"Hopes, and fears that kindle hopes—An indistinguishable throng;And gentle wishes long subdued,Subdued and cherished long."
"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 meanthat? 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 eyeslike 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. "Himpit 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 convenancesare 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 theconvenancesto 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 ofher, 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.
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 theamour proprewhich 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 itcon 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 itcon 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. Iknow, you know. Don't you know Iknow? 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 Iknow, 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 wasyou. 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.
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 anaccèsof 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 toher. 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 toyou."
"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.