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."
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."
"Ihave 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.
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 beflétrifor 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 beguileher. 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.
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.Shehad 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 washerdoing 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 callingher?" 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!"
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