though I never had any doubt of it,"
the proud old lady said.

"It has all come perfectly clear," said Millefleurs, pleased with his
position as the centre of this eager group. "The right man, the person
to whom it really happened, has come forward most honourably and given
himself up. I don't clearly understand all the rights of the story. But
there it is; the man couldn't stand it, don't you know. I suppose he
thought nothing would ever be found out; and when he heard that Erskine
was suspected and taken, he was stunned at first. Of course he should
have produced himself at once; but all's well that ends well. He has
done it now."

"The man--that did it?" It was Nora that said this, gazing at him with
perfectly colourless cheeks, standing out in the middle of the room,
apart from the others, who were for the moment too completely satisfied
with the news to ask more.

"Don't think it is crime," said Millefleurs, soothingly. "There is every
reason to conclude that accident will be the verdict. In the meantime, I
suppose he will be committed for trial; but all these are details,
don't you know," he said, in his smooth voice. "The chief thing is, that
our friend is clear and at liberty; and in a few minutes he'll be here."

They scarcely noticed that Nora disappeared out of the room in the
joyful commotion that followed. She went away, almost suffocating with
the effort to keep her emotion down. Did he know of whom it was that he
was speaking? Was it possible that he knew? the son of one, the brother
of another--to Nora more than either. What did it mean? Nora could not
get breath. She could not stay in the room, and see all their relieved,
delighted faces, the undisturbed satisfaction with which they listened
and asked their questions. Was the man a fool? Was he a creature devoid
of heart or perception? An hour ago Nora had thought that Rintoul's
absence from his post would kill her, that to see him do his duty was
all she wanted on earth. But now the indifference of everybody around to
what he had done, the ease with which the story was told, the
unconsciousness of the listeners, was more intolerable to her than even
that despair. She could not bear it. She hurried away, not capable of a
word, panting for breath, choked by her heart, which beat in her throat,
in her very ears--and by the anguish of helplessness and suspense, which
was more than she could bear.




CHAPTER XLIII.


John Erskine had received Edith's letter that morning in his prison. His
spirits were at a very low ebb when it was put into his hand. Four days'
confinement had taken the courage out of him more effectually than any
other discipline could have done; and though the prospect of his
examination had brought in a counterbalancing excitement, he was by no
means so sure that everything would come right as he had been at first.
Having once gone wrong, why should it come right? If the public and the
sheriff (or whatever the man was) could entertain such an idea for four
days, why not for four years or a lifetime? When Edith's letter was put
into his hand he was but beginning to awake, to brace himself up for an
encounter with the hostile world. He had begun to say to himself that he
must get his wits about him, and not permit himself to be sacrificed
without an effort. And then, in a moment, up his heart went like a
shuttlecock. _She_ had no doubt about him, thank heaven! Her "dear Mr
Erskine," repeated when it was not exactly necessary, and which she had
drawn her pen through, but so lightly that the cancelling of the words
only made them emphatic, seemed to John to say everything that words
could say. It said more, in fact, than Edith would ever have said had he
not been in trouble and in prison; and then that outbreak about feminine
impotence at the end! This was to John the sweetest pleasantry, the most
delightful jest. He did not think of her indignation or bitterness as
real. The idea that Lady Lindores and she would have been his bail if
they could, amused him so that he almost shed tears over it; as well as
the complaint that they could do nothing. Do nothing! who could do so
much? If all went well, John said to himself, with a leap of his
heart--if all went well! It was under the elation of this stimulant that
he got ready to proceed to Dunearn; and though to drive there in the
dingy fly with a guardian of the law beside him was not cheerful, his
heart swelled high with the thought that other hearts were beating with
anxiety for him. He thought more of that than of his defence; for to
tell the truth, he had not the least idea how to manage his defence. Mr
Monypenny had visited him again, and made him feel that truth was the
last thing that was likely to serve him, and that by far his wisest
plan would be to tell a lie and own himself guilty, and invent a new set
of circumstances altogether. But he did not feel his imagination equal
to this. He would have to hold by his original story, keep to the facts,
and nothing more. But surely some happy fortune would befriend him. He
was more excited, but perhaps less hopeful, when Miss Barbara met him at
the door of the Town House. Her words did not give him the encouragement
she intended. Her luncheon and her house and her confidence were for the
moment intolerable to John, as are so often the well-meant consolations
of his elders to a young man driven half frantic by warmer hopes and
fears. He came to himself altogether when he stepped within the place in
which he felt that his fate was to be decided. Though it was contrary to
custom, several of his friends, gentlemen of the county, had been
admitted by favour of the sheriff to be present at the examination,
foremost among them old Sir James, who towered over the rest with his
fine white head and erect soldierly bearing. Lord Lindores was admitted
under protest when the proceedings were beginning; and after him, white
with dust, and haggard with excitement, Rintoul, who kept behind backs,
standing--so that his extremely agitated countenance, his lips, with a
slight nervous quiver, as though he were about to speak, and eyes drawn
together with a hundred anxious lines about them, were clearly apparent.
John remarked this face over all the others with the utmost surprise.
Rintoul had never been very cordial with him. What could be the reason
for this extraordinary manifestation of interest now? John, from his too
prominent place as the accused, had this agitated face confronting him,
opposed to him as it seemed, half defying him, half appealing to him.
Only the officials concerned--the sheriff, who was a little slow and
formal, making unnecessary delays in the proceedings, and the other
functionaries--could see as John could the face and marked position of
Rintoul; and none of these personages took any notice. John only felt
his eyes drawn to it instinctively. If all this passionate sympathy was
for him, how could he ever repay Rintoul for friendship so unexpected?
No doubt this was _her_ doing too.

Just as the witnesses were about to be called who had been summoned--and
of whom, though John was not aware of it, Rintoul, who had (as was
supposed) helped to find the body, was one--an extraordinary
interruption occurred. Mr Monypenny, who to John's surprise had not
approached him or shown himself in his vicinity, suddenly rose, and
addressing the sheriff, claimed an immediate stoppage of the
proceedings, so far as Mr Erskine was concerned. He was a very
clear-headed and sensible man; but he was a country "man of business"--a
Scotch solicitor--and he had his own formal way of making a statement.
It was so formal, and had so many phrases in it only half comprehensible
to unaccustomed ears, that it was some time before the little group of
friends were fully aware what the interruption meant.

Mr Monypenny announced, however, to the perfect understanding of the
authorities present, that the person who had really encountered the
unfortunate Mr Torrance last, and been concerned in the scuffle which no
doubt unfortunately was the cause of the accident, had come to his house
on the previous night and given himself up. The man's statement was
perfectly clear and satisfactory, and would be supported by all the
circumstantial evidence. He had kept back nothing, but displayed the
most honourable anxiety to clear the gentleman who had been so unjustly
accused and put to so much personal inconvenience.

"Is the man in court?" the sheriff asked.

"The man is here," said Mr Monypenny. The good man was conscious of the
great effect he was producing. He looked round upon the group of
gentlemen with thorough enjoyment of the situation; but he, too, was
startled by the extraordinary aspect of Lord Rintoul. The young man was
livid; great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead; the lines
about his eyes were drawn tight, and the eyes themselves, two unquiet
watchers, full of horror and astonishment, looked out wildly, watching
everything that was done. His lips had dropped apart; he stood like a
man who did not know what the next word might bring upon him.

"This is the man," Mr Monypenny said. Rintoul made a sudden step
forward, striking his foot violently against the bench in front of him.
The sheriff looked up angrily at the noise. There is something in a
great mental struggle of any kind which moves the atmosphere around it.
The sheriff looked up and saw three men standing at unequal distances
before him: Mr Monypenny in front of his chair with somebody tranquil
and insignificant beside him, and in the distance a face full of
extraordinary emotion. "Will you have the goodness to step forward?" the
sheriff said: and then stopping himself peevishly, "This is all out of
order. Produce the man."

Rolls had risen quietly by Mr Monypenny's side. He was not like a
brawler, much less an assassin. He was somewhat pale, but in his
professional black coat and white tie, who could have looked more
respectable? He had "cleaned himself," as he said, with great care that
morning. Haggard and unshaven as he had been on the previous night after
his wanderings, he would scarcely have made so great a sensation as he
did now, trim as a new pin, carefully shaved, carefully brushed. There
was a half shout, half cry, from the little band of spectators, now
thoroughly demoralised and incapable of keeping order. "Rolls, old
Rolls!" John Erskine cried with consternation. Could this be the
explanation of it? As for Rolls himself, the outcry acted upon him in
the most remarkable way. He grew red and lost his temper. "It's just me,
gentlemen," he said; "and can an accident not happen to a man in a
humble condition of life as well as to one of you?" He was silenced at
once, and the stir of amazement repressed; but nothing could prevent the
rustle and whisper among the gentlemen, which would have become
tumultuous had their presence there been more than tolerated. They all
knew Rolls, and to connect him with such an event was impossible. The
tragedy seemed over, and at the utmost a tragi-comedy, a solemn farce,
had taken its place.

Rolls's statement, however, was serious enough. It was to the effect
that he had met his master coming down from Tinto in the condition of
which so much had been made, when he himself was going up to make a
request to Mr Torrance about a lease--that he met Torrance close to the
Scaur "coming thundering down the brae" in a state of excitement and
temper such as it was well enough known Tinto was subject to. Rolls
acknowledged that in such circumstances he ought not to have stopped him
and introduced his suit--but this was merely an error of judgment.
Tinto, he said, received his request very ill, and called his
nephew--for whom he was going to plead--a ne'er-do-weel--which was not
the case, let him say it that would. And here again Rolls was wrong, he
allowed--it was another error of judgment--but he was not going to have
his own flesh and blood abused. He stood up for it to Tinto's face that
Willie Rolls was as respectable a lad as ever ploughed land. It was well
known what Tinto was, a man that had no thought but a word and a blow.
He rode at Rolls furiously. "I took hold of the beast's bridle to push
her back,--what I could do. She would have had her hoofs on me in a
moment." Then he saw with horror the rear, the bound back, the false
step; and then horse and man went thundering over the Scaur. Rolls
declared that he lost no time in calling for help--in trying all he
could to save the victim. Lord Rintoul would bear him witness, for his
lordship met him in the wood, routing like a wild beast. Nothing could
be more consistent, more simple, than the whole story--it bore the stamp
of truth on every line--or such at least was the conclusion of the
sheriff, and the procurator, and the crier, and the town officer, and
every official about the Town House of Dunearn.

The formidable examination which had excited so much interest terminated
by the return of John's fly to Dunnotter, with the butler in it, very
grave and impressive in the solemn circumstances. Rolls himself did not
choose to consider his position lightly. He acknowledged with great
respect the salutations of the gentlemen, who could not be prevented
from crowding to the door of the fly after him. Sir James, who was the
first, thrust something secretly into Rolls's hand. "They'll not treat
you so well as they treated your master. You must fee them--fee them,
Rolls," said the old general. "It'll be better than I deserve, Sir
James," Rolls said. "Hoot! nothing will happen to you, man!" said Sir
James. "He was well inspired to make a clean breast of it," Mr Monypenny
said. "The truth before all--it's the best policy." "You're very kind to
say sae, sir," said Rolls, solemnly. As he spoke he met the eye of Lord
Rintoul, who stood behind fixing his regard upon the face of John's
substitute. It was a trouble to Rolls to understand what the young lord
could mean, "glowering" as he did, but saying nothing. Was he better
aware of the facts of the case than any one suspected? might he come in
with his story and shatter that of Rolls? This gave the old servant a
little anxiety as he sat back solemnly in his corner, and was driven
away.

It would be impossible to enumerate all the visitors who thronged into
Miss Barbara Erskine's house that day. She had three more leaves put
into her dining-table, and Janet added dish to dish with the wildest
prodigality. Sir James Montgomery was one of those who "convoyed" John
to his old relative's house. He walked upon one side of the hero, and
Lord Lindores upon the other. "I will not conceal my fault from you,
Miss Barbara," he said. "I thought when I heard his story first it was
just the greatest nonsense. But it worked upon me--it worked upon me;
and then Lady Montgomery, she would not hear a word."

"Women understand the truth when they hear it; it's none so often," Miss
Barbara said, flushed with triumph and happiness. Rintoul had come in
with the rest--or rather after the rest. He and John were the two who
were somewhat out of all this tumult and rejoicing. They had not spoken
to each other, keeping apart with an instinctive repugnance, silent in
the midst of the rejoicing. But the rest of the company made up the
deficiency. Such a luncheon! a duke's son from England, an earl, all the
best men in the county: and Janet's dishes praised and consumed to the
last morsel, and the best wine brought up from the cellar, and the house
not big enough to contain the guests. Miss Barbara sat at the head of
the table, with a little flush of triumph on her cheek. "It's like a
marriage feast," she said to Sir James when they rose from the table.

"And I cannot see what should hinder it to be the forerunner--but the
breakfast shall be at my house, Miss Barbara, since her parents have no
house of their own here."

"Oh, who are you calling _her_?" said Miss Barbara, shaking her head;
and as she spoke she turned towards a group in a corner--two young
figures close together. Sir James's countenance grew long, but Miss
Barbara's bloomed out in genial triumph. "It's not the first time," she
said, "that we have had a lady o' title in Dalrulzian--and it will not
be the last." The magic of rank had triumphed even over prejudice. There
could be no denying that Lady Edith Erskine would be a bonnie name--and
a bonnie creature too.

"I got your letter," John said. "I suppose an angel must have brought
it. There is no telling how wretched I was before, or how happy after."

"No angel, but my mother's footman. I am afraid you thought it very
bold, Mr Erskine. I was afraid after, that I had said too much."

"I think so too,--unless you mean it to kill me like a sweet poison;
which it will do, unless there is more----"

"Mr Erskine, you have not quite come to yourself,--all this excitement
has gone to your head."

"I want more," said John--"more!" And Edith's eyes sank before his. It
was not like the affectionate proposals of Millefleurs, whose voice was
audible now even through those low syllables so different in their tone.
And Lady Lindores at that moment took her daughter by the arm. "Edith,"
she said, in a tone of fright, "Edith!" Oh foolish, foolish mother! had
she never thought of this till now?

The window of the dining-room looked out into the garden. Nevertheless,
it was possible to find a covert where two could talk and not be seen.
And while the gentlemen rose from the table, and Lady Lindores came to
her daughter's rescue, a very different group, two very agitated pale
young people, stood together there, without a single demonstration of
tenderness or even friendship, looking at each other with eager eyes. Or
rather the girl looked at the man, whose courage had failed him, who
stood before her like a culprit, not venturing to raise his eyes to her
face. "What is the meaning of it?" she cried. "Oh, what is the meaning
of it?" She stamped her foot upon the ground in her excitement and the
intolerable trouble of her thoughts. "You told me--one thing; and now
another has happened. What does it mean?"

"Nora," he said, clasping his hands, "don't be so hard upon me!"

"What does it mean?" she cried, her soft face growing stern, her
nostrils dilating. "Either what you said is false, or this is false; and
anyhow, you, you are false, Lord Rintoul! Oh, cannot you tell me what
it means? Is it that you are not brave enough to stand up by
yourself--to say, It was I----"

"For God's sake, Nora! I was ready, quite ready to do it, though it
would have been ruin to me. I had made up my mind. But what could I do
when this man stood up before me and said----He told the whole story
almost exactly as--as it happened. I was stupefied; but what could I do?
I declare to you, Nora, when old Monypenny got up and said 'The man is
here,' I jumped up, I stood forward. And then I was confounded, I could
not say a word." Here he approached a little nearer and put out his hand
to take hers. "Why should I, Nora--now tell me why should I? when this
other man says it was he. He ought to know," Rintoul added, with a groan
of faint tentative humour in his voice. He did not know how far he might
venture to go.

Once more Nora stamped her foot on the ground. "Oh, I cannot away with
you!" she cried. It was one of Miss Barbara's old-fashioned phrases. She
was at the end of her own. She would have liked, she thought, to strike
him as he stood before her deprecating, yet every moment recovering
himself.

"If another man chooses to take it upon him, why should I contradict
him?" Rintoul said, with good sense unanswerable. "I was stunned with
astonishment; but when you reflect, how could I contradict him? If he
did it for John Erskine's sake, it would have spoiled the arrangement."

"John Erskine would never make any arrangement. If he had been to blame
he would have borne it. He would not have shirked or drawn back!"

"You think better of John Erskine than of me, Nora. I do not know what
it is, but I have no right to interfere. I'll give the old fellow
something when it's all over. It is not for me he is doing it, whatever
is his reason. I should spoil it all if I said a word. Will you forgive
me now?" said Rintoul, with a mixture of calm reason and anxiety. He had
quite recovered himself. And Nora, still in a flutter of slowly
dissipating excitement, could find no argument against that sturdy good
sense of his. For he was strong in sense, however worldly it might be.

"I cannot understand it at all. Do you know who the man was?" she said.

And then he laughed--actually laughed--though he was on the borders of
desperation an hour ago. The echo of it seemed to run round the garden
among the listening trees and horrified Nora. But at his next word she
threw up her hands in consternation, with a cry of bewilderment,
confusion, almost amusement too, though she would have thought that
impossible,--"Old Rolls!"




CHAPTER XLIV.


John Erskine returned to Dalrulzian alone after this wonderful morning's
work. He could scarcely believe that he was free to walk where he
pleased,--to do what he liked. Four days is not a long period of time.
But prison has an extraordinary effect, and his very limbs had seemed to
tingle when he got the uncontrolled use of them again. Lord Lindores had
driven him back as far as the gates of Lindores, and from thence he
walked on, glad of the air, the sense of freedom and movement,--the
silence in which to realise all that had passed. Enough had passed,
indeed, to give full occasion for thought; and it was only now that the
extraordinary character of the event struck him. Rolls! to associate
Rolls with a tragedy. In his excitement John burst into a wild fit of
laughter, which echoed along the quiet road; then, horrified by the
sound, drew himself quickly together, and went on with the gravest
countenance in the world. But it must be added that this thought of
Rolls was only momentary,--it came and went, and was dropped into the
surrounding darkness, in which all accidents of common life were heaped
together as insignificant and secondary, in comparison with one central
consciousness with which his whole firmament was ablaze. He had demanded
"More! more!" but had not received another word. No explanation had
ensued. The mother had come in with soft authority, with a steadfast
blank of all understanding. Lady Lindores would not see that they wanted
to talk to each other. She had not ceased to hold her daughter by the
arm, affectionately leaning upon her, until they went away: and Edith
had not spoken another word--had not even met his anxious looks with
more than the most momentary fugitive glance. Thus John had withdrawn in
that state of half certainty which, perhaps, is more absorbing to the
faculties and more transporting to the heart than any definite and
indisputable fact ever can be. His whole being was in movement, agitated
by a delicious doubt, by an eager breathless longing to know, which was
sweeter than knowledge. All the romance and witchcraft of passion was in
it, its most ethereal part

    "Hopes, and fears that kindle hopes--
      An indistinguishable throng;
    And gentle wishes long subdued,
      Subdued and cherished long."

Such was the potency of this charm, that, after he had thrown one
thought at Rolls, and perceived the absurdity of the event, and given
vent to the excited commentary of that laugh, John abandoned himself
altogether to the sea of fancies, the questions, the answers, the
profound trains of reasoning which belonged to that other unresolved and
all-entrancing problem. He discussed with himself every word of Edith's
letter, turning it over and over. Did it mean this? or peradventure,
after all, did it only mean _that_? But if it meant that and not this,
would she have so replied to his looks? would not she have said
something more definitely discouraging when he appealed to her for More!
more? She had not given him a word more; but she had replied with no
stony look, no air of angry surprise or disdain, such as surely----Yet,
on the other hand, might it not be possible that compassion and sympathy
for his extraordinary circumstances, and the wrong he had undergone,
might keep her, so sweet and good as she was, from any discouraging
word? Only, in that case, would she have cast down her eyes _like that_?
would they have melted into that unspeakable sweetness? So he ran on, as
so many have done before him. He thought no more of the matter which had
affected him so deeply for the last week, or of Torrance, who was dead,
or of Rolls, who was in jail, than he did of last year's snow. Every
interest in heaven and earth concentrated to him in these endless
delightful questions. When a man, or, for that matter, a woman, is in
this beatific agitation of mind, the landscape generally becomes a sort
of blurr of light around them, and, save to the inward eye, which more
than ever at such a moment is "the bliss of solitude," there is nothing
that is very clearly visible. John saw this much, but no more, in Miss
Barbara's old-fashioned dining-room--the genial gentlemen still at
table, and Miss Barbara herself, in her white shawl, forming only a
background to the real interest; and he perceived no more of the country
round him as he walked, or the glow of the autumn foliage, the distance
rolling away in soft blueness of autumnal mists to Tinto. He managed to
walk along the road without seeing it, though it was so familiar, and
arrived at his own gate with great surprise, unable to comprehend how he
could have come so far. When he opened the gate, Peggy Fleming came out
with her apron folded over her hands; but when she saw who it was,
Peggy, forgetting the soap-suds, which showed it was washing day, flung
up her red moist arms to the sky, and gave utterance to a wild "skreigh"
of welcome and joy. For a moment John thought nothing less than that he
was to be seized in those wildly waving and soapy arms.

"Eh, it's the master!" Peggy cried. "Eh, it's himsel'! Eh, it's lies,
every word; and I never believed it, no' a moment!" And with that she
threw her apron over her head and began to sob--a sound which brought
out all her children, one after another, to hang upon her skirts and
eagerly investigate the reason why.

The warmth of this emotional welcome amused him, and he paused to say a
word or two of kindness before he passed on. But he had not anticipated
the excitement with which he was to be received. When he came in sight
of his own house, the first sound of his step was responded to by the
watchers within with an anxious alacrity. A head popped out at a window;
a white-aproned figure appeared from the back of the house, and ran back
at the sight of him. And then there arose a "skreigh" of rapture that
threw Peggy's altogether into the shade, and Bauby rushed out upon him,
with open arms, and all her subordinates behind her, moist and flowing
with tears of joy. "Eh, Mr John! Eh, my bonny man! Eh, laddie,
laddie--that I should call you sae! my heart's just broken. And have you
come hame? and have you come hame?"

"As you see," said John. He began to be rather tired of this primitive
rejoicing, which presupposed that his detention had been a very serious
matter, although by this time, in the crowd of other thoughts, it had
come to look of no importance at all. But he remembered that he had a
communication to make which, no doubt, would much lessen this delight;
and he did not now feel at all disposed to laugh when he thought of
Rolls. He took Bauby by the arm, and led her with him, astonished, into
the library. The other maids remained collected in the hall. To them, as
to Peggy at the lodge, it seemed the most natural thing to imagine that
he had escaped, and might be pursued. The excitement rose very high
among them: they thought instantly of all the hiding-places that were
practicable, each one of them being ready to defend him to the death.

And it was very difficult to convey to the mind of Bauby the information
which John had to communicate. "Oh ay, sir," she said, with a curtsey;
"just that. I was sure Tammas was at Dunnotter to be near his maister.
He has a terrible opinion of his maister; but now you're back yoursel',
there will be nothing to keep him."

"You must understand," said John, gently, "that Rolls--it was, I have no
doubt, the merest accident; I wonder it did not happen to myself:
Rolls--caught his bridle, you know----"

"Oh ay,--just that, sir," said Bauby; "but there will be nothing to keep
him, now you're back yoursel'."

"I'm afraid I don't make myself plain," said John. "Try to understand
what I am saying. Rolls--your brother, you know----"

"Oh ay," said Bauby, smiling broadly over all her beaming face, "he's
just my brother--a'body kens that--and a real good brother Tammas has
aye been to me."

John was at his wits' end. He began the story a dozen times over, and
softened and broke it up into easy words, as if he had been speaking to
a child. At last it gradually dawned upon Bauby, not as a fact, but as
something he wanted to persuade her of. It was a shock, but she bore it
nobly. "You are meaning to tell me, sir, that it was Tammas--our
Tammas--that killed Pat Torrance, yon muckle man? Na,--it's just your
joke, sir. Gentlemen will have their jokes."

"My joke!" cried John in horror; "do you think it is anything to joke
about? I cannot understand it any more than you can. But it is fact;--it
is himself that says so. He got hold of the bridle----"

"Na, Mr John; na, na, sir. What is the good of frightening a poor lone
woman? The like of that could never happen. Na, na."

"But it is he himself who has said it; no one else could have imagined
it for a moment. It is his own story----"

"And if it is," said Bauby--"mind ye, Mr John, I ken nothing about it;
but I ken our Tammas,--if it is, he's just said it to save--ithers:
that's the way of it. I ken him and his ways----"

"To save--others?" The suggestion bewildered John.

"Oh ay--it's just that," said Bauby again. She dried her eyes carefully
with her apron, pressing a tear into each corner. "_Him_ pit forth his
hand upon a gentleman, and a muckle man like Pat Torrance, and a muckle
beast! Na, na, Mr John! But he might think, maybe, that a person like
him, no' of consequence--though he's of awfu' consequence to me," said
Bauby, almost falling back into tears. She made an effort, however, and
recovered her smile. "It's just a thing I can very weel understand."

"I think you must be out of your mind," cried her master. "Such things
are not done in our day. What! play with the law, and take upon him
another man's burden? Besides," said John, impatiently, "for whom? In
whom could he be so much interested as to play such a daring game?"

"Oh ay, sir, that's just the question," Bauby said composedly. From time
to time she put up her apron. The shock she had received was
comprehensible, but not the consolation. To follow her in this was
beyond her master's power.

"That is the question indeed," John said gravely. "I think you must be
mistaken. It is very much simpler to suppose what was the case,--that he
gripped at the brute's bridle to save himself from being ridden down. It
is the most wonderful thing in the world that I did not do it myself."

"I'm thinking sae, sir," said Bauby, drily; and then she relapsed for a
moment to the darker view of the situation, and rubbed her eyes with her
apron. "What will they do with him?--is there much they can do with
him?" she said.

She listened to John's explanations with composure, broken by sudden
relapses into emotion; but, on the whole, she was a great deal more calm
than John had expected. Her aspect confounded her master: and when at
last she made him another curtsey, and folding her plump arms, with her
apron over them, announced that "I maun go and see after my denner," his
bewilderment reached its climax. She came back, however, after she had
reached the door, and stood before him for a moment with, if that was
possible to Bauby, a certain defiance. "You'll no' be taking on another
man," she said, with a half-threatening smile but a slight quiver of her
lip, "the time that yon poor lad's away?"

This encounter was scarcely over when he had another claim made upon him
by Beaufort, who suddenly rushed in, breathless and effusive, catching
him by both hands and pouring forth congratulations. It was only then
that it occurred to John as strange that Beaufort had not appeared at
Dunearn, or taken any apparent interest in his fate; but the profuse
explanations and excuses of his friend had the usual effect in directing
his mind towards this dereliction from evident duty. Beaufort overflowed
in confused apologies. "I did go to Dunearn, but I was too late; and I
did not like to follow you to your aunt's, whom I don't know; and
then--and then----The fact is, I had an engagement," was the end of the
whole; and as he said this, a curious change and movement came over
Beaufort's face.

"An engagement! I did not think you knew anybody."

"No,--nor do I, except those I have known for years."

"The Lindores?" John said hastily,--"they were all at Dunearn."

"The fact is----" Here Beaufort paused and walked to the fire, which was
low, and poked it vigorously. He had nearly succeeded in making an end
of it altogether before he resumed. "The fact is,"--with his back to
John,--"I thought it only proper--to call--and make inquiries." He
cleared his throat, then said hurriedly, "In short, Erskine, I have been
to Tinto." There was a tremulous sound in his voice which went to
John's heart. Who was he that he should blame his brother? A
fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind.

"_Déjà!_" was all that John said.

"_Déjà_--yes; perhaps I ought to have waited. But when you reflect how
long--how long it is: and all that has happened, and what we both have
suffered----"

"Do you mean that you have gone over all that already?" John asked,
amazed. But Beaufort made him no reply. The fumes of that meeting were
still in his head, and all that he had said and all that had been said
to him. The master of the house was scarcely out of it, so to speak; his
shadow was still upon the great room, the staircases, and passages; but
Carry had lived, it seemed to her years, since the decree of freedom was
pronounced for her. If there was indecorum in his visit, she was unaware
of it. To feel themselves together, to be able each to pour out to the
other the changes in their minds, the difference of age and experience,
the unchangeableness of the heart, was to them both a mystery--a wonder
inscrutable. Beaufort did not care a brass farthing for John's escape;
he had heard all about it, but he had not even taken it into his mind.
He tried to put on a little interest now, and asked some confused
questions without paying any attention to the answers he received. When
they met at dinner they talked upon indifferent subjects, ignoring on
both sides the things that were of the deepest interest. "Has not Rolls
come back with you? Oh, I beg your pardon,--I forgot," said Beaufort.
And John did not think very much more of Rolls, to tell the truth.

Lord Millefleurs went away a few days after; but Beaufort considered
that, on the whole, it would suit him better to remain in Scotland a
little longer. "What can I do for you?" he said; "the Duke is deceiving
himself. You are quite as well able to look after yourself as I am. Why
should I pretend to exercise functions which we all know are quite
unnecessary? I have only just come, and Erskine is willing to keep me. I
think I shall stay."

"My dear fellow," said little Millefleurs, "your sentiments are mine to
a T; but we agreed, don't you know, that the Duke has a great many
things in his power, and that it might be as well to humour him. You
have eased his mind, don't you know,--and why shouldn't you get the good
of it? You are too viewy and disinterested, and that sort of thing. But
I am a practical man. Come along!" said Millefleurs. When Beaufort
continued to shake his head, as he puffed out solemn mouthfuls of smoke,
planting himself ever more deeply, as if to take root there, in his
easy-chair, Millefleurs turned to John and appealed to him. "Make that
fellow come along, Erskine; it will be for his good," the little Marquis
said. There was a slight pucker in his smooth forehead. "Life is not
plain sailing," he went on; "_les convenances_ are not such humbug as
men suppose. Look here, Beaufort, come along; it will be better for you,
don't you know----"

"I am sick of thinking what is better for me," said Beaufort. "I shall
please myself for once in my life. What have the _convenances_ to do
with me?" He did not meet the look of his junior and supposed pupil, but
got up and threw away his cigar and stalked to the window, where his
long figure shut out almost all the light. Little Millefleurs folded his
plump hands, and shook his round boyish head. The other was a much more
dignified figure, but his outline against the light had a limp
irresolution in it. He knew that he ought to go away; but how could he
do it? To find your treasure that was lost after so many years, and then
go straight away and leave it--was that possible? And then, perhaps, it
had flashed across Beaufort's mind, who had been hanging on waiting for
fortune so long, and never had bestirred himself,--perhaps it flashed
upon him that now--_now_--the Duke's patronage, and the places and
promotions in his power, might be of less importance. But this was only
a shadow flying like the shadows of the hills upon which he was gazing,
involuntary, so that he was not to blame for it. Millefleurs went away
alone next day. He took a very tender farewell of the ladies at
Lindores, asking permission to write to them. "And if I hear anything of
_her_, don't you know? I shall tell you," he said to Edith, holding her
hand affectionately in both of his. "You must hear something of her--you
must go and find her," said Edith. Millefleurs put his head on one side
like a sentimental robin. "But it is quite unsuitable, don't you know?"
he said, and drove away, kissing his hand with many a tender token of
friendship. Lord Lindores could scarcely endure to see these evidences
of an affectionate parting. He had come out, as in duty bound, to speed
the parting guest with the proper smile of hospitable regret; but as
soon as Millefleurs was out of sight, turned upon his heel with an
expression of disgust. "He is a little fool, if he is not a little
humbug. I wonder if he ever was in earnest at all?" This was addressed
to Rintoul, who of late had avoided all such subjects, and now made no
reply.

"I say, I wonder whether he ever meant anything serious at all?" said
Lord Lindores, in a tone of irritation, having called his son into the
library after him; "and you don't even take the trouble to answer me.
But one thing he has done, he has invited you to Ess Castle; and as I
suggested to you before, there is Lady Reseda, a very nice girl, in
every way desirable----"

"I have had my leave already," said Rintoul, hastily. "It was kind of
Millefleurs; but I don't see how I can go----"

"I never knew before that there was any such serious difficulty about
leave," said his father. "You can cut off your last fortnight here."

"I don't think that would do," said Rintoul, with a troubled look. "I
have made engagements--for nearly every day."

"You had better speak out at once. Tell me, what I know you are
thinking, that the Duke's daughter, because your father suggests her, is
not to be thought of. You are all alike. I once thought you had some
sense, Rintoul."

"I--I hope I have so still. I don't think it is good taste to bring in a
lady's name----"

"Oh, d----n your good taste," cried the exasperated father; "a
connection of this kind would be everything for me. What I am trying to
obtain will, remember this, be for you and your children as well. You
have no right to reap the benefit if you don't do what you can to bring
it about."

"I should like to speak to you on--on the whole subject--some time or
other," said the young man. He was like a man eager to give a blow, yet
so frightened that he ran away in the very act of delivering it. Lord
Lindores looked at him with suspicious eyes.

"I don't know any reason why you shouldn't speak now. It would be well
that we should understand each other," he said.

But this took away all power from Rintoul. He almost trembled as he
stood before his father's too keen--too penetrating eyes.

"Oh, don't let me trouble you now," he said, nervously; "and besides, I
have something to do. Dear me, it is three o'clock!" he cried, looking
at his watch and hurrying away. But he had really no engagement for
three o'clock. It was the time when Nora, escaping from her old lady,
came out for a walk; and they had met on several occasions, though never
by appointment. Nora, for her part, would not have consented to make any
appointment. Already she began to feel herself in a false position. She
was willing to accept and keep inviolable the secret with which he had
trusted her; but that she herself, a girl full of high-mindedness and
honour, should be his secret too, and carry on a clandestine intercourse
which nobody knew anything of, was to Nora the last humiliation. She had
not written home since it happened; for to write home and not to tell
her mother of what had happened, would have seemed to the girl
falsehood. She felt false with Miss Barbara; she had an intolerable
sense at once of being wronged, and wrong, in the presence of Lady
Lindores and Edith. She would no more have made an appointment to meet
him than she would have told a lie. But poor Nora, who was only a girl
after all, notwithstanding these high principles of hers, took her walk
daily along the Lindores road. It was the quietest, the prettiest. She
had always liked it better than any other--so she said to herself; and
naturally Rintoul, who could not go to Dunearn save by that way, met her
there. She received him, not with any rosy flush of pleasure, but with a
blush that was hot and angry, resolving that to-morrow she would turn
her steps in a different direction, and that this should not occur
again; and she did not even give him her hand when they met, as she
would have done to the doctor or the minister, or any one of the
ordinary passers-by.

"You are angry with me, Nora," he said.

"I don't know that I have any right to be angry. We have very little to
do with each other, Lord Rintoul."

"Nora!" he cried; "Nora! do you want to break my heart. What is this? It
is not so very long since!----"

"It is long enough," she said, "to let me see----It is better that we
should not say anything more about that. One is a fool--one is taken by
surprise--one does not think what it means----"

"Do you imagine I will let myself be thrown off like this?" he cried,
with great agitation. "Nora, why should you despise me so--all for the
sake of old Rolls?"

"It is not all for the sake of old Rolls."

"I will go and see him, if you like, to-day. I will find out from him
what he means. It is his own doing, it is not my doing. You know I was
more surprised than any one. Nora, think! If you only think, you will
see that you are unreasonable. How could I stand up and contradict a man
who had accused himself?"

"I was not thinking of Rolls," cried Nora, who had tried to break in on
this flood of eloquence in vain. "I was thinking of----Lord Rintoul, I
am not a person of rank like you--I don't know what lords and ladies
think it right to do--but I will not have clandestine meetings with any
one. If a man wants me, if he were a prince, he must ask my father,--he
must do it in the eye of day, not as if he were ashamed. Good-bye! do
not expect me to see you any more." She turned as she spoke, waved her
hand, and walked quickly away. He was too much astonished to say a
word. He made a step or two after her, but she called to him that she
would not suffer it, and walked on at full speed. Rintoul looked after
her aghast. He tried to laugh to himself, and to say, "Oh, it is that,
is it?" but he could not. There was nothing gratifying to his pride to
be got out of the incident at all. He turned after she was out of sight,
and went home crestfallen. She never turned round, nor looked
back,--made no sign of knowing that he stood there watching her. Poor
Rintoul crept along homeward in the early gloaming with a heavy heart.
He would have to beard the lions, then--no help for it; indeed he had
always intended to do it, but not now, when there was so much excitement
in the air.




CHAPTER XLV.


Rolls in the county jail, sent hither on his own confession, was in a
very different position from John Erskine, waiting examination there. He
was locked up without ceremony in a cell, his respectability and his
well known antecedents all ignored. Dunnotter was at some distance from
the district in which he was known, and Thomas Rolls, domestic servant,
charged with manslaughter, did not impress the official imagination as
Mr Rolls the factotum of Dalrulzian had long impressed the mind of his
own neighbourhood and surroundings. And Rolls, to tell the truth, was
deeply depressed when he found himself shut up within that blank
interior, with nothing to do, and nothing to support the _amour propre_
which was his strength, except the inborn conviction of his own
righteousness and exemplary position,--a sight for all men. But there is
nothing that takes down the sense of native merit so much as solitude
and absence of appreciation. Opposition and hostility are stimulants,
and keep warm in us the sense of our own superiority, but not the
contemptuous indifference of a surly turnkey to whom one is No. 25, and
who cared not a straw for Rolls's position and career. He felt himself
getting limp as the long featureless days went on, and doubts of every
kind assailed him. Had he been right to do it? Since he had made this
sacrifice for his master, there had come into his mind a chill of doubt
which he had never been touched by before. Was it certain that it was
John who had done it? Might not he, Rolls, be making a victim of himself
for some nameless tramp, who would never even know of it, nor care, and
whose punishment would be doubly deserved and worthy of no man's
interference? Rolls felt that this was a suggestion of the devil for his
discomfiture. He tried to chase it out of his mind by thinking of the
pleasures he had secured for himself in that last week of his life--of
Edinburgh Castle and the Calton Jail and the Earthen Mound, and the
wonders of the Observatory. To inspect these had been the dream of his
life, and he had attained that felicity. He had believed that this would
give him "plenty to think about" for the rest of his life--and that,
especially for the time of his confinement, it would afford an excellent
provision; but he did not find the solace that he had expected in musing
upon Mons Meg and the Scottish Regalia. How dreadful four walls become
when you are shut up within them; how the air begins to hum and buzz
after a while with your thoughts that have escaped you, and swarm about
like bees, all murmurous and unresting--these were the discoveries he
made. Rolls grew nervous, almost hysterical, in the unusual quiet. What
would he not have given for his plate to polish, or his lamps to trim!
He had been allowed to have what are called writing materials,--a few
dingy sheets of notepaper, a penny bottle of ink, a rusty steel pen--but
Rolls was not accustomed to literary composition; and a few books--but
Rolls was scornful of what he called "novelles," and considered even
more serious reading, as an occupation which required thought and a mind
free of care. And nobody came to see him. He had no effusion of
gratitude and sweet praise from his master. Mr Monypenny was Rolls's
only visitor, who came to take all his explanations, and get a perfect
understanding of how his case ought to be conducted. The butler had
become rather limp and feeble before even Mr Monypenny appeared.

"I'm maybe not worthy of much," Rolls said, with a wave of his hand,
"but I think there's one or two might have come to see me--one or two."

"I think so too, Rolls; but it is not want of feeling. I have
instructions from Mr Erskine to spare no expense; to have the very best
man that can be had. And I make no doubt we'll carry you through. I'm
thinking of trying Jardine, who is at the very top of the tree."

"And what will that cost, if I may make so bold, Mr Monypenny?"

When he heard the sum that was needed for the advocate's fee, Rolls's
countenance fell, but his spirit rose. "Lord bless us!" he said,--"a'
that for standing up and discoursing before the Court! And most of them
are real well pleased to hear themselves speak, if it were without fee
or reward. I think shame to have a' that siller spent upon me; but it's
a grand thing of the young master, and a great compliment: it will
please Bauby too."

"He ought to have come to see you,--so old a servant, and a most
faithful one," said Mr Monypenny.

"Well-a-well, sir, there's many things to be said: a gentleman has
things to do; there's a number of calls upon his time. He would mean
well, I make no doubt, and then he would forget; but to put his hand in
his pocket like that! Bauby will be very well pleased. I am glad, poor
woman, that she has the like of that to keep up her heart."

"Well, Rolls, I am glad to see that you are so grateful. Thinking over
all the circumstances, and that you lost no time in giving the alarm,
and did your best to have succour carried to him, I think I may say
that you will be let off very easy. I would not be astonished if you
were discharged at once. In any case it will be a light sentence. You
may keep your mind easy about that."

"It's all in the hands of Providence," said Rolls. He was scarcely
willing to allow that his position was one to be considered so
cheerfully. "It will be a grand exhibition o' eloquence," he said; "and
will there be as much siller spent, and as great an advocate on the
other side, Mr Monypenny? It's a wonderful elevating thought to think
that the best intellects in the land will be warstlin' ower a simple
body like me."

"And that is true, Rolls; they will just warstle over ye--it will be a
treat to hear it. And if I get Jardine, he will do it _con amore_, for
he's a sworn enemy to the Procurator, and cannot bide the Lord Advocate.
He's a tremendous speaker when he's got a good subject; and he'll do it
_con amore_."

"Well-a-well, sir; if it's con amoray or con onything else, sae long as
he can convince the jury," said Rolls. He was pleased with the
importance of this point of view; but when Mr Monypenny left him, it
required all his strength of mind to apply this consolation. "If they
would but do it quick, I wouldna stand upon the honour of the thing," he
said to himself.

Next day, however, he had a visitor who broke the tedium very
effectually. Rolls could not believe his eyes when his door suddenly
opened, and Lord Rintoul came in. The young man was very much
embarrassed, and divided, apparently, between a somewhat fretful shame
and a desire to show great cordiality. He went so far as to shake hands
with Rolls, and then sat down on the only chair, not seeming to know
what to do next. At length he burst forth, colouring up to his hair, "I
want to know what made you say that?--for you know it's not true."

Rolls, surprised greatly by his appearance at all, was thunderstruck by
this sudden demand. "I don't just catch your meaning, my lord," he said.

"Oh, my meaning--my meaning is not very difficult. What are you here
for? Is it on Erskine's account? Did he make any arrangement? What is he
to do for you?" said Rintoul hurriedly. "It is all such a mystery to me,
I don't know what to make of it. When I heard you say it, I could not
believe my ears."

Rolls looked at him with a very steady gaze--a gaze which gradually
became unbearable to the young man. "Don't stare at me," he cried
roughly, "but answer me. What is the meaning of it?--that's what I want
to know."

"Your lordship," said Rolls, slowly, "is beginning at the hinder end of
the subjik, so far as I can see. Maybe ye will tell me first, my lord,
what right ye have to come into a jyel that belangs to the Queen's
maist sacred Majesty, as the minister says, and question me, a person
awaiting my trial? Are ye a commissioner, or are ye an advocate, or
maybe with authority from the Procurator himsel'? I never heard that you
had anything to do with the law."

"I'm sure I beg your pardon," said Rintoul, subduing himself. "No; I've
nothing to do with the law. I daresay I'm very abrupt. I don't know how
to put it, you know; but you remember I was there--at least I wasn't far
off: I was--the first person that came. They'll call me for a witness at
the trial, I suppose. Can't you see what a confusing sort of thing it is
for me. I _know_, you know. Don't you know I _know_? Why, how could you
have done it when it was----Look here, it would be a great relief to me,
and to another--to--a lady--who takes a great interest in you--if you
would speak out plain."

The eyes of Rolls were small and grey,--they were not distinguished by
any brightness or penetrating quality; but any kind of eyes, when fixed
immovably upon a man's face, especially a man who has anything to hide,
become insupportable, and burn holes into his very soul. Rintoul pushed
away his chair, and tried to avoid this look. Then he perceived,
suddenly, that he had appropriated the only chair, and that Rolls, whom
he had no desire to irritate, but quite the reverse, was standing. He
rose up hastily and thrust the chair towards him. "Look here," he said,
"hadn't you better sit down? I didn't observe it was the only seat in
the--room."

"They call this a cell, my lord, and we're in a jyel, not a private
mansion. I'm a man biding the course of the law."

"Oh yes, yes, yes! I know all that: why should you worry me?" cried
Rintoul. He wanted to be civil and friendly, but he did not know how.
"We are all in a muddle," he said, "and don't see a step before us. Why
have you done it? What object had he in asking you, or you in doing it?
Can't you tell me? I'll make it all square with Erskine if you'll tell
me: and I should know better what to do."

"You take a great interest in me--that was never any connection, nor
even a servant in your lordship's family. It's awfu' sudden," said
Rolls; "but I'll tell you what, my lord,--I'll make a bargain with you.
If you'll tell me what reason you have for wanting to ken, I will tell
you whatfor I'm here."

Rintoul looked at Rolls with a confused and anxious gaze, knowing that
the latter on his side was reading him far more effectually. "You see,"
he said, "I was--somewhere about the wood. I--I don't pretend to mean
that I could--see what you were about exactly,--but--but I _know_, you
know!" cried Rintoul confusedly; "that's just my reason--and I want you
to tell me what's the meaning? I don't suppose you can like being here,"
he said, glancing round; "it must be dreadful slow work,--nothing to do.
You remember Miss Barrington, who always took so great an interest in
you? Well, it was she----She--would like to know."

"Oh ay, Miss Nora," said Rolls. "Miss Nora was a young lady I likit
weel. It was a great wish of mine, if we ever got our wishes in this
world, that Dalrulzian and her might have drawn together. She was awfu'
fond of the place."

"Dalrulzian and----! I suppose you think there's nobody like Dalrulzian,
as you call him," cried Rintoul, red with anger, but forcing a laugh.
"Well, I don't know if it was for his sake or for your sake, Rolls; but
Miss Nora--wanted to know----"

"And your lordship cam' a' this gait for that young lady's sake? She is
set up with a lord to do her errands," said Rolls. "And there's few
things I would refuse to Miss Nora; but my ain private affairs
are--well, my lord, they're just my ain private affairs. I'm no' bound
to unburden my bosom, except at my ain will and pleasure, if it was to
the Queen hersel'."

"That is quite true--quite true, Rolls. Jove! what is the use of making
mysteries?--if I was ignorant, don't you see! but we're both in the
same box. I was--his brother-in-law, you know; that made it so much
worse for me. Look here! you let me run on, and let out all sort of
things."

"Do you mean to tell me, Lord Rintoul, that it was you that pushed Pat
Torrance over the brae?"

The two men stood gazing at each other. The old butler, flushed with
excitement, his shaky old figure erecting itself, expanding, taking a
commanding aspect; the young lord, pale, with anxious puckers about his
eyes, shrinking backward into himself, deprecating, as if in old Rolls
he saw a judge ready to condemn him. "We are all--in the same box," he
faltered. "He was mad; he would have it: first, Erskine; if it didn't
happen with Erskine, it was his good luck. Then there's you, and me----"
Rintoul never took his eyes from those of Rolls, on whose decision his
fate seemed to hang. He was too much confused to know very well what he
was saying. The very event itself, which he had scarcely been able to
forget since it happened, began to be jumbled up in his mind.
Rolls--somehow Rolls must have had to do with it too. It was not he only
that had seized the bridle,--that had heard the horrible scramble of the
hoofs, and the dull crash and moan. He seemed to hear all that again as
he stood drawing back before John Erskine's servant. Erskine had been in
it. It might just as well have happened to Erskine; and it seemed to
him, in his giddy bewilderment, that it had happened again also to
Rolls. But Rolls had kept his counsel, while he had betrayed himself.
All the alarms which he had gone through on the morning of the
examination came over him again. Well! perhaps she would be satisfied
now.

"Then it was none of my business," said Rolls. The old man felt as if he
had fallen from a great height. He was stunned and silenced for the
moment. He sat down upon his bed vacantly, forgetting all the punctilios
in which his life had been formed. "Then the young master thinks it's
me," he added slowly, "and divines nothing, nothing! and instead of the
truth, will say till himself, 'That auld brute, Rolls, to save his auld
bones, keepit me in prison four days.'" The consternation with which he
dropped forth sentence after sentence from his mouth, supporting his
head in his hands, and looking out from the curve of his palms with
horror-stricken eyes into the air, not so much as noticing his alarmed
and anxious companion, was wonderful. Then after a long pause, Rolls,
looking up briskly, with a light of indignation in his face, exclaimed,
"And a' the time it was you, my lad, that did it?--I'm meaning," Rolls
added with fine emphasis, "my lord! and never steppit in like a
gentleman to say, 'It's me--set free that innocent man'----"

"Rolls, look here!" cried Rintoul, with passion--"look here! don't think
so badly till you know. I meant to do it. I went there that morning
fully prepared. You can ask her, and she will tell you. When somebody
said, 'The man's here'--Jove! I stepped out; I was quite ready. And
then----you might have doubled me up with a touch;--you might have
knocked me down with a feather--when I saw it was _you_. What could I
do? The words were taken out of my mouth. Which of us would they have
believed? Most likely they would have thought we were both in a
conspiracy to save Erskine, and that he was the guilty one after all."

It was not a very close attention which Rolls gave to this impassioned
statement. He was more occupied, as was natural, with its effect upon
his own position. "I was just an auld eediot," he said to himself--"just
a fool, as I've been all my born days. And what will Bauby say? And
Dalrulzian, he'll think I was in earnest, and that it was just me! Lord
be about us, to think a man should come to my age, and be just as great
a fool! Him do it! No; if I had just ever thought upon the subjik;
if I hadna been an eediot, and an ill-thinking, suspicious,
bad-minded----Lord! me to have been in the Dalrulzian family this thirty
years, and kenned them to the backbone, and made such a mistake at the
end----" He paused for a long time upon this, and then added, in a
shrill tone of emotion, shame, and distress, "And now he will think a'
the time that it was really me!"

Rintoul felt himself sink into the background with the strangest
feelings. When a man has wound himself up to make an acknowledgment of
wrong, whatever it is, even of much less importance than this, he
expects to gain a certain credit for his performance. Had it been done
in the Town House at Dunearn, the news would have run through the
country and thrilled every bosom. When he considered the passionate
anxiety with which Nora had awaited his explanation on that wonderful
day, and the ferment caused by Rolls's substitution of himself for his
master, it seemed strange indeed that this old fellow should receive the
confession of a person so much his superior, and one which might deliver
him from all the consequences of his rashness, with such curious
unconcern. He stood before the old butler like a boy before his
schoolmaster, as much irritated by the carelessness with which he was
treated as frightened for the certain punishment. And yet it was his
only policy to ignore all that was disrespectful, and to conciliate
Rolls. He waited, therefore, though with his blood boiling, through the
sort of colloquy which Rolls thus held with himself, not interrupting,
wondering, and yet saying to himself there could be no doubt what the
next step must be.

"I am no' showing ye proper respect, my lord," said Rolls at last; "but
when things is a' out of the ordinar like this, it canna be wondered at
if a man forgets his mainners. It's terrible strange all that's
happened. I canna well give an account o't to myself. That I should been
such an eediot, and you----maybe no' so keen about your honour as your
lordship's friends might desire." Here he made a pause, as sometimes a
schoolmaster will do, to see his victim writhe and tempt him to
rebellion. But Rintoul was cowed, and made no reply.

"And ye have much to answer for, my lord," Rolls continued, "on my
account, though ye maybe never thought me worth a thought. Ye've led me
to take a step that it will be hard to win over--that has now no
justification and little excuse. For my part, I canna see my way out of
it, one way or another," he added, with a sigh; "for you'll allow that
it's but little claim you, or the like of you, for all your lordship,
have upon me."

"I have no claim," said Rintoul, hastily; and then he added, in a
whisper of intense anxiety, "What are you going to do?"

Rolls rose up from his bed to answer this question. He went to the high
window with its iron railings across the light, from which he could
just see the few houses that surrounded the gates, and the sky, above
them. He gave a sigh, in which there was great pathos and
self-commiseration, and then he said, with a tone of bewilderment and
despair, though his phraseology was not, perhaps, dignified,--"I'm in a
hobble that I cannot see how to get out of. A man cannot, for his ain
credit, say one thing one afternoon and another the next day."

"Rolls," said Rintoul, with new hope, coming a little closer, "we are
not rich: but if I could offer you anything,--make it up to you,
anyhow----"

"Hold your peace, my lord," said the old man testily--"hold your peace.
Speak o' the vulgar!" he added to himself, in an undertone of angry
scorn. "Maybe you think I did it for siller--for something I was to
get!" Then he returned to his bed and sat down again, passing Rintoul as
if he did not see him. "But the lad is young," he said to himself, "and
it would be shairp, shairp upon the family, being the son-in-law and a'.
And to say I did it, and then to say I didna do it, wha would put ony
faith in me? I'm just committed to it one way or another. It's not what
I thought, but I'll have to see it through. My Lord Rintoul," said
Rolls, raising his head, "you've gotten me into a pretty pickle, and I
canna see my way out of it. I'm just that way situate that I canna
contradict mysel'--at least I will not contradict mysel'!" he added,
with an angry little stamp of his foot. "They may say I'm a homicide,
but no man shall say I'm a leear. It would make more scandal if I were
to turn round upon you and convict ye out of your ain mouth, than if I
were just to hold my tongue, and see what the High Court of Justeeciary
will say."

"Rolls!" Rintoul could not believe his ears in the relief and joy. He
wanted to burst forth into a thousand thanks, but dared not speak lest
he should offend rather than please. "Rolls! if you will do me such a
kindness, I shall never forget it. No words can tell what I feel. If I
can do anything--no, no, that is not what I mean--to please you--to show
my gratitude----"

"I am not one to flatter," said Rolls. "It would be for none of your
sake--it would be just for myself, and my ain credit. But there are
twa-three things. You will sign me a paper in your ain hand of write,
proving that it was you, and no' me. I will make no use o't till a's
blown over; but I wouldna like the master to go to his grave, nor to
follow me to mine--as he would be sure to do--thinking it was me. I'll
have that for a satisfaction. And then there's another bit maitter.
Ye'll go against our young master in nothing he's set his heart upon. He
is a lad that is sore left to himself. Good and evil were set before
him, and he--did not choose the good. And the third thing is just this.
Him that brings either skaith or scorn upon Miss Nora, I'll no' put a
fit to the ground for him, if he was the king. Thir's my conditions, my
Lord Rintoul. If ye like them, ye can give your promise--if no', no';
and all that is to follow will be according. For I'm no' a Lindores man,
nor have naething to do with the parish, let alane the family: ye needna
imagine one way or another that it's for your sake----"

"If you want to set up as overseer over my conduct," cried Rintoul
hastily, "and interfere with my private concerns----"

"What am I heedin' aboot your lordship's private concerns? No me!
They're above me as far as the castle's above the kitchen. Na, na. Just
what regards young Dalrulzian, and anything that has to do with Miss
Nora----"

"Don't bring in a lady's name, at least," cried Rintoul, divided between
rage and fear.

"And who was it that brought in the lady's name? You can do it for your
purpose, my lord, and I'll do't for mine. If I hear of a thing that
lady's father would not approve of, or that brings a tear to her bonnie
eyes, poor thing! poor thing!----"

"For heaven's sake, Rolls, hold that tongue of yours! Do you think I
want an old fellow like you to teach me my duty to--to--the girl I'm
going to marry! Don't drive a man mad by way of doing him a favour. I'm
not ungrateful. I'll not forget it. Whatever I can do!----but for God's
sake don't hit a fellow when he's down,--don't dig at me as if I hadn't
a feeling in me," cried Rintoul. He felt more and more like a whipped
schoolboy, half crying, half foaming at the mouth, with despite and
humiliation. It is impossible to describe the grim pleasure with which
Rolls looked on. He liked to see the effect of his words. He liked to
bring this young lord to his knees, and enjoy his triumph over him. But
there are limits to mortal enjoyment, and the time during which his
visitor was permitted to remain with him was near an end. Rolls employed
the few minutes that remained in impressing upon Rintoul the need for
great caution in his evidence. "Ye maun take awfu' care to keep to the
truth. Ye'll mind that a' ye have to do with is after you and me met. An
oath is no' a thing to play with,--an oath," said Rolls, shaking his
grey head, "is a terrible thing."

Rintoul, in his excitement, laughed loud. "You set me an excellent
example," he said.

"I hope so," said Rolls gravely. "Ye'll mind this, my lord, that the
accused is no' on his oath; he canna be called upon to criminate
himself--that's one of the first grand safeguards of our laws. Whatever
ill posterity may hear of me, there's no' one in the country can say
that Thomas Rolls was mansworn!"

Rintoul left Dunnotter with feelings for which it would be difficult to
find any description in words. There was a ringing in his ears as he
drove across the bare moorland country about Dunnotter, a dizzying rush
of all his thoughts. He had the feeling of a man who had just escaped a
great personal danger, and scarcely realises, yet is tremblingly
conscious in every limb, of his escape. He threw the reins to his groom
when he approached Dunearn, and walked through the little town in the
hope of seeing Nora, notwithstanding her disavowal of him, to pour out
into her ears--the only ones into which he could breathe it--an account
of this extraordinary interview. But it was in vain that he traced with
eager feet every path she was likely to take, and walked past Miss
Barbara's house again and yet again, till the lamps began to be lighted
in the tranquil streets and to show at the windows. The evening was
chilly, and Rintoul was cold with agitation and anxiety. He felt more
disconsolate than any Peri as he stood outside, and looking up saw the
windows all closed so carefully, the shutters barred, the curtains
drawn. There was no chance for him through these manifold mufflings, and
he did not venture to go and ask for her, though she was so necessary to
him,--not only his love and his affianced wife, as he said to himself,
but his only confidant--the sole creature in the world to whom he dared
to speak of that which filled his mind and heart. It was with the most
forlorn sense of abandonment and desolation that he turned his face
towards the house in which he was so important, and so much love awaited
him, but where nobody knew even the A B C of his history. His only
confidant was offended Nora, who had vowed to see him no more.




CHAPTER XLVI.


After this there ensued a brief pause in the history of the family in
all its branches: it was a pause ominous, significant--like the
momentary hush before a storm, or the torrent's smoothness ere it dashes
below. The house of Lindores was like a besieged stronghold, mined, and
on the eve of explosion. Trains were laid in all directions under its
doomed bastions, and the merest breath, a flash of lightning, a touch of
electricity anywhere, would be enough to bring down its defences in
thunders of ruin. It seemed to stand in a silence that could be felt,
throwing up its turrets against the dull sky--a foreboding about it
which could not be shaken off. From every side assaults were preparing.
The one sole defender of the stronghold felt all round him the storm
which was brewing, but could not tell when or how it was to burst forth.
Lord Lindores could scarcely have told whence it was that this vague
apprehension came. Not from any doubt of Rintoul, surely, who had
always shown himself full of sense, and stood by him. Not from
Edith--who had, indeed, been very rebellious, but had done her worst.
And as for Carry: Carry, it was true, was left unfettered and her own
mistress, so to speak; but he had never found any difficulty with her,
and why should he fear it now? An uneasiness in respect to her future
had, however, arisen in his mind. She had made that violent protest
against interference on the night of the funeral, which had given him a
little tremor of alarm; but why should he anticipate danger, he said to
himself? It might be needful, perhaps, to proceed with a little
delicacy, not to frighten her--to go very softly; but Carry would be
amenable, as she had always been. And thus he endeavoured to quiet the
apprehensions within him.

There was one thing, however, which the whole family agreed upon, which
was, in an uneasy sense, that the presence of Beaufort in their
neighbourhood was undesirable. If they agreed in nothing else they
agreed in this. It was a shock to all of them to find that he had not
departed with Millefleurs. Nothing could be more decided than Rintoul
was in this respect. So far as that went, he was evidently disposed to
take to the full the same view as his father. And Edith, though she had
been so rebellious, was perfectly orthodox here. It was not for some
time after the departure of Millefleurs, indeed, that the ladies made
the discovery, not only that Beaufort was still at Dalrulzian, but that
he had been at Tinto. The latter fact had been concealed from Lord
Lindores, but it added sadly to the embarrassment and trouble of the
others. They were all heavy with their secrets--all holding back
something--afraid to divulge the separate course which each planned to
take for themselves. A family will sometimes go on like this for a long
time with the semblance of natural union and household completeness,
while it has in reality dropped to pieces, and holds together only out
of timidity or reluctance on the part of its members to burst the bonds
of tradition, of use and wont. But on one point they were still united.
Carry was the one subject upon which all were on the alert,
and all agreed. Rintoul had no eyes for Edith's danger, and
Edith--notwithstanding many an indication which would have been plain
enough to her in other circumstances--never even suspected him; but
about Carry the uneasiness was general. "What is that fellow doing
hanging about the place?--he's up to no good," Rintoul said, even in the
midst of his own overwhelming embarrassments. "I wonder," was Lady
Lindores's way of putting it--not without a desire to make it apparent
that she disapproved of some one else--"I wonder how John Erskine,
knowing so much as he does, can encourage Mr Beaufort to stay." "Mamma!
how can you suppose he encourages him--can he turn him out of his
house?" cried Edith, flaming up in instant defence of her lover, and
feeling her own guilt and hidden consciousness in every vein. There was
no tender lingering now upon Beaufort's name, no hesitation or slip into
the familiar "Edward." As for Rintoul, he had been providentially, as he
felt, delivered from the necessity of speaking to his father of his own
concerns, by being called away suddenly to the aid of a fellow officer
in trouble. It tore his heart, indeed, to be out of reach of Nora; but
as Nora would not see him, the loss was less than it might have been,
and the delay a gain. Edith's story was in abeyance altogether; and
their mourning, though it was merely of the exterior, brought a pause in
the ordinary intercourse of social life. They did not go out, nor
receive their neighbours--it was decorous to refrain even from the very
mild current of society in the country. And this, indeed, it was which
made the pause possible. Lord Lindores was the only member of the family
who carried on his usual activities unbroken, or even stimulated by the
various catastrophes that had occurred. He was more anxious than ever
about the county hospitals and the election that must take place next
year; and he began to employ and turn to his own advantage the important
influence of the Tinto estate, which he, as the little heir's
grandfather, was certainly entitled, he thought, to consider as his own.
Little Tommy was but four; and though, by a curious oversight, Lord
Lindores had not been named as a guardian, he was, of course, in the
circumstances, his daughter's natural guardian, who was Tommy's. This
accession of power almost consoled him for the destruction of his hopes
in respect to Millefleurs. He reflected that, after all, it was a more
legitimate way of making himself indispensable to his country, to wield
the influence of a great landed proprietor, than by any merely domestic
means; and with Tinto in his hands, as well as Lindores, no man in the
county could stand against him. The advantage was all the greater, since
Pat Torrance had been on the opposite side of politics, so that this
might reasonably be concluded a county gained to the Government. To be
sure, Lord Lindores was far too high-minded, and also too safe a man, to
intimidate, much less bribe. But a landlord's legitimate influence is
never to be undervalued; and he felt sure that many men who had been
kept under, in a state of neutrality, at least, by Torrance's rough and
brutal partisanship--would now be free to take the popular side, as they
had always wished to do. The influence of Tinto, which he thus
appropriated, more than doubled his own in a moment. There could not
have been a more perfect godsend to him than Torrance's death.

But the more he perceived and felt the importance of this, the more did
the presence of Beaufort disturb and alarm him. It became daily a more
urgent subject in the family. When Lord Lindores got vague information
that Carry had met somewhere her old lover on the roadside--which
somebody, of course, saw and reported, though it did not reach his ears
till long after--his dim apprehensions blazed into active alarm. He went
to his wife in mingled anger and terror. To him, as to so many husbands,
it always appeared that adverse circumstances were more or less his
wife's fault. He told her what he had heard in a tempest of indignation.
"You must tell her it won't do. You must let her know that it's
indecent, that it's shameful. Good heavens, just think what you are
doing!--letting your daughter, your own daughter, disgrace herself in
the sight of the whole county. Talk about the perceptions of women! They
have no perceptions--they have no moral sense, I believe. Tell Carry I
will not have it. If you don't, I must interfere." Lady Lindores
received this fulmination with comparative silence. She scarcely said
anything in her own defence. She was afraid to speak lest she should
betray that she had known more than her husband knew, and was still more
deeply alarmed than he was. She said, "You are very unjust," but she
said no more. That evening she wrote an anxious note to John Erskine;
the next day she drove to Tinto with more anxiety than hope. Already a
great change had come over that ostentatious place. The great rooms were
shut up; the less magnificent ones had already begun to undergo a
transformation. The large meaningless ornaments were being carried away.
An air of home and familiar habitation had come about the house. Carry,
in her widow's cap, had begun to move lightly up and down with a step
quite unlike the languor of her convalescence. She was not convalescent
any longer, but had begun to bloom with a soft colour and subdued air of
happiness out of the cloud that had enveloped her so long. To see her so
young (for her youth seemed to have come back), so fresh and almost gay,
gave a wonderful pang of mingled pain and delight to her mother's heart:
it showed what a hideous cloud that had been in which her life had been
swallowed up, and to check her in her late and dearly bought renewal of
existence was hard, and took away all Lady Lindores's courage. But she
addressed herself to her task with all the strength she could muster.
"My darling, I am come to--talk to you," she said.

"I hope so, mother dear; don't you always talk to me? and no one so
sweetly," Carry said, with her lips upon her mother's cheek, in that
soft forestalling of all rebuke which girls know the secret of. Perhaps
she suspected something of what was coming, and would have stopped it if
she could.

"Ah, Carry! but it is serious--very serious, dear: how am I to do it?"
cried Lady Lindores. "The first time I see light in my child's eye and
colour on her cheek, how am I to scold and threaten? You know I would
not if I could help it, my Carry, my darling."

"Threaten, mamma! Indeed, that is not in your way."

"No, no; it is not. But you are mother enough yourself to know that when
anything is wrong, we must give our darlings pain even for their own
dear sakes. Isn't it so, Carry? There are things that a mother cannot
keep still and see her dear child do."

Carry withdrew from behind her mother's chair, where she had been
standing with one arm round her, and the other tenderly smoothing down
the fur round Lady Lindores's throats. She came and sat down opposite to
her mother, facing her, clasping her hands together, and looking at her
with an eager look as if to anticipate the censure in her eyes. To meet
that gaze which she had not seen for so long, which came from Carry's
youth and happier days, was more and more difficult every moment to Lady
Lindores.

"Carry, I don't know how to begin. You know, my darling, that--your
father is unhappy about you. He thinks, you know,--perhaps more than you
or I might do,--of what people will say."

"Yes, mother."

Carry gave her no assistance, but sat looking at her with lips apart,
and that eager look in her eyes--the look that in old times had given
such a charm to her face, as if she would have read your thought before
it came to words.

"Carry, dear, I am sure you know what I mean. You know--Mr Beaufort is
at Dalrulzian."

"Edward? Yes, mother," said Carry, a blush springing up over her face;
but for all that she did not shrink from her mother's eyes. And then her
tone sunk into infinite softness--"Poor Edward! Is there any reason why
he shouldn't be there?"

"Oh, Carry!" cried Lady Lindores, wringing her hands, "you know well
enough--there can only be one reason why, in the circumstances, he
should wish to continue there."

"I think I heard that my father had invited him, mamma."

"Yes. I was very much against it. That was when he was supposed to be
with Lord Millefleurs--when it was supposed, you know, that Edith--and
your father could not ask the one without asking the other."

"In short," said Carry, in her old eager way, "it was when his coming
here was misery to me,--when it might have been made the cause of
outrage and insult to me,--when there were plans to wring my heart, to
expose me to----Oh, mother, what are you making me say? It is all over,
and I want to think only charitably, only kindly. My father would have
done it for his own plans. And now he objects when he has nothing to do
with it."

"Carry, take care, take care. There can never be a time in which your
father has nothing to do with you: if he thinks you are forgetting--what
is best in your position--or giving people occasion to talk."

"I have been told here," said Carry, with a shiver, looking round her,
"that no one was afraid I would go wrong; oh no--that no one was afraid
of that. I was too proud for that." The colour all ebbed away from her
face; she raised her head higher and higher. "I was told--that it was
very well known there was no fear of that: but that it would be
delightful to watch us together, to see how we would manage to get out
of it,--and that we should be thrown together every day. That--oh
no--there was no fear I should go wrong! This was all said to your
daughter, mother: and it was my father's pleasure that it should be so."

"Oh Carry, my poor darling! No, dear--no, no. Your father never
suspected----"

"My father did not care. He thought, too, that there was no fear I
should go wrong. Wrong!" Carry cried, starting from her seat in her
sudden passion. "Do you know, mother, that the worst wrong I could have
done with Edward would have been whiteness, innocence itself, to what
you have made me do--oh, what you have made me do, all those hideous,
horrible years!"

Lady Lindores rose too, her face working piteously, the tears standing
in her eyes. She held out her hands in appeal, but said nothing, while
Carry, pale, with her eyes shining, poured forth her wrong and her
passion. She stopped herself, however, with a violent effort. "I do not
want even to think an unkind thought," she said--"now: oh no, not an
unkind thought. It is over now--no blame, no reproach; only
peace--peace. That is what I wish. I only admire," she cried, with a
smile, "that my father should have exposed me to all that in the
lightness of his heart and without a compunction; and then, when God has
interfered--when death itself has sheltered and protected me--that he
should step in, _par example_, in his fatherly anxiety, now!----"

"You must not speak so of your father, Carry," said Lady Lindores; "his
ways of thinking may not be yours--or even mine: but if you are going to
scorn and defy him, it must not be to me."

Carry put her mother down in her chair again with soft caressing hands,
kissing her in an _accès_ of mournful tenderness. "You have it all to
bear, mother dear--both my indignation and his--what shall I call
it?--his over-anxiety for me; but listen, mother, it is all different
now. Everything changes. I don't know how to say it to you, for I am
always your child, whatever happens; but, mamma, don't you think there
is a time when obedience--is reasonable no more?"

"It appears that Edith thinks so too," Lady Lindores said gravely. "But,
Carry, surely your father may advise--and I may advise. There will be
remarks made,--there will be gossip, and even scandal. It is so soon,
not more than a month. Carry, dear, I think I am not hard; but you must
not--indeed you must not----"

"What, mother?" said Carry, standing before her proudly with her head
aloft. Lady Lindores gazed at her, all inspired and glowing, trembling
with nervous energy and life. She could not put her fears, her
suspicions, into words. She did not know what to say. What was it she
wanted to say? to warn her against--what? There are times in which it is
essential for us to be taken, as the French say, at the half word, not
to be compelled to put our terrors or our hopes into speech. Lady
Lindores could not name the ultimate object of her alarm. It would have
been brutal. Her lips would not have framed the words.

"You know what I mean, Carry; you know what I mean," was all that she
could say.

"It is hard," Carry said, "that I should have to divine the reproach and
then reply to it. I think that is too much, mother. I am doing nothing
which I have any reason to blush for;" but as she said this, she did
blush, and put her hands up to her cheeks to cover the flame. Perhaps
this sign of consciousness convinced the mind which Lady Lindores only
excited, for she said suddenly, with a tremulous tone: "I will not
pretend to misunderstand you, mamma. You think Edward should go away.
From your point of view it is a danger to me. But we do not see it in
that light. We have suffered a great deal, both he and I. Why should he
forsake me when he can be a comfort to me now?"

"Carry, Carry!" cried her mother in horror--"a comfort to you! when it
is only a month, scarcely a month, since----"

"Don't speak of that," Carry cried, putting up her hands. "What if it
had only been a day? What is it to me what people think? Their thinking
never did me any good while I had to suffer,--why should I pay any
attention to it now?"

"But we must, so long as we live in the world at all, pay attention to
it," cried Lady Lindores, more and more distressed; "for your own sake,
my dearest, for your children's sake."

"My children!--what do they know? they are babies; for my own sake?
Whether is it better, do you think, to be happy or to be miserable,
mother? I have tried the other so long. I want to be happy now. I mean,"
said Carry, clasping her hands, "to be happy now. Is it good to be
miserable? Why should I? Even self-sacrifice must have an object. Why
should I, why should I? Give me a reason for it, and I will think; but
you give me no reason!" she cried, and broke off abruptly, her agitated
countenance shining in a sort of rosy cloud.

There was a pause, and they sat and gazed at each other, or, at least,
the mother gazed at Carry with all the dismay of a woman who had never
offended against the proprieties in her life, and yet could not but feel
the most painful sympathy with the offender. And not only was she
anxious about the indecorum of the moment, but full of disturbed
curiosity to know if any determination about the future had been already
come to. On this subject, however, she did not venture to put any
question, or even suggest anything that might precipitate matters. Oh,
if John Erskine would but obey her--if he would close his doors upon the
intruder; oh, if he himself (poor Edward! her heart bled for him too,
though she tried to thwart him) would but see what was right, and go
away!

"Dear," said Lady Lindores, faltering, "I did not say you might not
meet--whoever you pleased--in a little while. Of course, nobody expects
you at your age to bury yourself. But in the circumstances--at such a
moment--indeed, indeed, Carry, I think he would act better, more like
what we had a right to expect of him, if he were to consider you before
himself, and go away."

"What we had a right to expect! What had you a right to expect? What
have you ever done for him but betray him?" cried Carry, in her
agitation. She stopped to get breath, to subdue herself, but it was not
easy. "Mother, I am afraid of you," she said. "I might have stood
against my father if you had backed me up. I am afraid of you. I feel as
if I ought to fly away from you, to hide myself somewhere. You might
make me throw away my life again,--buy it from me with a kiss and a
smile. Oh no, no!" she cried, almost violently; "no, no, I will not let
my happiness go again!"

"Carry, what is it? what is it? What are you going to do?"

Carry did not reply; her countenance was flushed and feverish. She rose
up and stood with her arm on the mantelpiece, looking vaguely into her
own face in the mirror. "I will not let my happiness go again," she
said, over and over to herself.

John Erskine carried his own reply to Lady Lindores's letter before she
returned from this expedition to Tinto. He, too, was one of those who
felt for Lady Car an alarm which neither she nor Beaufort shared; and he
had already been so officious as to urge strongly on his guest the
expediency of going away,--advice which Beaufort had not received in, as
people say, the spirit in which it was given. He had not been impressed
by his friend's disinterested motives and anxiety to serve his true
interests, and had roundly declared that he would leave Dalrulzian if
Erskine pleased, but no one should make him leave the neighbourhood
while he could be of the slightest comfort to _her_. John was not wholly
disinterested, perhaps, any more than Beaufort. He seized upon Lady
Lindores's letter as the pretext for a visit. He had not been admitted
lately when he had gone to Lindores--the ladies had been out, or they
had been engaged, or Lord Lindores had seized hold upon him about county
business; and since the day when they parted at Miss Barbara's door, he
had never seen Edith save for a moment. He set off eagerly, without, it
is to be feared, doing anything to carry out Lady Lindores's
injunctions. Had he not exhausted every argument? He hurried off to tell
her so, to consult with her as to what he could do. Anything that
brought him into contact and confidential intercourse with either mother
or daughter was a happiness to him. And he made so much haste that he
arrived at Lindores before she had returned from Tinto. The servant who
opened the door to him was young and indiscreet. Had the butler been at
hand, as it was his duty to be, it is possible that what was about to
happen might never have happened. But it was a young footman, a native,
one who was interested in the family, and liked to show his interest.
"Her ladyship's no' at home, sir," he said to John; "but," he added,
with a glow of pleasure, "Lady Edith is in the drawing-room." It may be
supposed that John was not slow to take advantage of this intimation. He
walked quite decorously after the man, but he felt as if he were
tumbling head over heels in his eagerness to get there. When the door
was closed upon them, and Edith, rising against the light at the end of
the room, in front of a great window, turned to him with a little
tremulous cry of wonder and confusion, is it necessary to describe their
feelings? John took her hands into both of his without any further
preliminaries, saying, "At last!" with an emotion and delight so
profound that it brought the tears to his eyes. And Edith, for her part,
said nothing at all--did not even look at him in her agitation. There
had been no direct declaration, proposal, acceptance between them.
There was nothing of the kind now. Amid all the excitements and
anxieties of the past weeks, these prefaces of sentiment seemed to have
been jumped over--to have become unnecessary. They had been long parted,
and they had come together "at last!"

It may probably be thought that this was abrupt,--too little anxious and
doubtful on his part, too ready and yielding on hers. But no law can be
laid down in such cases, and they had a right; like other people, to
their own way. And then the meeting was so unexpected, he had not time
to think how a lover should look, nor she to remember what punctilios a
lady should require. That a man should go down on his knees to prefer
his suit had got to be old-fashioned in the time of their fathers and
mothers. In Edith's days, the straightforwardness of a love in which the
boy and girl had first met in frank equality, and afterwards the man and
woman in what they considered to be honest friendship and liking, was
the best understood phase. They were to each other the only possible
mates, the most perfect companions in the world.

"I have so wanted to speak to you," he cried; "in all that has happened
this is what I have wanted; everything would have been bearable if I
could have talked it over,--if I could have explained everything to
_you_."

"But I understood all the time," Edith said.

There is something to be said perhaps for this kind of love-making too.

And the time flew as never time flew before--as time has always flown
under such circumstances; and it began to grow dark before they knew:
for the days were creeping in, growing short, and the evenings long. It
need not be said that they liked the darkness--it was more delightful
than the finest daylight; but it warned them that they might be
interrupted at any moment, and ought to have put them on their guard.
Lady Lindores might come in, or even Lord Lindores, which was worse: or,
short of those redoubtable personages, the servants might make a sudden
invasion to close the windows, which would be worst of all: even this
fear, however, did not break the spell which enveloped them. They were
at the end of the room, up against the great window, which was full of
the grey evening sky, and formed the most dangerous background in the
world to a group of two figures very close together, forming but one
outline against the light. They might, one would think, have had sense
enough to recollect that they were thus at once made evident to
whosoever should come in. But they had no sense, nor even caution enough
to intermit their endless talking, whispering, now and then, and listen
for a moment to anything which might be going on behind them. When it
occurred to Edith to point out how dark it was getting, John had just
then entered upon a new chapter, and found another branch of the subject
upon which there were volumes to say.

"For look here," he said, "what will your father say to me, Edith? I am
neither rich nor great. I am not good enough for you in any way. No--no
man is good enough for a girl like you--but I don't mean that. When I
came first to Dalrulzian and saw what a little place it was, I was sick
with disgust and disappointment. I know why now--it was because it was
not good enough for you. I roam all over it every day thinking and
thinking--it is not half good enough for her. How can I ask her to go
there? How can I ask her father?"

"Oh how can you speak such nonsense, John. If it is good enough for you
it is good enough for me. If a room is big or little, what does that
matter? And as for my father----"

"It is your father I am afraid of," John said. "I think Lady Lindores
would not mind; but your father will think it is throwing you away; he
will think I am not good enough to tie your shoe--and he will be quite
right--quite right," cried the young man, with fervour----

"In that case," said a voice behind them in the terrible twilight--a
voice, at the sound of which their arms unclasped, their hands leapt
asunder as by an electric shock; never was anything more sharp, more
acrid, more incisive, than the sound,--"in that case, Mr Erskine, your
duty as a gentleman is very clear before you. There is only one thing to
do--Go! the way is clear."

"Lord Lindores!" John had made a step back in his dismay, but he still
stood against the light, his face turned, astonished, towards the
shadows close by him, which had approached without warning. Edith had
melted and disappeared away into the gloom, where there was another
shadow apart from the one which confronted John, catching on the
whiteness of its countenance all the light in the indistinct picture. A
sob, a quickened breathing in the background, gave some consciousness of
support to the unfortunate young hero so rudely awakened out of his
dream, but that was all.

"Her father, at your service,--entertaining exactly the sentiments that
you have attributed to him, and only surprised that with such just
views, a man who calls himself a gentleman----"

"Robert!" came from behind in a voice of keen remonstrance; and
"Father!" with a cry of indignation.

"That a man who calls himself a gentleman," said Lord Lindores
deliberately, "should play the domestic traitor, and steal into the
affections--what she calls her heart, I suppose--of a silly girl."

Before John could reply, his outline against the window had again become
double. Edith stood beside him, erect, with her arm within his. The
touch filled the young man with a rapture of strength and courage. He
stopped her as she began to speak. "Not you, dearest, not you; I," he
said: "Lord Lindores, I am guilty. It is true what you say, I ought to
have gone away. Had I known in time, I should have gone away--('Yes, it
would have been right:' this in an undertone to Edith, who at these
words had grasped his arm tighter); but such things are not done by
rule. What can I do now? We love each other. If she is not rich she
would be happy with me--not great, but happy; that's something! and near
home, Lord Lindores! I don't stand upon any right I had to speak to
her--perhaps I hadn't any right--I beg your pardon heartily, and I don't
blame you for being angry."

Perhaps it was not wonderful that the father thus addressed, with his
wife murmuring remonstrance behind him, and his daughter before him
standing up in defiance at her lover's side, should have been
exasperated beyond endurance. "Upon my soul!" he cried. He was not given
to exclamations, but what can a man do? Then after a pause,--"that is
kind," in his usual sharp tone, "very kind; you don't blame me! Perhaps
with so much sense at your command you will approve of me before all's
done. Edith, come away from that man's side--this instant!" he cried,
losing his temper, and stamping his foot on the ground.

"Papa! no, oh no--I cannot. I have chosen him, and he has chosen----"

"Leave that man's side. Do you hear me? leave him, or----"

"Robert! Robert! and for God's sake, Edith, do what your father tells
you. Mr Erskine, you must not defy us."

"I will not leave John, mother; you would not have left my father if you
had been told----"

"I will have no altercation," said Lord Lindores. "I have nothing to say
to you, Edith. Mr Erskine, I hope, will leave my house when I tell him
to do so."

"Certainly I will,--certainly! No, Edith darling, I cannot stay,--it is
not possible. We don't give each other up for that; but your father has
the best right in his own house----"

"Oh, this is insupportable. Your sentiments are too fine, Mr Erskine of
Dalrulzian; for a little bonnet laird, your magnanimity is princely. I
have a right, have I, in my own----"

Here there suddenly came a lull upon the stormy scene, far more complete
than when the wind falls at sea. The angry Earl calmed down as never
angry billows calmed. The pair of desperate lovers stole apart in a
moment; the anxious, all-beseeching mother seated herself upon the
nearest chair, and said something about the shortening of the days. This
complete cessation of all disturbance was caused by the entrance of a
portly figure carrying one lamp, followed by another slimmer one
carrying a second. The butler's fine countenance was mildly illuminated
by the light he carried. He gave a slight glance round him, with a
serenity which made all these excited people shrink, in his indifferent
and calmly superior vision. Imperturbable as a god, he proceeded to
close the shutters and draw the curtains. John Erskine in the quiet took
his leave like any ordinary guest.

The mine had exploded;--the mines were exploding under all the ramparts.
This was the night when Rintoul came home from his visit; and Lady
Lindores looked forward to her son's composure of mind and manner, and
that good sense which was his characteristic, and kept him in agreement
with his father upon so many points on which she herself was apt to take
different views. It was the only comfort she could think of. Edith would
not appear at dinner at all; and her mother was doubly afraid now of the
explanation of Carry's sentiments which she would have to give to her
husband. But Rintoul, she felt with relief, would calm everything down.
He would bring in a modifying influence of outdoor life and
unexaggerated sentiment. The commonplace, though it was one of the
bitternesses of her life to recognise her son as its impersonification,
is dearly welcome sometimes; and she looked forward to Rintoul's
presence with the intensest relief. She gave him a hint when he arrived
of her wishes: "Occupy your father as much as you can," she said. "He
has had several things to think of; try and put them out of his head
to-night."

"I think I can promise I will do that, mother," said Rintoul. The tone
of his voice was changed somehow. She looked at him with a certain
consternation. Was Saul also among the prophets? Had Rintoul something
on his mind? But he bore his part at dinner like a man, and talked and
told his stories of the world--those club anecdotes which please the
men. It was only after she had left the dining-room that Rintoul fell
silent for a little. But before his father could so much as begin to
confide to him what had happened in the afternoon, Rintoul drew his
chair close to the table, planted his elbow upon it to support himself,
and looked steadily into his father's face. "I should like to talk to
you, if you don't mind--about myself," he said.




CHAPTER XLVII.


The profoundest of the many wounds inflicted upon Lord Lindores, at this
terrible period of his life, was that which he thus received at the
hands of Rintoul: it was so altogether unexpected, so unlike anything
that he had imagined of his son, so sudden, that it took away his
breath. For the first moment he could not speak in the bitterness of his
disappointment and outraged expectations. Rintoul had always been the
strictly reasonable member of his family,--he had never given in to any
sentimental nonsense. His reasoning had all been upon substantial data,
and led to distinct conclusions. He had not looked at things in any
visionary way, but as they were contemplated by the world in general.
From the point of view of personal advantage and family progress,
nothing could have been more judicious or sound than his opinions in
respect to Carry and Edith. He had supported the Tinto marriage (which
had on the whole turned out so well, better than could have been
hoped--the man, the only objectionable feature in it, being now dead and
out of the way, and all the substantial advantages secured) quietly but
firmly. He had been very earnest about Millefleurs. It was no fault of
his if that arrangement had proved unsuccessful. In all these concerns,
Lord Lindores had found his son his right hand, supporting him steadily.
He could not help reminding him of this now, after the first outburst of
his wrath and mortification. "You," he said at length, "Rintoul! I have
been prepared for folly on the part of your sisters, but I have always
felt I had a tower of strength in you."

"There is no difference in me," said Rintoul,--"I should be just as
ready to back you up about the girls as ever I was; but if you will
recollect, I never said a word about myself. I consider it as our duty
to look after the girls. For one thing, they are not so well qualified
to judge for themselves. They see things all from one side. They don't
know the world. I wouldn't let them sacrifice their prospects to a bit
of silly sentiment; but I never said a word about myself. That's
different. A man has a right to please himself as to who he's going to
marry, if he marries at all. Most fellows don't marry at all--at least
it's usual to say so; I don't know that it's true. If you'll remember,
when you spoke to me of Lady Reseda, I never said anything one way or
another. I have never committed myself. It has always been my
determination in this respect to take my own way."

Lord Lindores was subdued by this calm speech. He was almost cowed by
it. It was very different from Carry's tears, and even from Edith's
impassioned defiance. Rintoul knew perfectly well what he was about.
There was no excitement to speak of in his steady confidence in his own
power. And his father knew very well that there was nothing to be done.
A family scandal might indeed be made: a breach in their relations,--a
quarrel which would amuse the world. He might withdraw Rintoul's
allowance, or refuse to increase it, but this, though vexatious, was not
in any way final; for the estates were all strictly entailed, and his
heir would have little difficulty in procuring what money he needed. It
was like fighting against a rock to struggle with Rintoul. When their
father worked himself up into a rage, and launched sharp phrases at the
girls, bitter cuts and slashes of satire and fierce denunciations, these
weapons cut into their tender flesh like knives, and they writhed upon
the point of the paternal spear. But Rintoul did not care. A certain
amount of vituperation was inevitable, he knew, and he did not mind it.
His father might "slang" him as much as he pleased; fierce words break
no bones, and he knew exactly how far it could go. Lord Lindores also
knew this, and it had the most curious composing and subduing effect
upon him. What is the use of being angry, when the object of your anger
does not care for it? There is no such conqueror of passion. If nobody
cared, the hastiest temper would learn to amend itself. Lord Lindores
was aware that Rintoul would hear him out to the end,--that he would
never, so to speak, turn a hair,--that he would reply with perfect
coolness, and remain entirely unmoved. It would be like kicking against
a blank wall,--a child's foolish instinctive paroxysm of passion.
Therefore he was not violent with Rintoul, nor sharply satirical, except
by moments. He did not appeal to his feelings, nor stand upon his own
authority. If indeed he could not keep his exasperation out of his
voice, nor conceal his annoyance, he did this only because he could not
help it, not with any idea of influencing Rintoul. But it was indeed a
very serious blow which he had received,--the most telling of all.

"After this," he said, "why should I go on struggling? What advantage
will it be to me to change Lindores into a British peerage? I could not
enjoy it long in the course of nature, nor could I afford to enjoy it.
And as for my son, he will have enough to do to get bread and butter for
his numerous family. A season in town, and a seat in the House of Lords,
will after this be perfectly out of the question."

"I suppose it's just as likely as not that the House of Lords will be
abolished before my time," said Rintoul calmly,--"at least they say
so."

"They say d----d nonsense, sir," cried the earl, touched at his
tenderest point. "The House of Lords will outlive you and half a hundred
like you. They don't know Englishmen who say so. I had hoped to see my
family advancing in power and influence. Here was poor Torrance's death,
for instance, coming in providentially to make up for Edith's folly
about Millefleurs." Here Lord Lindores made a little pause and looked at
his son. He had, beyond expectation, made, he thought, an impression
upon him. "Ah," he said, "I see, you forgot the Tinto influence. You
thought it was all up with my claims when Millefleurs slipped through
our fingers. On the contrary, I never felt so like attaining my point as
now."

"That is not what I was thinking, father," said Rintoul in a slightly
broken voice. He had risen from his chair and walked to the window, and
stood there, keeping his face averted as he spoke. "I cannot tell you,"
he said more earnestly, "the effect it has upon me when you speak of
getting an advantage from--what has happened. Somehow it makes my blood
run cold. I'd rather lose everything I have than profit by
that--accident. I can't bear the idea. Besides," he added, recovering
himself, "I wouldn't build so upon it if I were you. It's all in
Carry's hand, and Carry will like to have things her own way."

"This exhibition of sentiment in respect to Pat Torrance takes me
altogether by surprise," said Lord Lindores. "I was not aware you had
any such friendship for him. And as to Carry. Pooh! Carry has not got a
way of her own."

This subject, though it was so painful to Rintoul, brought the
conversation to an easier level. But when the young man had left him,
Lord Lindores remained for a long time silent, with his head in his
hands, and a bitterness of disappointment pervading his mind, which, if
it had not a very exalted cause, was still as keen as any tragedy could
require. He had let things go much as they would before he came to his
kingdom; but when Providence, with that strange sweep of all that stood
before him, had cleared his way to greatness, he had sworn to himself
that his children should all be made instrumental in bringing the old
house out of its humble estate--that they should every one add a new
honour to Lindores. Now he said to himself bitterly that it would have
been as well if his brothers had lived,--if he had never known the
thorns that stud a coronet. What had the family gained? His son would
have been quite good enough for Nora Barrington if he had never been
more than Robin Lindores; and John Erskine would have been no great
match for his daughter, even in the old times. It would have been as
well for them if no change had come upon the fortunes of the family,--if
all had remained as when they were born. When he thought of it, there
was a moment when he could have gnashed his teeth with rage and
mortification. To have sworn like a trooper or wept like a woman, would
have been some relief to his feelings; or even to clench his hands and
his teeth, and stamp about the floor like a baffled villain on the
stage. But he did not dare to relieve himself by any of these
safety-valves of nature. He was too much afraid of himself to be
melodramatic or hysterical. He sat and gnawed his nails, and devoured
his own heart. His house seemed to be tumbling about his ears like a
house of cards. Why should he take any further trouble about it? Neither
money nor importance, nothing but love, save the mark! idiocy--the
passing fancy of boys and girls. Probably they would all hate each other
in a year or two, and then they would understand what their folly had
done for them. He thought of this with a vindictive pleasure; but even
of that indifferent satisfaction he could not be sure.

Meanwhile there was, as may easily be supposed, the greatest excitement
in the house. Rintoul told his mother and sister, and was half angered
by their sympathy. Edith, who was herself in great agitation, received
the intimation with delight; but this delight was quite distasteful to
her brother, who stopped her by a wrathful request to her not to think
this was a nonsensical affair like her own. "I know what I'm about; but
as for you, it is just a piece of idiocy," he said: at which poor Edith,
aghast, retired into herself, wounded beyond description by this
rejection of her sympathy. Having thus snubbed his sister, he defied the
alarmed surprise and tempered disapprobation with which his mother heard
his story. "I know that you were never a very great friend to Nora," he
said. "I suppose when another girl cuts out your own, you can't be
expected to be quite just. But my father and I understand each other,"
said Rintoul. He went out after having thus mowed down the ranks on
either side of him, in a not uncomfortable frame of mind, carrying with
him, in order to post it with his own hand, the letter to Colonel
Barrington, which he had informed his father had been written on the
previous day. And this was quite true; but having written it, Rintoul
had carefully reserved it till after his interview with his father. Had
Lord Lindores been very violent, probably Colonel Barrington would not
have had his letter; not that Rintoul would have given Nora up, but that
he had, like most wise men, a strong faith in postponement. Wait a
little and things will come right, was one of the chief articles of his
creed; but as Lord Lindores--kept down by the certainty that there was
very little to be made of Rintoul except by giving him his own way--had
not been violent, the letter went without delay.

Thus, as it sometimes happens, the worst of the family misfortunes was
the one that was condoned most easily; for certainly, in the matrimonial
way, Rintoul's failure was the worst. Daughters come and daughters
go--sometimes they add to the family prestige, sometimes they do the
reverse; but at all events, they go, and add themselves to other
families, and cease to be of primary importance as concerns their own.
But the eldest son, the heir, is in a very different position. If he
does nothing to enrich the race, or add honour to it, the family stock
itself must suffer. Nora Barrington would bring some beauty with her to
Lindores; but not even beauty of an out-of-the-way kind--honest,
innocent, straightforward, simple beauty, but no more,--and no
connections to speak of; her uncle, the head of her family, being no
more than a Devonshire M.P. This was very sad to think of. Rintoul, in
his matter of fact way, felt it as much as any one. There were moments
even when he seemed to himself to have been unfairly dealt with by
Providence. He had not gone out of his way to seek this girl,--she had
been put down before him; and it was hard that it should have so
happened that one so little eligible should have been the one to catch
his heart. But to do him justice, his heart being caught, he made no
material resistance. He was entirely steadfast and faithful to his own
happiness, which was involved. But it did not occur to him as it might
have done to a feebler mind, that he was in any way disabled from
opposing the unambitious match of his sister in consequence of the
similar character of his own. He held to his formula with all the
solidity of judgment which he had always shown. When his mother pointed
out to him his inconsistency, he refused to see any inconsistency in it.
"I never would, and never did, say anything as to myself. I never meant
to give up my own freedom. The girls--that's quite different. It was
your duty and my duty to do the best we could for the girls. I say now,
a stop should be put to Edith. Erskine's a gentleman, but that's all you
can say. She will never be anybody if she marries him; whereas, if she
had not been a fool, what a far better thing for her to have had
Millefleurs. I should put a stop to it without thinking twice; and I
can't imagine what my father means not to do it." This was Rintoul's
opinion upon his sister's affairs.

"And supposing Colonel Barrington had been of the same opinion in
respect to Nora?" Lady Lindores said.

"In respect to Nora? I consider," said Rintoul, "that Nora is doing very
well for herself. We are not rich, but the title always counts. A
fellow can't shut his eyes. I know very well that there are a good many
places where I--shouldn't have been turned away: though you don't think
very much of me, mother. Colonel Barrington is not a fool; he knows Nora
couldn't have been expected to do better. You see cleverness is not
everything, mamma."

"I think you are very clever, Robin," his mother said, with a smile and
a sigh--a sigh of wonder that _her_ son (always such a mystery to a
woman) should feel and talk and think so unlike herself; a smile that he
should be so much justified in doing so, so successful in it. Both the
smile and the sigh were full of wonder and of pain. But she was
comforted to think that Rintoul at least was capable of something
heavenly--of true love and disinterested affection. That was something,
that was much, in the dearth of fame.

Thus Rintoul's marriage was consented to, while Edith's was first
peremptorily denied, then grudgingly entertained, and made the subject
of delays and procrastinations enough to have wearied out any pair of
lovers. But they had various consolations and helps to support them, the
chief of which was that they lived so near each other, and were able to
meet often, and talk over in infinite detail every step that was taken,
and all the objections seen by others, and all the exquisite reasons in
favour of their love which were known to themselves. And Lady Lindores
was from the first upon their side, though she respected her husband's
unwillingness to bestow his daughter so humbly. Carry was to her mother
a standing admonition against any further weakness on this point. In
every word and step by which the young widow showed her thankfulness for
her deliverance, she struck with horror the fine sense of fitness and
reverence which was in her mother's mind. Lady Lindores had not been
false in the sentiments of pity and remorseful regret with which she had
heard of the death of Torrance. There are some souls which are so finely
poised that they cannot but answer to every natural claim, even when
against themselves. Had she been Torrance's wife, all the privileges of
freedom would not have emancipated her from that compassion for the man
struck down in the midst of his life, which took almost the shape of
tenderness and sorrow. And when Carry exulted, it gave her mother a pang
with which her whole being shivered. God forbid that she should ever be
instrumental in placing another creature in such a position as Carry's!
She stood very gently but very firmly against her husband on Edith's
behalf. She would not consent to interfere with the love and choice of
her child.

Carry adopted her sister's cause with a still warmer devotion. She
promised her support, her help in every possible manner, would have
sanctioned an instant rebellious marriage, and settled half of her own
large jointure upon Edith to justify the step, if she could have had her
own way, and would scarcely listen to the suggestions of prudence. This
nervous partisanship was not of any great advantage to the lovers, but
still it gave them the consolation of sympathy. And by-and-by the whole
county became aware of the struggle, and took sides with the warmest
feeling. Old Sir James Montgomery, as everybody knows, had entertained
other views; but when he heard of Nora's promotion, and of the position
of affairs in general, his kind old heart was greatly moved. He went off
instantly to talk over the matter with Miss Barbara Erskine at Dunearn,
from whose house Nora had just departed. "To think that this should have
been going on all the time, and you and me never the wiser," the old
General said,--"the little cutty! But no doubt they were left in great
tribulation as to what my lord the Earl's majesty would say."

"Young persons have a great notion of themselves nowadays," said Miss
Barbara; "they will not hear of advice from the like of you or me. Yet I
think Nora might have said a word to an old friend. I am getting blind
and doited. I never suspected anything. What my heart was set on was to
get her for my nephew John."

"Just that," said Sir James, nodding his head; "that was my own idea.
But you see John, he has chosen for himself--and a bonnie creature too,
if she is as good as she is bonny."

"I am not very fond of the family. What are they but strangers? My heart
is most warm to them that I know," said Miss Barbara. But this was a
very mild statement, and uttered with little vehemence, for Miss Barbara
was not insensible to the pleasure of having an earl's daughter in the
family. "There is no doubt about the beauty," she added, "and there's a
great deal of good in her, from all I hear."

"With those eyes ye may be sure there's no harm," said Sir James,
growing enthusiastic. "And I like the lad that had the sense to see what
was in my little Nora. She'll make a bonny countess, and I wish she was
here that I might give her a kiss and tell her so. But this Lady Edith
is a bonny creature too; and as for Lord Lindores himself, he's no
stranger, you know--he's just little Robby Lindores that both you and me
mind. The one that has raised a prejudice, I make no doubt, is just that
foreign wife of his----"

"She is not foreign that ever I heard----"

"Well, well--maybe not according to the letter; but she has foreign
ways, and without doubt it is her influence that has kept the family
from settling down as we had a right to expect. My Lady Rintoul will
set that right again. Bless me, who would have thought that little
Nora----But we must let by-gones be by-gones, Miss Barbara. We must just
stand up for the young couple, and defeat the machinations of the
foreign wife."

Sir James laughed at this fine sentence of his; but yet he meant it. And
even Miss Barbara agreed that this stranger woman was no doubt at the
bottom of the mischief. When Sir James departed, the old lady felt
herself nerved to a great exertion. By this time it was winter, and she
went out but seldom, the pony-chaise being a cold conveyance. But that
night she electrified her household by ordering the "carriage"--the old
carriage, never produced but on occasions of great solemnity--for the
next day. "Where will ye be going?" Janet asked, open-mouthed, after she
had got over the shock of the announcement. But her mistress did not
condescend to give her any answer. It was through Agnes, at a later
hour, that information descended upon the household. "Sae far as I can
make out, she is just going to Lindores to settle a' about thae two
marriages," Agnes said in great excitement. "What two marriages? Ye
think of nothing but marriages," said Janet. But nevertheless that
excellent person was as much excited as any one when the huge vehicle
drew up at the door next morning, and stood out in the rain to hear the
orders which were given to the coachman. Agnes, seated within in
attendance on her mistress, gave her a little nod with her eyelids, as
much as to say, Who's in the right now? "To Lindores." "Bless me!" said
Janet, "single women are aye so keen on that subject. They would ken
better if they had ever had a man o' their ain."

And indeed Miss Barbara's magnificent intention was to make a proposal
to Lord Lindores, which must, she could not doubt, make everything
smooth. Lord Lindores was a gentleman, and took pains not to show the
old lady, to whom the credit of the house of Dalrulzian was so dear,
that he did not think the Erskines good enough to mate with his family:
which was also a laudable exercise of discretion; for Miss Barbara was
very strong in dates, and knew when the earldom of Lindores was founded,
and who was the first of the family, as well as the exact period when
the Erskines were settled at Dalrulzian. Lord Lindores forbore, partly
out of good feeling, partly from alarm, and partly because Miss
Barbara's offer was not one to be refused. If it should so happen that
he might be compelled to give in, then the settlement upon Edith of Miss
Barbara's fortune would make a very distinct difference in the case. He
did not intend to give in, but still----The proposal was received with
great politeness at least. "There are many things to be taken into
consideration," he said. "I had other plans----You will excuse me if I
cannot give up my intentions in a moment, because two young people have
chosen to fall in love with each other----" "It is what we all have to
do, my lord," said Miss Barbara, who was old-fashioned, and gave every
man his title. "It is the only thing, in my experience, that it is
useless to fight against." Then Lord Lindores made her a fine bow, and
declared that this was a most appropriate sentiment from a lady's lips;
but a man must be excused if he took a graver view. There was a sharp
accent in his voice which not all his politeness could quite disguise.
"For my part," Miss Barbara said, "I have just had to swallow my own
disappointment, and think nothing of it; for what I had set my heart
upon was to wed my nephew John to Nora Barrington, that now it appears,
in the arrangements of Providence, is to be your lordship's
daughter-in-law, my Lady Rintoul." Lord Lindores jumped up at this as if
a knife had been put into him. He could scarcely trust himself to speak.
"I can't allow it to be an arrangement of Providence," he cried
bitterly, but recovered himself, and forced a smile upon his angry
countenance, and assured Miss Barbara that her proposal was most
generous. He gave her his arm to the drawing-room, in which Lady
Lindores and Edith were sitting, and withdrew, with his face drawn into
a certain wolfish expression which his wife was aware meant mischief,
but without betraying himself in speech. When he got back to his
library, he launched a private anathema at the "old witch" who had taken
it upon herself to interfere. But nevertheless, in Lord Lindores' mind
there arose the conviction that though he never would consent, yet if he
did----why, that Miss Barbara and her proposal were worth making a note
of: and he did so accordingly. Miss Barbara, on her part, left the
Castle half affronted, half mollified. She was angry that her proposal
did not settle everything in a moment; but she was touched by the
sweetness of Edith, and a little moved out of her prejudices in respect
to Lady Lindores. "She has no foreign accent," she said suddenly, in the
midst of the drive, to the astonishment of Agnes--"no more than any of
us. And she has none of that sneering way,--my lord yonder, he just
cannot contain himself for spite and illwill--but I cannot see it in
her. No doubt she's one of them that is everybody's body, and puts on a
fine show--but nothing from the heart."

Some time after this another incident, which had no small bearing upon
the story of one of these young pairs, occurred at Dalrulzian. Rintoul
had never concealed his opposition, but neither had it ever become a
subject of personal conflict between John Erskine and himself. He had
gone away after his own explanation, for time did not stand still while
these events were going on, and even a Guardsman has periods of duty.
Shortly after he returned to Lindores, some question about the
boundaries of the estates made it expedient that there should be formal
communications between the two houses. Rintoul undertook to be the
messenger. He had been with his regiment for the last two months, and he
had not inquired into local events. He was, therefore, not in the least
prepared for the sight that encountered him when he knocked at John
Erskine's door. It was opened to him by Rolls, in all the glory of
shining "blacks" and snowy neckcloth, as composed, as authoritative, as
fully in command of himself and everything about him, as he had ever
been. Rintoul, though he was a lord and a soldier and a fine fellow,
gave a jump backwards, which scattered the gravel on the path. "Good
lord, Rolls!" he cried. It was not an agreeable surprise. He had done
his best to forget Rolls, and he had succeeded. To have so many painful
associations thus recalled was unpleasant; and the sight of him, so
suddenly, without warning, an undeniable shock.

"Ay, my lord, it's just Rolls," said the butler, barring, as it were,
his entrance. Rolls regarded the young man with a stern air; and even
when Rintoul, recovering himself, began to express pleasure at his
return, and great interest in hearing how it was, the face of Rolls
remained unmoved. He changed his mind, however, about barring the
entrance, and slowly showed Rintoul into the vacant dining-room, which
he entered after him, shutting the door.

"I'll easy tell your lordship how I got out," he said; "but there's mair
pressing matter in hand. They tell me, my lord, that ye will not yield
to have my maister, John Erskine of Dalrulzian, for Lady Edith's man. I
would like to hear if that's true."

"It's a curious sort of question to ask," said Rintoul. "I might ask
what's that to you, Rolls?"

"Ay, so ye might--it would be just like you, my lord; but I do not think
it would be politic in all the circumstances. What for are you opposing
it? Ye're to marry Miss Nora, and get your ain will and pleasure. I wish
her much joy, poor thing, and strength of mind to bear a' that's before
her. What is your lordship's objection to my maister, if I may make so
bold as to ask?"

"You are not very complimentary," said Rintoul, growing red.

"No, I'm no' complimentary, my lord; it's no' my line. Will you tell me
what's set you against this marriage? for that is what I would like to
ken."

Rintoul tried to laugh, though it would have pleased him better to knock
his monitor down. "You must see, Rolls, that a thing like this is my
own concern," he said.

"It's my concern as well," said Rolls. "There's mair between you and me,
my lord, than I'm wanting to tell; but if I was in your lordship's
place, I would not rin counter to them that has proved themselves your
best friend----"

"Rolls! what are you doing here?" cried John Erskine, with amazement,
suddenly opening the door.

The countenance of Rolls was quite impassive. "I was giving my Lord
Rintoul an account of my marvellous deliverance out o' my prison, sir,"
he said, "and how it was thought I had suffered enough in my long wait
for the trial. And that was true. Much have I suffered, and many a
thought has gone through my head. I'm real ripened in my judgment, and
awfu' well acquaint with points o' law. But I hope I may never have
anything more ado with such subjects--if it be not upon very urgent
occasion," Rolls said. And he withdrew with a solemn bow to Rintoul, in
his usual methodical and important way.

Rintoul had come to see John Erskine upon a matter of business; but they
had never ceased to be friends--as good friends, that is, as they ever
had been. And the similarity of their situation no doubt awakened new
sympathies in their minds. At least, whatever was the cause, this
meeting did much to draw them together. It was now that Rintoul showed
to John the real good feeling that was in him. "I have not been on your
side, I confess," he said. "I have thought Edith might do better. I
don't hide it from you. But you need not fear that I will stand in your
way. I'm in the same box myself. My lord likes my affair just as little
as he likes yours. But of course if she sticks fast to you, as she'll
certainly do, what can he make of it? Everything must come right in the
end."




CHAPTER XLVIII.


Thus between threats and promises, and patience and obstinacy, it came
gradually to pass that Lord Lindores had to yield. He made that winter a
very unhappy one to his family--and it was not more agreeable to
himself; for it was not long before he arrived at the conviction that he
could make nothing by his opposition. In Rintoul's case, this had been
evident to him from the very first, but he had tried for some time to
delude himself with the idea that Edith would and must yield to his
will. The successive stages of wrath, bewildered surprise, impatient
certainty, and then of a still more disagreeable conviction that
whatever he might say or do he would not overcome this girl, went over
him one after another, irritating and humiliating his arbitrary spirit.
A father may consent to the fact that beyond a certain point he cannot
coerce his full-grown son; but to be opposed and vanquished by a chit of
a girl, is hard upon him. To see a soft, small creature, whom he could
almost blow away, whom he could crush in his hand like a butterfly,
standing up in all the force of a distinct and independent being before
him, and asserting her own will and judgment against his,--this was
almost more than he could bear. He came, however, gradually to a
perception of what can and what cannot be done in the way of moral
compulsion. It had succeeded with Carry, and he had not been able at
first to imagine that it would not succeed equally with Edith; but
gradually his mind was undeceived. He had in reality given up the
contest long before he would confess to himself, and still longer before
he would allow to the world that it was so. If he could do nothing else,
he would at least keep his household in suspense, and make the cup as
bitter as possible to them before they should be allowed to touch the
sweet.

Lord Lindores, with all these vexations upon his head, experienced for a
moment an absolute pause in his individual career and prospects. He was
assailed with that disgust which is one of the curses of age and
experience. _Cui bono?_ it is the oldest of reflections and the most
persistent. To what good is all the work and labour under the sun? What
did it matter to him to gain an empty distinction, if his children were
to melt away on all sides of him, and merge into the lower
classes--which was how, in a moment of natural exasperation, he
represented the matter to himself. But afterwards there was a reaction,
as was equally natural. He reflected that he was only fifty-five, and
that what a man enjoys himself is more to him than anything his
grandchildren are likely to enjoy. If he was sure of never having any
grandchildren, it would still be worth his while to be Lord Dunearn in
the peerage of Great Britain, and take his seat and wear his robes in
Westminster. Till these glories were attained, what was he?--a mere
Scots lord, good for nothing. A man's children are not the only
interests he has in life; especially when they are married he can shake
them off--he can re-enter the world without encumbrance. And Lord
Lindores remembered that life and the pleasures of his rank could be
enjoyed soberly with his wife at a moderate expense if the young people
were all off his hand. He had been but an uncomfortable husband of late
years, and yet he loved his wife as she loved him, in frequent
disagreements, in occasional angers and impatiences, and much
disappointment. What would become of the world if love did not manage to
hold its footing through all these? The boys and girls of the high-flown
kind are of opinion that love is too feeble to bear the destruction of
the ideal. But that is all these young persons know. Love has the most
robust vitality in the world--it outlives everything. Lord Lindores was
often irritated beyond description by his wife, who would not understand
his ways, and was continually diverging into ridiculous by-paths of her
own. And she was more disappointed in him--more hurt and mortified by
his shortcomings than words can say. But yet they loved each other. So
much, that it gradually began to dawn upon him with a sense of solace,
that when the House of Lords called him, as he hoped, he and she
together, without any young people to trouble them, would yet take their
pleasure together, and enjoy it and their elevated position, and be able
to afford it, which was the best of all. She, at fifty, was still a
handsome woman; and he had a presence which many younger men might have
envied. It is doubtful whether the imagination of Lady Lindores would
have been equally delighted with this dream: but it would have pleased
her to know that he looked forward to it, which is next best. Animated
by this thought, Lord Lindores gathered himself together and returned to
public business with all his heart and soul. He took possession
unhesitatingly, as has been said, of the Tinto power and influence.
Torrance had opposed him in politics, and thus neutralised the advantage
of a family union against which nothing in the county could stand. But
now, with a sigh of satisfaction, Lord Lindores drew into his hand the
influence of Tinto too.

This went on for some time with little warning of the insecurity of
tenure by which he held his power. Beaufort had at last withdrawn from
Dalrulzian, though it was not absolutely certain that he had left the
neighbourhood. The minds of the family were, however, eased by his
abandonment of the ground so far. And Lady Car lived very quietly,
seldom making her appearance out of her own grounds, and never once
appearing at Lindores. She would not, indeed, on any argument, return to
her old home. Though she was urged by her mother and sister with many
soft entreaties, Carry would never yield on this point. Her countenance
seemed to blanch when it was suggested, though, she would give no reason
but a tremulous oft-repeated "No, no; oh, no, no." When she drove out,
she would sometimes call at the door to fetch them, sometimes to convey
them home, but they could not induce her to cross the familiar
threshold. She was uneasy even in the very neighbourhood of the house,
and breathed more freely when it was out of sight. This extraordinary
objection to her father's house kept her almost a prisoner in her own;
for where could a widow of but a few months go, except to her parents?
No other visiting was possible. She was not even, they thought, very
desirous of Edith's society, but liked to be alone, interesting herself
in the alterations of furniture and new arrangements she was making; a
great many of the faded grandeurs upon which Pat Torrance prided himself
had already been put away. For the moment this was the only sign of
feeling herself her own mistress which Lady Car displayed.

Other revolutions, however, were at hand. There came a moment when it
happened that one of the orders Lord Lindores had given was disobeyed,
and when an explanation was asked, the answer given was that Lady Car
herself had given other orders. This irritated her father greatly, and
he made up his mind that the uncertainty in which things were could
exist no longer--that he must have an explanation with his daughter. He
set out for this purpose with a little impatient determination to bring
Carry to her senses. He had been tolerating much which it was ridiculous
to go on tolerating. All the family had humoured her, he felt, as if she
had been an inconsolable widow, broken-hearted and incapable of any
exertion. At this, he could not but smile within himself as he thought
of it. It was a pity, perhaps, for Torrance, poor fellow, but it could
not be doubted that it was a most fortunate accident for Car. To be his
wife, perhaps, had its disagreeables, but there could be no more
desirable position than that of his widow; and to indulge Carry's whims
as they had all been doing, and keep every annoyance out of her way as
if she had been heart-broken, was too absurd. He decided that it would
be well to have a clear understanding once for all. She was left by the
will in uncontrolled authority, and it was full time to show her that
this did not, of course, interfere with the authority of her father, who
was her natural guide and protector. "Your husband, of course, took this
into consideration," he intended to say. But it cannot be denied that he
had to brace himself up for the interview with a clear sense that it
might be a painful one; and that as he went along Lord Lindores did,
what was a great tribute to the altered position of Carry--arranged the
subjects of their interview in his mind, and settled with himself what
he was to say.

A great deal can happen in a neighbourhood even when it is full of
gossiping society, without reaching the ears of the persons most
intimately concerned, and Lord Lindores had been kept in ignorance of
much which had alarmed and disquieted his wife. She was aware, but he
was not, that Beaufort still lingered in the vicinity, not living indeed
in one place, but making frequent expeditions from Edinburgh, or from
the further north, sometimes to the little hotel at Dunearn, sometimes
to other little towns in the neighbourhood, from which he could come for
the day, or even for a few hours, to see Carry in her solitude. Lady
Lindores had discovered this with all the pain of anxiety and wounded
disapproval,--wounded that Carry could think it right to do what seemed
to herself so little suited to the dignity and delicacy of her position:
and though scarcely a word had been said between them on the subject, it
had brought pain and embarrassment into their intercourse; for Carry was
irritated and wounded beyond measure by the consciousness of her
mother's disapproval. She, of whom Torrance had declared in his brutal
way that she was too proud to go wrong, was incapable indeed even of
conceiving the possibility that "going wrong" should be in any one's
thought of her. In her own mind, the fervour with which she had turned
back to the love of her life, the eagerness with which, at the very
earliest moment, she had sought his pardon, were the only compensations
she could give him for the falsehood into which she had been forced and
the sufferings that had been inflicted upon him. How could she pretend
to build a wall of false delicacy around herself and keep him at a
distance, while her heart was solely bent upon making up to him for what
he had suffered, and conscious of no sentiment but an overwhelming
desire for his presence and society? That she should be obliged to enjoy
this society almost by stealth, and that her mother, even her mother,
should object and remonstrate, gave Carry the keen and sharp offence
with which a delicate mind always resents a false interpretation of its
honest meaning. It seemed to her that her first duty now was to be
true--always true. She had been false with horrible consequences: to
conceal now the eager bound of her heart towards her true lover would be
a lie--especially to him who had suffered, as she also had suffered,
from the lies of her life. But Lord Lindores, when he made up his mind
that Carry must be brought to her senses, was in no way aware how
difficult the position was, and how far those senses had gone astray.

He had taken a considerable round to think over the subject, so that it
was getting towards evening when he rode up the long avenue to
Tinto,--so late that the workmen whom Carry employed in the changes she
was making were leaving their work, when Lord Lindores went into the
house and made his way towards Carry's sitting-room. He sent away the
butler, who, with an air of alarm and surprise, started out of the
partial twilight to conduct him to his daughter. It was, he felt,
something of a reproach to him that the man looked so much startled, as
if his mistress's father could be an unwelcome visitor. The room was not
lighted, save by the glow of a large fire, when Lord Lindores opened the
door, after a knock to which no answer was returned. There was a sound
of several voices, and he was surprised to see the tall figure of a man
standing against the firelight. Who was the man who was visiting Carry?
It was not Rintoul, nor any one else he knew in the neighbourhood.
Nobody about was so tall, so slight, though there was something in the
outline of the figure that was familiar to him. But there was an
agitated conversation going on, which made the speakers scarcely
distinguishable in the twilight, unconscious of the knock of the
new-comer or his entrance. To his surprise it was his wife's voice which
he heard first, saying tremulously: "Mr Beaufort, I can do nothing but
return to what I said before. _Qui s'excuse s'accuse._ You may have the
very best of reasons, but it is an injury to Carry that you should stay
here."

"An injury to me! How can it be an injury to me? It is my only
consolation, it is the only help I have. I have told you from the first,
mamma. Edward has been wronged, only not so cruelly wronged as I was
myself; oh, nobody could be that! And now that we can make it up to each
other--and learn to forget it,--you would chase him away a second
time--for what?--because of what _people_--the world--those who know
nothing about us--may say!"

Carry was standing by the mantelpiece, her tall figure in its black
clinging dress scarcely distinguishable at first, but the animation with
which she spoke, and the natural eloquence of her gestures, brought it
out against the white marble. Then there came Beaufort's deeper voice:
"You know, Lady Lindores, I am ready to do whatever is best for her. If
I can comfort her after all that has happened to her, how can I go away?
I wish to do only what is best for her."

"I beg to remark," said Lord Lindores, coming forward, "that I knocked
before coming in. This, I suppose, is why your servant looked alarmed
when he admitted me. Is this gentleman, may I ask, living here?"

Carry drew back at the sound of his voice as if she had received a blow.
She clung to the edge of the tall white mantelpiece, shrinking, her
figure drawn together, an impersonation of terror and trouble. Beaufort
started too, but slightly, and stood instinctively out of the way to
make room for the new-comer. Lord Lindores went straight forward to the
fire and took up his position with his back to it, with a certain
straightforward ease and authority, like a man in his own house, who has
no doubt of his right to do his pleasure there. But as a matter of fact,
he was by no means so certain as he looked.

"We did not hear you," said Carry, with a breathless gasp in her voice.
"We were talking--over points on which my mother does not agree with
me."

"I can easily imagine that," he replied.

And then there was a dreadful pause. Lady Lindores, on the other side of
the fire, did not move or speak. It was the crisis of Carry's fate, and
except in defence or help of her child, the mother vowed to herself that
she would take no part. It was hard, but it was best for Carry. Whatever
was going to happen to her, she must decide for herself now.

"I asked," said Lord Lindores in that calm, clear, collected voice,
which was so strange a contrast to the agitation of the others, "whether
this gentleman is living here? If so, it is very inappropriate and
unsuitable. Your mother would prefer, I am sure, if Mr Beaufort is here
about any business, to offer him a bed at Lindores."

There was a universal holding of the breath at this extraordinary
proposition. Had he burst into all the violence of passion, they would
have been prepared, but not for this politeness and calm.

"I am not living here, Lord Lindores," said Beaufort, with some
confusion. "I am on my way from the North. I could not resist the
temptation of staying for an hour or two on my way to inquire----"

"That was very kind," he said; "and kindness which interferes with
personal comfort is very rare. If you are going to Edinburgh, you must
remember you have two ferries to cross."

"Probably," Beaufort cried, faltering a little, "I shall stay all night
in Dunearn. Lady Caroline--had some commissions for me."

"You had much better come to Lindores. Commissions, Carry! I suppose Mr
Beaufort is acting as a sort of agent for you in your new arrangements.
Is it _bric-a-brac_? You young men are all learned in that."

Nobody made any reply, but the very air seemed to tingle with the
extraordinary tumult of feeling. To accept Beaufort as an ordinary
caller, and to invite him to Lindores, was a master-stroke. But the two
people between whom he stood were so surcharged with passionate feeling,
that any touch must produce an explosion of one sort or another. This
touch was given inadvertently by Lady Lindores, who,--terribly
bewildered by the course that things were taking, but feeling that if
Beaufort could be induced to go to Lindores, it would cut the thread
better than any other expedient,--rose softly out of the twilight, and
coming forward to him, laid her hand upon his arm: "Yes, yes, that is
much the best. Come to Lindores," she said.

At which Carry lost the control of herself which people in their
ordinary senses have. Between panic and passion she was beside herself.
Fear has a wild temerity which goes far beyond courage;--her tall
straight figure seemed to fling suddenly out of the shade, and launch
itself upon this milder group. She put Lady Lindores away with a
vehement gesture.

"Mother," she cried, "do not you meddle. Edward! do not go, do not go;
it is a trap, it is a snare. If you go it will all be over, all over!"
Her voice rose almost to a scream. She had reached the point at which
reason has no longer any hold, and all the reticence and modesty of
nature yields to the wild excitement of terror. She was trembling all
over, yet capable of any supreme effort of desperation,--ready to defend
to the last, against the same powers that had crushed her before, her
last hope.

"Carry," said Lord Lindores,--he kept up, at incalculable cost to
himself, his tone of conciliation,--"I do not understand what you fear.
Is it I that am to lay traps or snares? I forgive you, my poor child;
but this is a strange way to talk to Mr Beaufort,--he cannot stay
here----"

"I have no intention of staying here, Lord Lindores," said Beaufort
hastily. "You may be sure I will not expose her to any comment."

"I am very sure, nevertheless, that you are doing so," said Lord
Lindores.

The contrast of this brief dialogue with Carry's impassioned tones was
extraordinary. She felt it through the haze of excitement that
surrounded her, though her intelligence of all outside matters was
blurred by the wild strain of her own feelings, which would have
utterance. "Father," she said hoarsely, putting her hand on his arm, "go
away from us--do not interfere. You know what you made of me when I was
in your hands. Oh, let us alone now! I am not a girl--I am a woman. I am
the same as you, knowing good and evil. Oh," she said suddenly, "if you
want to keep any respect for me, go away, go away, for I don't know what
I am saying. My head is turning round. Mother,--Edward; don't you see
that I am losing my reason? Oh, don't let him interfere--let him go
away." Lady Lindores caught her daughter in her arms, in a trembling
effort to control and calm her. "Carry, my dearest! you will be sorry
afterwards----"

"Oh yes, I shall be sorry," cried poor Lady Car, drawing herself out of
her mother's hold,--"sorry to have been unkind, sorry to have betrayed
myself; but I must, I must. I cannot hold my peace. Oh, father, let me
alone! What good will that do you to make me wretched? What good has it
done you? Nothing, nothing! I might have been poor and happy, instead of
all I have come through; and what difference would it have made to you?
You have killed me once; but oh, think how cruel, how tyrannous, if you
tried to kill me again! And you see nobody speaks for me; I am alone to
defend myself. Father, you shall not interfere again."

She had resumed her hold on his arm, grasping it half to support
herself, half to enforce what she was saying. He now put his hand upon
hers and detached it gently, still keeping down his anger, retaining his
tone of calm. "My poor child, you are overdone; let your mother take
care of you," he said compassionately. "Mr Beaufort, we are both out of
place here at this moment. Lady Caroline has had a great deal to try
her; we had better leave her with her mother." Nobody could be more
reasonable, more temperate. His compassionate voice and gentle action,
and the way in which he seemed about to sweep away with him the somewhat
irresolute figure of the man who had no right to be there, filled Carry
with a wild pang. It seemed to her that, notwithstanding all her protest
and passion, he was about to be victorious once more, and to rob her of
all life and hope again. She stretched out her arms wildly, with a cry
of anguish: "Edward, are you going to forsake me too?"

Edward Beaufort was very pertinacious in his love, very faithful,
poetically tender and true, but he was not strong in an emergency, and
the calmness and friendliness of Lord Lindores' address deceived him. He
cried "Never!" with the warmest devotion: but then he changed his tone a
little: "Lord Lindores is perhaps right--for the moment. I must
not--bring ill-natured remark----"

Lady Car burst into a little wild laugh. "You have no courage--you
either," she said, "even you. It is only I, a poor coward, that am not
afraid. It is not natural to me, everybody knows; but when a soul is in
despair----Then just see how bold I am," she cried suddenly, "father
and mother! If there is any holding back, it is his, not mine. I have
been ready--ready from the first, as I am now. I care nothing about
remark, or what anybody says. I will hear no reason; I will have no
interference. Do you hear me, all? Do you hear what I say?"

"I hear--what I am very sorry to hear, Carry,--what you cannot mean. Mr
Beaufort is too much a gentleman to take advantage of this wild talk,
which is mere excitement and overstrained feeling."

She laughed again, that laugh, which is no laugh, but an expression of
all that is inarticulate in the highest excitement. "I am ready--to
fulfil our old engagement, our old, old, broken engagement, that we made
before God and heaven. I have been like Dante," she said; "I have lost
my way, and made that dreadful round before I could find it, through
hell and purgatory; yes, that is it--through hell----And now, whenever
Edward pleases. It is not I that am holding back. Yes, go, go!" she
said; "oh, though I love you, you are not like me, you have not suffered
like me! go--but don't go with my father. He will find some way of
putting everything wrong again."

The two gentlemen walked solemnly, one behind the other, to the door: on
the threshold Lord Lindores paused. "I don't suppose you will suspect me
of any designs upon your life," he said, with a bitter smile, "if I
repeat that you will be welcome at Lindores."

"I had made all my arrangements," said Beaufort, with some confusion,
"to stay at Dunearn."

Lord Lindores paused for a moment before mounting his horse. "All that
she has been saying is folly," he said; "you may be certain that it will
not be permitted----"

"Who is to stop it? I don't think, if we are agreed, any one has the
power."

"It will not be permitted. It would be disgraceful to you. It would be a
step that no gentleman could take. A foolish young woman, hysterical
with excitement and exhaustion and grief----"

"Lord Lindores, you forget what that young woman has been to me--ever
since I have known her. I have never wavered----"

"Then you have committed a sin," the Earl said. He stood there
discomfited, in the darkness of the night, scarcely remembering the
servants, who were within hearing,--not knowing what further step to
take. He raised his foot to put it in the stirrup, then turned back
again. "If you will not come with me--where we could talk this out at
our leisure--at least you will go away from here," he said. Beaufort did
not reply in words, but hastened away, disappearing in the gloom of the
avenue. Lord Lindores mounted his horse, and followed slowly, in a
tumult of thought. He had not been prepared for it,--he was unable now
to realise the power of wild and impassioned resistance which was in
Carry. He was giddy with astonishment, as if his horse or his dog had
turned round upon him and defied him. But he tried to shake off the
impression as he got further from Tinto. It was impossible; it was a
mere bravado. She would no more hold to it than----And since there was
delicacy, decorum, propriety--every reason that could be thought of, on
the other side--no, no! He would forgive poor Carry's passion, for she
could no more hold to it----Even her mother, who had been so difficult
to manage before, her mother would fully support him now. He tried to
console himself with these thoughts; but yet Lord Lindores rode home a
broken man.

Lady Lindores sat and cried by the fire, while Carry swept about the
room in her passion, crossing and recrossing the firelight. The servants
at Tinto were more judicious than those at Lindores. They were
accustomed to scenes in the drawing-room, and to know that it was
indiscreet to carry lights thither until they were called for. In the
late Tinto's time the lamps, when they were carried in abruptly, had lit
up many an episode of trouble,--the fierce redness of the master's
countenance, the redness so different of his wife's eyes. So that no one
interrupted the lingering hour of twilight. Lady Lindores sat like any
of the poor women in the cottages, unable to stand against the passion
of her child. How familiar is the scene,--the mother crying by the
fireside, descended from her dignity and power to sway (if she ever
possessed any), to sheer helplessness and pathetic spectatorship,
unable, with all the experience and gathered wisdom of her years, to
suggest anything or do anything for the headstrong life and passion of
the other woman, who could learn only by experience as her mother did
before her. Carry paced up and down the room from end to end; even the
shadowy lines of her figure, even her step, revealed the commotion of
her soul: when she came full into the firelight she stood still for a
moment, her hands clasped, her head thrown back, confronting the dim
image of herself in the great mirror against a ruddy background of
gloom. And Carry in her passion was not without enlightenment too.

"No," she said passionately, "no, no. Do you know why I am so
determined? It is because I am frightened to death. Oh, don't take an
advantage of what I am saying to you. How do I know what my father might
do this time? No, no. I must keep out of his hands. I will rather die."

"Carry, I will not interfere. What can I do between you? But these are
not all conventionalities, as you think--there is more in them."

"There is this in them," she said, with a strange pathetic smile, "that
Edward thinks so too. He is not ready like me to throw away everything.
He might be persuaded, perhaps, if my father put forth all his powers,
to abandon me, to think it was for my interest----"

"Carry, I do not wish to support you in your wild projects: but I think
you are doing Edward injustice."

"Thank you, mother dear; your voice is so sweet," she said, with a
sudden softening, "why should you cry? It is all a black sea round about
me on every side. I have only one thing to cling to, only one thing, and
how can I tell? perhaps that may fail me too. But you have nothing to
cry for. Your way is all clear and straight before you till it ends in
heaven. Let them talk as they like, there must be heaven for you. You
will sit there and wait and watch to see all the broken boats come
home,--some bottom upwards, and every one drowned; some lashed to one
miserable bit of a mast--like me."

"Carry," said Lady Lindores, "if that is the case,--if you do not feel
sure--why, in spite of everything, father and mother, and modesty and
reverence, and all that is most necessary to life, your own good name,
and perhaps the future welfare of your children--why will you cling to
Edward Beaufort? You wronged him perhaps, but he did nothing to stop it.
There were things he might have done--he ought to have been ready to
claim you before--to oppose your----"

Carry threw herself at her mother's feet, and laid her trembling hand
upon her lips. "Not a word, not a word," she cried. "Do you think he
would wrong my children? Oh no, no! that is impossible. His fault, it is
to be too good. And if he did nothing, what could he do? He has never
had the ground to stand on, nor opportunity, nor time. Thank God! they
will be his now; he will prove what is in him now."

Which was it that in her heart she believed? But Lady Lindores could not
tell. Carry, when she calmed down, sat at her mother's feet in the
firelight, and clasped her close, and poured out her heart, no longer in
fiery opposition and passion, but with a sudden change and softening, in
all the pathos of trouble past and hope returned. They cried together,
and talked and kissed each other, once more mother and child, admitting
no other thought. This sudden change went to the heart of Lady Lindores.
Her daughter's head upon her bosom, her arm holding her close, what
could she do but kiss her and console her, and forget everything in
sympathy. But as she drove home in the dark other fears came in. Only
one thing to cling to--and perhaps that might fail her--"one miserable
bit of a mast." What did she mean? What did Carry believe? that her old
love would renew for her all the happiness of life, as she had been
saying, whispering with her cheek close to her mother's--that the one
dream of humanity, the romance which is never worn out and never
departs, was now to be fulfilled for her?--or that, even into this
dream, the canker had entered, the sense that happiness was not and
never could be?




CHAPTER XLIX.


When a pair of lovers are finally delivered from all those terrible
obstacles that fret the current of true love, and are at last married
and settled, what more is there to be said about them? One phase of life
is happily terminated,--the chapter which human instinct has chosen as
the subject of romance, the one in which all classes are
interested,--those to whom it is still in the future, with all the happy
interest of happiness to come,--those to whom it is in the past, with
perhaps a sigh, perhaps a smile of compassion, a softening recollection,
even when their hopes have not been fulfilled, of what was and what
might have been. The happinesses and the miseries of that early
struggle, how they dwindle in importance as we get older,--how little we
think now of the crisis which seemed final then--things for which heaven
and earth stood still; yet there will never come a time in which human
interest will fall away from the perennial story, continually going on,
ever changing, yet ever the same.

Before proceeding to the knotting up of other threads, we must first
recount here what happened to Lord Millefleurs. He did not take any
immediate steps in respect to Miss Sallie Field. They corresponded
largely and fully at all times, and he told her of the little incident
respecting Edith Lindores in full confidence of her sympathy and
approval. Perhaps he gave the episode a turn of a slightly modified
kind, representing that his proposal was rather a matter of politeness
than of passion, and that it was a relief to both parties when it was
discovered that Edith, as well as himself, considered fraternal much
better than matrimonial relations. Miss Sallie's reply to this was very
uncompromising. She said: "I think you have behaved like a couple of
fools. You ought to have married. You can tell her from me that she
would have found you very nice, though your height may leave something
to be desired. I don't myself care for girls--they are generally stupid;
but it would have been exceedingly suitable, and pleased your parents--a
duty which I wish I saw you more concerned about." Lord Millefleurs, in
his reply, acknowledged the weight and sense "as always" of his
correspondent's opinion. "I told dear Edith at once what you said; but
it did not perhaps make so much impression on her as it would otherwise
have done, since she has got engaged to John Erskine, a country
gentleman in the neighbourhood, which does not please her parents half
so well as a certain other union would have done. Pleasing one's parents
after all, though it is a duty, is not paramount to all other
considerations. Besides, I have never thought it was a commandment to
which great attention was paid _chez nous_." Miss Field's reply was
still more succinct and decided: "I don't know what you mean by _chez
nous_. I hate French phrases when simple American will do as well. If
you think we don't love our fathers and mothers, it just shows how far
popular fallacy can go, and how easily you bigoted Englishmen are taken
in. Who was it that first opened your eyes to the necessity of
considering your mother's feelings?" Peace was established after this,
but on the whole Lord Millefleurs decided to await the progress of
circumstances, and not startle and horrify those parents whom Miss
Sallie was so urgent he should please. Some time after she informed him
that she was coming to Europe in charge of a beautiful young niece, who
would have a large fortune. "Money makes a great deal of difference in
the way in which dukes and duchesses consider matters," she wrote,
enigmatically, "and so far as I can make out from your papers and
novels (if there is any faith to be put in them), American girls are the
fashion." Lord Millefleurs informed his mother of this approaching
arrival, and with some difficulty procured from her an invitation to Ess
Castle for his Transatlantic friends. "I wish there was not that girl
though," her Grace said; but Lady Reseda, for her part, was delighted.
"She will go to Paris first and bring the very newest fashions," that
young lady cried. The ducal mansion was a little excited by the
anticipation. They looked for a lovely creature dressed to just a little
more than perfection, who would come to breakfast in a diamond necklace,
and amuse them more than anybody had amused them in the memory of man.
And they were not disappointed in this hope. Miss Nellie F. Field was a
charming little creature, and her "things" were divine. Lady Reseda
thought her very like Daisy Miller; and the Duchess allowed, with a
sigh, that American girls were the fashion, and that if Millefleurs
_would_ have something out of the way----.

But in the meanwhile Millefleurs left this lovely little impersonation
of Freedom to his mother and sister, and walked about with her aunt.
Miss Sallie was about eight or nine and thirty, an age at which women
have not ceased to be pleasant--when they choose--to the eye as well as
to the heart. But the uncompromising character of her advice was
nothing to that of her toilette and appearance. She wore short skirts in
which she could move about freely when everybody else had them long. She
wore a bonnet when everybody else had a hat. Her hair was thin, but she
was scrupulous never to add a tress, or even a cushion. She was not
exactly plain, for her features were good, and her eyes full of
intelligence; but as for complexion, she had none, and no figure to
speak of. She assumed the entire spiritual charge of Millefleurs from
the moment they met, and he was never absent from her side a moment
longer than he could help. It amused the family beyond measure, at first
almost more than Nellie. But by and by the smile began to be forced, and
confusion to take the part of hilarity. It was Miss Sallie Field herself
at last who took the bull by the horns, if that is not too profane a
simile. She took the Duke apart one fine evening, when the whole party
had strolled out upon the lawn after dinner--"Your son," she said, "is
tormenting me to marry him," and she fixed upon the Duke her intelligent
eyes. His Grace was confounded, as may be supposed. He stood aghast at
this middle-aged woman with her Transatlantic accent and air. He did not
want to be uncivil. "You!" he said, in consternation, then blushed for
his bad manners, and added, suavely, "I beg you a thousand pardons--you
mean--your niece." That of itself would be bad enough. "No," said Miss
Sallie, with an air of regret, "it does not concern Nellie. I have told
him that would be more reasonable. Nellie is very pretty, and has a
quantity of money; but he doesn't seem to see it. Perhaps you don't know
that this was what he wanted when I sent him home to his mother? I
thought he would have got over it when he came home. I consider him
quite unsuitable for me, but I am a little uneasy about the moral
consequences. I am thirty-eight, and I have a moderate competency, not a
fortune, like Nellie. I thought it better to talk it over with you
before it went any further," Miss Sallie said.

And when he took this middle-aged and plain-spoken bride to Dalrulzian
to visit the young people there, Millefleurs did not attempt to conceal
his consciousness of the objections which his friends would no doubt
make. "I told you it was quite unsuitable," he said, turning up his
little eyes and clasping his plump hands. "We were both perfectly aware
of that; but it is _chic_, don't you know, if you will allow me to use a
vulgar word." Edith clasped the arm of John when the Marquis and
Marchioness of Millefleurs had retired, and these two young people
indulged in subdued bursts of laughter. They stepped out upon the
terrace walk to laugh, that they might not be heard, feeling the
delightful contrast of their own well-assorted youth and illimitable
happiness. The most delightful vanity mingled with their mirth--that
vanity in each other which feels like a virtue. It was summer, and the
air was soft, the moon shining full over the far sweep of the undulating
country, blending with a silvery remnant of daylight which lingered far
into the night. The hills in the far distance shone against the
lightness of the horizon, and the crest of fir-trees on Dalrulzian hill
stood out against the sky, every twig distinct. It was such a night as
the lovers babbled of on that bank on which the moonbeams lay at
Belmont, but more spiritual than any Italian night because of that soft
heavenly lingering of the day which belongs to the north. This young
pair had not been married very long, and had not ceased to think their
happiness the chief and most reasonable subject of interest to all
around them. They were still comparing themselves with everything in
earth, and almost in heaven, to the advantage of their own blessedness.
They were amused beyond description by the noble couple who had come to
visit them. "Confess, now, that you feel a pang of regret," John
said--and they stood closer and closer together, and laughed under their
breath as at the most delightful joke in the world. Up-stairs the
Marchioness shut the window, remarking that the air was very cold. "What
a fool that little thing was not to have you," she said; "you would
have done very well together." "Dear Edith!" said Millefleurs, folding
his hands, "it is very pretty, don't you know, to see her so happy."

The observations made down-stairs, upon the actors in this little drama,
were very free, as was natural. Rolls himself, who had held a more
important _rôle_ than any one knew, was perhaps apt to exaggerate the
greatness of his own part, but with an amiable and benevolent effect.
His master, indeed, he looked upon with benevolent indulgence, as
knowing no more than a child of the chief incident. If Rolls had not
been already bound to the house of Dalrulzian by lifelong fidelity and
by that identification of himself and all his interests, his pride and
self-regard, with his "family," which is something even more tenacious
and real than faithfulness, he would have been made so by the fact that
John, without in the slightest degree realising that Rolls was suffering
for him, had given orders to Mr Monypenny to secure the most expensive
assistance for his trial. The pride, contempt, satire, and keen
suppressed emotion with which this act filled the old servant's bosom,
were beyond description. "It was just downright extravagance," he said
to Bauby; "they're a' fuils, thae Erskines, frae father to son. Laying
out all that siller upon me; and no' a glimmer o' insight a' the time.
An' he had had the sense to see, it would have been natural; but how
could he divine my meaning when there was no conscience in himsel'? and
giving out his money all the same as if notes were things ye could
gather on the roadside?" "He mightna understand ye, Tammas, but he ken't
your meaning was good," said Bauby. Their position was changed by all
the changes that had happened, to the increase of their grandeur if not
of their happiness. Rolls had now a tall and respectful youth under his
orders, and Bauby was relieved, in so far as she would allow herself to
be relieved, of the duties of the kitchen. It was gratifying to their
pride, but there is little doubt that they sighed occasionally for the
freedom of the time when Rolls was alone in his glory, dictator of the
feminine household, and Bauby's highest effort of toilette was to tie a
clean apron round her ample waist. She had to wear a silk gown now, and
endeavour to be happy in it. Rolls's importance, however, was now
publicly acknowledged both out of doors and in. He was looked upon with
a kind of admiring awe by the population generally, as a man who had
been, as it were, like Dante, in hell, and came out unsinged--or in
prison, which was nearly as bad, issuing forth in a sort of halo of
innocence and suffering. It might have been possible that John Erskine
or any of the gentlemen of the country-side had quarrelled with Tinto
and meant mischief; but Rolls could not have meant anything. The very
moment that the eyes of the rural world were directed to him, it was
established that accident only could be the cause of death, and
everybody felt it necessary to testify their sympathy to the unwilling
instrument of such an event. The greatest people in the county would
stop to speak to him when occasion offered, to show him that they
thought no worse of him. Even Lord Lindores would do this; but there was
one exception. Rintoul was the one man who had never offered any
sympathy. He turned his head the other way when Rolls approached
him,--would not look at him when they were, perforce, brought into
contact. While Rolls, for his part, regarded Lord Rintoul with a cool
and cynical air of observation that was infinitely galling to the object
of it. "Yon lord!" he said, when he spoke of him, contemptuous, with a
scoff always in his tone. And Rolls had grown to be a great authority in
legal matters, the only person in the neighbourhood, as was supposed,
that knew the mysteries of judicial procedure. But his elevation, as we
have said, was modified by domestic drawbacks. Instead of giving forth
his sentiments in native freedom as he went and came with the dishes,
direct from one table to another, it was necessary to wait until the
other servants of the household were disposed of before the butler and
the housekeeper could express confidentially their feelings to each
other. And Bauby, seated in her silk gown, doing the honours to the
Marquis's man, of whom she stood in great awe, and the Marchioness's
woman, whom she thought a "cutty," was not half so happy as Bauby,
glowing and proud in the praises of a successful dinner, with her clean
white apron folded over her arms.

"This is the lord that my leddy would have been married upon, had all
gone as was intended," Rolls said. "He's my Lord Marquis at present, and
will be my Lord Duke in time."

"Such a bit creature for a' thae grand titles," said Bauby, yawning
freely over the stocking which she was supposed to be knitting. "Eh,
Tammas, my man, do ye hear that clatter? We'll no' have an ashet left in
the house."

"It's a peety she didna take him--it would have pleased a' pairties,"
said Rolls. "I had other views mysel', as is well known, for our maister
here, poor lad. Woman, cannot ye bide still when a person is speaking to
ye? The ashets are no' your concern."

"Eh, and wha's concern should they be?" cried Bauby; "would I let the
family suffer and me sit still? My lady's just a sweet young thing, and
I'm more fond of her every day. She may not just be very clever about
ordering the dinner, but what does that maitter as lang as I'm to the
fore? And she's an awfu' comfort to my mind in respect to Mr John. It
takes off the responsibility. Me that was always thinking what would I
say to his mammaw!"

"I have nothing to say against my lady," said Rolls, "but just that I
had ither views. It's a credit to the house that she should have refused
a grand match for _our_ sake. But it will be a fine ploy for an observer
like me that kens human nature to see them a' about my table at their
dinner the morn. There will be the Earl himsel', just girning with spite
and politeness--and her that would have been my ain choice, maybe
beginning to see, poor thing, the mistake she's made. Poor thing!
Marriages, in my opinion, is what most shakes your faith in Providence.
It's just the devil that's at the bottom o' them, so far as I can see."

"Hoot, Tammas--it's true love that's at the bottom o' them," Bauby said.

"Love!" Rolls cried with contempt: and then he added with a grin of
malice--"I'm awfu' entertained to see _yon lord_ at our table-end. He
will not look the side I'm on. It's like poison to him to hear my voice.
And I take great pains to serve him mysel'," he said with a chuckle.
"I'm just extraordinar attentive to him. There's no person that I take
half as much charge of. I'm thinking his dinner will choke him some day,
for he canna bide the sight o' me."

"Him that should go upon his knees to ye every day of his life!" cried
Bauby indignant.

"We'll say nothing about that; but I get my diversion out o' him," said
Rolls grimly, "though he's a lord, and I'm but a common man!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The marriage of Lady Car took place a little more than a year after
Torrance's death. It was accomplished in London, whither she had gone
some time before, with scarcely any one to witness the ceremony but her
mother. She preferred it so. She was happy and she was miserable, with
the strangest mingling of emotions. Lady Lindores made vain efforts to
penetrate into the mind which was no longer open to her as her own.
Carry had gone far away from her mother, who knew none of the passions
which had swept her soul, yet could divine that the love in which she
was so absorbed, the postponed and interrupted happiness which seemed at
last to be within her grasp, was not like the love and happiness that
might have been. When Beaufort was not with her, her pale countenance,
that thoughtful face with its air of _distinction_, and sensitive
delicacy, which had never been beautiful, would fall into a wan shadow
and fixedness which were wonderful to see. When he was with her, it
lighted up with gleams of ineffable feeling, yet would waver and change
like a stormy sky, sometimes with a lightning-flash of impatience,
sometimes with a wistful questioning glance, which gave it to Lady
Lindores all the interest of a poem united to the far deeper, trembling
interest of observation with which a mother watches her child on the
brink of new possibilities. Were they for good or evil?--was it a life
of hope fulfilled, or of ever increasing and deepening disappointment,
which lay before Carry's tremulous feet? They were not the assured feet
of a believing and confident bride. What is love without faith and
confidence and trust? It is the strangest, the saddest, the most
terrible, the most divine of human passions. It is seldom that a woman
begins with such enlightenment in her eyes. Usually it is the growth of
slow and much-resisted experience, the growing revelation of years. How
sweet, how heavenly, how delightful, when love is blind! How wise the
ancients were to make him a child--a thing of caprice and sweet
confusion, taking everything for granted! But this to Carry was
impossible. When her mother took her into her arms on her wedding
morning, dressed in the soft grey gown which was the substitute for
bridal white, they kissed each other with a certain solemnity. At such a
moment so much is divined between kindred hearts which words can never
say. "I want you to remember," said Carry, "mother dear--that whatever
comes of it, this is what is best." "I hope all that is most happy will
come of it, my darling," said Lady Lindores. "And I too--and I too----"
She paused, raising a little her slender throat, her face, that was like
a wistful pale sky, clear-shining after the rain--"But let it be what it
may, it is the only good--the only way for me." These were the sole
words explanatory that passed between them. Lady Lindores parted with
the bridal pair afterwards with an anxious heart. She went home that
night, travelling far in the dark through the unseen country, feeling
the unknown all about her. Life had not been perfect to her any more
than to others. She had known many disappointments, and seen through
many illusions: but she had preserved through all the sweetness of a
heart that can be deceived, that can forget to-day's griefs and hope
again in to-morrow as if to-day had never been. As she drew near her
home, her heart lightened without any reason at all. Her husband was not
a perfect mate for her--her son had failed to her hopes. But she did not
dwell on these disenchantments. After all, how dear they were! after
all, there was to-morrow to come, which perhaps, most likely, would yet
be the perfect day.


THE END.


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[The end of _The Ladies Lindores, Volume 3_ by Margaret Oliphant]