In the midst of all the attentions paid him by his neighbours and the
visitors who followed each other day by day, there was one duty which
John Erskine had to fulfil, and which made a break in the tide of
circumstances which seemed to be drifting him towards the family at
Lindores, and engaging him more and more to follow their fortunes. When
a life is as yet undecided and capable of turning in a new direction, it
is common enough, in fact as well as in allegory, that a second path
should be visible, branching off from the first, into which the
unconscious feet of the wayfarer might still turn, were the dangers of
the more attractive way divined. There is always one unobtrusive turning
which leads to the safe track; but how is the traveller to know that,
whose soul is all unconscious of special importance in the immediate
step it takes? John Erskine contemplated his _rapprochement_ to the
Lindores with the greatest complacency and calm. That it could contain
any dangers, he neither knew nor would have believed: he wanted nothing
better than to be identified with them, to take up their cause and be
known as their partisan. Nevertheless Providence silently, without
giving him any warning, opened up the other path to him, and allowed him
in ignorance to choose. If he had known, probably it would not have made
the least difference. Young heroes have never in any known history
obeyed the dictates of any monitor, either audible or inaudible, who
warned them against one connection and in favour of another.
Nevertheless he had his chance, as shall be seen. The morning after his
first dinner at the Castle, which had been the reopening of a delightful
world to him, he decided that he had put off too long his visit to his
only relative, and set off through the soft May sunshine, for it was
beautiful weather, to pay his respects to his old aunt at Dunearn.
The house of Miss Barbara Erskine at Dunearn opened direct from the
street. It was one of the same class of homely Scotch houses to which
Dalrulzian itself belonged; but whereas Dalrulzian, being a
mansion-house, had two gables, Miss Barbara's Lodging, as she liked it
to be called, had but one, stepping out into the broad pathway, not
paved, but composed of sand and gravel, which ran along one side of the
South Street. This gable was broad enough to give considerable size to
the drawing-room which filled the upper story, and which had windows
every way, commanding the street and all that went on in it, which was
not much. The house was entered by an outside stair, which gave
admission to the first floor, on which all the rooms of "the family"
were, the floor below being devoted to the uses of the servants, with
the single exception of the dining-parlour, which was situated near the
kitchen for the convenience of the household. Behind there was a large
fragrant old-fashioned garden full of sweet-smelling flowers,
interspersed with fruit-trees, and going off into vegetables at the
lower end. Notwithstanding that it was so far north, there were few
things that would not grow in this garden, and it was a wilderness of
roses in their season. Except one or two of the pale China kind--the
monthly rose, as Miss Barbara called it, which is so faithful and blows
almost all the year round--there were no roses in May; but there was a
wealth of spring flowers filling all the borders, and the air was
faintly sweet as the old lady walked about in the morning sunshine
enjoying the freshness and stir of budding life. She was a portly old
lady herself, fresh and fair, with a bright complexion, notwithstanding
seventy years of wear and tear, and lively hazel eyes full of vivacity
and inquisitiveness. She was one of the fortunate people who take an
interest in everything, and to whom life continues full of excitement
and variety to the end. She walked as briskly as though she had been
twenty years younger, perhaps more so; for care does not press upon
seventy as upon fifty, and the only burden upon her ample shoulders was
that of years. She had a soft white Indian shawl wrapped round her, and
a hood with very soft blue ribbons tied over her cap. She liked a pretty
ribbon as well as ever, and was always well dressed. From the garden,
which sloped downwards towards the river, there was an extensive view--a
prospect of fields and scattered farmhouses spreading into blue
distance, into the outline of the hills, towards the north; at the right
hand the tower of Dunearn Church, which was not more handsome than
church towers generally are in Scotland; and to the left, towards the
setting sun, a glimpse of Tinto arrogantly seated on its plateau. Miss
Barbara, as she said, "could not bide" the sight of Tinto House. She had
planted it out as well as she could; but her trees were perverse, and
would separate their branches or die away at the top, as if on purpose
to reveal the upstart. On this particular morning of early May, Miss
Barbara was not alone: she had a young lady by her side, of whose name
and presence at this particular moment the country was full. There was
not a house in the neighbourhood of any pretensions which she was not
engaged to visit; and there was scarcely a family, if truth must be
told, which was not involved more or less in an innocent conspiracy on
her behalf, of which John Erskine, all unconscious, was the object. His
old aunt, as was befitting, had the first chance.
"You need not ask me any more questions," Miss Barbara was saying, "for
I think you know just as much about the family, and all the families in
the country-side, as anybody. You have a fine curiosity, Nora; and take
my word for it, that's a grand gift, though never properly appreciated
in this world. It gives you a great deal of interest in your youth, and
it keeps you from wearying in your old age--though that's a far prospect
for you."
"My mother says I am a gossip born," said Nora, with her pretty smile.
"Never you trouble your head about that--take you always an interest in
your fellow-creatures. Better that than the folk in a novelle. Not but
what I like a good novelle myself as well as most things in this life.
It's just extending your field. It's like going into a new
neighbourhood. The box is come from the library this morning," said Miss
Barbara in a parenthesis.
"Oh yes, I opened it to have a peep. There is 'Middlemarch' and one of
Mr Trollope's, and several names I don't know."
"No 'Middlemarch' for me," said Miss Barbara, with a wave of her hand.
"I am too old for that. That means I've read it, my dear,--the way an
experienced reader like me can read a thing--in the air, in the
newspapers, in the way everybody talks. No, that's not like going into a
new neighbourhood--that is getting to the secrets of the machinery, and
seeing how everything, come the time, will run down, some to ill and
harm, but all to downfall, commonplace, and prosiness. I have but little
pleasure in that. And it's pleasure I want at my time of life. I'm too
old to be instructed. If I have not learned my lesson by this time, the
more shame to me, my dear."
"But, Miss Barbara, you don't want only to be amused. Oh no: to have
your heart touched, sometimes wrung even--to be so sorry, so anxious
that you would like to interfere--to follow on and on to the last moment
through all their troubles, still hoping that things will take a good
turn."
"And what is that but amusement?" said the old lady. "I am not fond of
shedding tears; but even that is a luxury in its way--when all the time
you are sure that it will hurt nobody, and come all right at the end."
"Lydgate does not turn out all right at the end," said Nora, "nor
Rosamond either; they go down and down till you would be glad of some
dreadful place at last that they might fall into it and be made an end
of. I suppose it is true to nature," said the girl, with a solemnity
coming over her innocent face, "that if you don't get better you should
go on getting worse and worse--but it is dreadful. It is like what one
hears of the place--below."
"Ay, ay, we're not fond nowadays of the place--below; but I'm afraid
there must be some truth in it. That woman has found out the secret, you
see." Miss Barbara meant no disrespect to the great novelist when she
called her "that woman." There was even a certain gratification in the
use of the term, as who should say, "Your men, that brag so much of
themselves, never found this out"--which was a favourite sentiment with
the old lady. "That's just where she's grand," Miss Barbara continued.
"There's that young lad in the Italian book--Teeto--what d'ye call him?
To see him get meaner and meaner, and falser and falser, is an awful
picture, Nora. It's just terrible. It's more than I can stand at my age.
I want diversion. Do ye think I have not seen enough of that in my
life?"
"People are not bad like that in life," said Nora; "they have such small
sins,--they tell fibs--not big lies that mean anything, but small
miserable little fibs; and they are ill-tempered, and sometimes cheat a
little. That is all. Nothing that is terrible or tragical----"
Here the girl stopped short with a little gasp, as if realising
something she had not thought of before.
"What is it, my dear?" said Miss Barbara.
"Oh--only Tinto showing through the trees: is that tragedy? No, no.
Don't you see what I mean? don't you see the difference? He is only a
rough, ill-tempered, tyrannical man. He does not really mean to hurt or
be cruel: and poor Lady Car, dear Lady Car, is always so wretched;
perhaps she aggravates him a little. She will not take pleasure in
anything. It is all miserable, but it is all so little, Miss Barbara;
not tragedy--not like Lear or Hamlet--rather a sort of scolding, peevish
comedy. You might make fun of it all, though it is so dreadful; and that
is how life seems to me--very different from poetry," said Nora, shaking
her head.
"Wait," said Miss Barbara, patting her on the shoulder, "till the play
is played out and you are farther off. The Lord preserve us! I hope I'm
not a prophet of evil; but maybe if you had known poor Lear fighting
about the number of his knights with that hard-faced woman Regan, for
instance (who had a kind of reason, you'll mind, on her side: for I make
no doubt they were very unruly--that daft old man would never keep them
in order), you would have thought it but a poor kind of a squabble. Who
is this coming in upon us, Nora? I see Janet at the glass door looking
out.
"It is a gentleman, Miss Barbara. He is standing talking. I think he
means to come out here."
"It will be the minister," said the old lady, calmly. "He had far better
sit down in the warm room, and send us word, for he's a delicate
creature--no constitution in him--aye cold and coughs, and----"
"Indeed it is not Mr Stirling. He is quite young and--and good-looking,
I think. He won't listen to Janet. He is coming here. Miss Barbara,
shall I run away?"
"Why should you run away? If it's business, we'll go in; if it's
pleasure----Ah! I've seen your face before, sir, or one like it, but I
cannot put a name to it. You have maybe brought me a letter? Preserve us
all! will it be John Erskine come home to Dalrulzian?"
"Yes, aunt Barbara, it is John Erskine," said the young man. He had his
hat in one hand, and the sun shone pleasantly on his chestnut locks and
healthful countenance. He did not perhaps look like a hero of romance,
but he looked like a clean and virtuous young Englishman. He took the
hand which Miss Barbara held out to him, eagerly, and, with a little
embarrassment, not knowing what else to do, bent over it and kissed
it--a salutation which took the old lady by surprise, and, being so
unusual, brought a delicate colour to her old cheek.
"Ah, my man! and so you're John Erskine? I would have known you
anywhere, at the second glance if not at the first. You're like your
father, poor fellow. He was always a great favourite with me. And so
you've come back to your ain at last? Well, I'm very glad to see you,
John. It's natural to have a young Erskine in the country-side. You'll
not know yet how you like it after all this long absence. And how is
your mother, poor body? She would think my pity out of place, I don't
doubt; but I'm always sorry for a young woman, sore hadden down with a
sma' family, as we say here in the North."
"I don't think she is at all sorry for herself," said John, with a
laugh, "but it must be allowed there is a lot of them. There are always
heaps of children, you know, in a parson's house."
"And that is true; it's a wonderful dispensation," said Miss Barbara,
piously, "to keep us down and keep us humble-minded in our position in
life. But I'm real glad to see you, and you must tell me where you've
come from, and all you've been doing. We'll take a turn round the garden
and see my flowers, and then we'll take you in and give you your
luncheon. You'll be ready for your luncheon after your walk; or did you
ride? This is Miss Nora Barrington, that knows Dalrulzian better than
you do, John. Tell Janet, my dear, we'll be ready in an hour, and she
must do her best for Mr John."
While this greeting went on, Nora had been standing very demurely with
her hands crossed looking on. She was a girl full of romance and
imagination, as a girl ought to be, and John Erskine had long been
something of a hero to her. Nora was in that condition of spring-time
and anticipation when every new encounter looks as if it might produce
untold consequences in the future, still so vague, so sweet, so unknown.
She stood with her eyes full of subdued light, full of soft excitement,
and observation, and fun; for where all was so airy and uncertain, there
was room for fun too, it being always possible that the event, which
might be serious or even tragic, might at the same time be only a
pleasantry in life. Nora seemed to herself to be a spectator of what was
perhaps happening to herself. Might this be hereafter a scene in her
existence, like "the first meeting between"--say Antony and Cleopatra,
say Romeo and Juliet? Several pictures occurred to her of such scenes.
At one time there were quite a number of them in all the
picture-galleries. "First meeting of Edward IV. with Elizabeth
Woodville:" where all unconscious, the fair widow kneels, the gallant
monarch sees in his suppliant his future queen. All this was fun to
Nora, but very romantic earnest all the same. The time might come when
this stranger would say to her--"Do you remember that May morning in old
aunt Barbara's garden?" and she might reply--"How little we imagined
_then_!" Thus Nora, with a shy delight, forestalled in the secret
recesses of her soul the happiness that might never come, and yet made
fun of her own thoughts all in the same breath. John's bow to her was
not half so graceful or captivating as his salutation to Miss Barbara,
but that was nothing; and she went away with a pleasant sense of
excitement to instruct Janet about the luncheon and the new-comer. Miss
Barbara's household was much moved by the arrival. Janet, who was the
housekeeper, lingered in the little hall into which the garden-door
opened, looking out with a curiosity which she did not think it
necessary to disguise; and Agnes, Miss Barbara's own woman, stood at the
staircase-window, half-way up. When Nora came in, those two personages
were conversing freely on the event.
"He's awfu' like the Erskines; just the cut of them about the shouthers,
and that lang neck----"
"Do you ca' that a lang neck? nae langer than is very becoming. I like
the head carried high. He has his father's walk," said Agnes, pensively;
"many's the time I've watched him alang the street. He was the
best-looking of all the Erskines; if he hadna marriet a bit handless
creature----"
"Handless or no' handless," said Janet, "matters little in that
condition o' life."
"Eh, but it mattered muckle to him. He might have been a living man this
day if there had been a little mair sense in her head. She might have
made him change his wet feet and all his dreeping things when he came in
from the hillside. It was the planting of yon trees that cost bonnie
Johnny Erskine his life. The mistress was aye of that opinion. Eh, to
think when ye have a man, that ye shouldna be able to take care of him!"
said Agnes, with a sort of admiring wonder. She had never attained that
dignity herself. Janet, who was a widow, gave a glance upward at the
pensive old maiden of mingled condescension and contempt.
"And if ye had a man, ye would be muckle made up wi' him," she said.
"It's grand to be an auld maid, for that--that ye aye keep your faith in
the men. This ane'll be for a wife, too, like a' the rest. I could gie
him a word in his ear----"
"It will be something for our young misses to think about. A fine young
lad, and a bonnie house. He'll have a' our siller, besides his ain,--and
that will be a grand addition----"
"If he behaves himsel'!" said Janet, "The mistress is a real sensible
woman. You'll no' see her throw away her siller upon a prodigal, if he
were an Erskine ten times over."
"And wha said he was a prodigal?" cried Agnes, turning round from the
landing upon her fellow-servant, who was at once her natural opponent
and bosom friend. Nora was of opinion by this time that she had listened
long enough.
"Miss Barbara says that her nephew will stay to luncheon, Janet. You are
to do your best for him. It is Mr Erskine, from Dalrulzian," Nora said,
with most unnecessary explanation. Janet turned round upon her quietly,
yet with superior dignity.
"By this time of day, Miss Nora," said Janet, "I think I ken an Erskine
when I see him; and also, when a visitor enters this door at twelve
o'clock at noon, that he'll stay to his lunch, and that I maun do my
best."
"It is not my fault," cried the girl, half amused, half apologetic. "I
tell you only, Janet, what Miss Barbara said. Perhaps it was to get rid
of me, to send me indoors out of the way."
"Naething more likely," said the housekeeper. "She canna be fashed with
strangers when her ain are at her hand."
"Woman!" cried Agnes, from the landing, "how dare you say sae of my
mistress? You'll never mind, Miss Nora. Come up here, my bonnie young
leddy, and you'll have a grand sight of him among the trees."
"Ay, glower at him," said Janet, as she went away. "You wouldna be so
muckle ta'en up with them if ye kent as much about men as me."
"Na, you'll pay no attention," said Agnes anxiously; "it's no' real
malice--just she thinks she has mair experience. And so she has mair
experience--the only marriet woman in the house. There's your mamma,
with a bonnie family, takes nothing upon her, no more than if she was a
single person; but Janet has it a' her ain way. Stand you here, Miss
Nora, at this corner, and you'll have a grand sight of him. He's behind
the big bourtree-bush; but in a moment--in a moment----"
"I don't want to see Mr Erskine," said Nora, laughing. "I have seen him;
most likely I shall see him at lunch. He is just like other
people,--like dozens of gentlemen----"
"Eh, but when you think that you never ken what may happen--that _yon_
may be the man, for all we ken!"
When Agnes thus put into words the idea which had (she would not deny it
to herself) glanced through Nora's own mind, she was so hypocritical as
to laugh, as at a great piece of absurdity--but at the same time so
honest as to blush.
"I believe you are always thinking of--that sort of thing," she said.
"Awfu' often, Miss Nora," said Agnes, unabashed,--"especially when
there's young folk about; and after a', is there onything that's sae
important? There's me and the mistress, we've stood aloof from a' that;
but I canna think it's been for oor happiness. Her--it was her ain
doing; but me--it's a very strange thing to say: I've kent many that
were far from my superiors--as far as a person can judge--that have had
twa-three offers; but me, I never had it in my power. You'll think it a
very strange thing, Miss Nora?"
"I know," said Nora; "and you so pretty. It is quite extraordinary."
This was the reply that Agnes expected to her favourite confession. She
was pretty still at fifty,--slim and straight, with delicate features,
and that ivory complexion which we associate with refinement and good
blood; and the old waiting-woman knew how to _faire valoir_ her fine
person and features. She was dressed delicately in a black gown, with a
white kerchief of spotless net--like a lady, everybody said. She shook
her head with a smile of melancholy consciousness.
"It's no' looks that does it," she said; "it's----Well, I canna tell.
It's when you ken how to humour them and flatter them. But bless me,
there's Janet, a woman that never flattered man nor woman either! I
canna understand it,--it's beyond me. But you mustna follow the
mistress, Miss Nora. She's a happy woman enough, and a bonnie woman for
her age, coming up there under her ain trees,--just look at her. But if
that young lad had been her son, instead of just a distant cousin----"
"Oh, but boys give a great deal of trouble," said Nora, seriously. "Dear
Miss Barbara, I like her best as she is."
"But you manna follow her example, my bonnie leddy,--you manna follow
her example. Take a pattern by your ain mammaw. I ca' her a happy woman,
young yet, and a good man, and a bonnie posie of bairns. Eh! I ca' her a
happy woman. And takes nothing upon her!" said Agnes,--"nothing upon
her. You'll come up the stair, Miss Nora, and look at yoursel' in the
glass. Oh no, there's nothing wrang with your bonnie hair. I like it
just so,--a wee blown about in the mornin' air. Untidy! bless me, no'
the least untidy! but just--give a look in the glass, and if you think
another colour would be more becoming, I have plenty ribbons. Some folk
thinks yellow's very artistic; but the mistress canna bide yellow. She's
owre fair for it, and so are you."
"Why should I change my ribbon? It is quite tidy," said Nora, almost
with indignation, standing before Miss Barbara's long cheval-glass.
Agnes came and stood behind her, arranging her little collar and the
draperies of her dress with caressing hands. And to tell the truth, Nora
herself could not shut out from her mind an agreeable consciousness that
she was looking "rather nice;--for me," she added, in her own mind. The
morning breeze had ruffled an incipient curl out of the hair which she
had brushed, demure and smooth, over her forehead in the morning. It was
a thing that nobody suspected when she was fresh from her toilet, but
the wind always found out that small eccentricity, and Nora was not
angry with the wind. Her ribbon was blue, and suited her far better than
the most artistic yellow. All was fresh and fair about her, like the
spring morning. "Na; I wouldna change a thing," Agnes said, looking at
her anxiously in the glass, where they made the prettiest picture, the
handsome old maid looking like a lady-in-waiting, her fine head
appearing over the girl's shoulder,--a lady-in-waiting anxiously
surveying her princess, about to meet for the first time with King
Charming, who has come to marry her. This was the real meaning of the
group.
Nora did not change her ribbon or her own appearance in any way, but she
gave a glance to the table set out for luncheon, and renewed the flowers
on it, watching all the while the other group which passed and repassed
the large round window of the dining-room, their voices audible as they
talked. Miss Barbara had taken John's arm, which was a proof that he had
found the way to her favour; and she was evidently asking him a hundred
questions. Snatches of their talk about his travels, about his plans,
something which she could not make out about the Lindores, caught the
ear of Nora. They saw her seated near the window, so there could be no
reason why she should stop her ears. And Nora thought him "very
nice"--that all-useful adjective. She could scarcely help letting her
imagination stray to the familiar place which she had known all her
life--her "dear Dalrulzian," which she had lamented so openly, which now
she felt it would no longer be decorous to lament. He looked very like
it, she thought. She could see him in imagination standing in the kindly
open door, on the Walk, looking the very master the place wanted. Papa
had been too old for it. It wanted a young man, a young----Well--she
laughed and coloured involuntarily--of course a young wife too. In all
likelihood _that_ was all settled, the young wife ready, so that there
was no reason to feel any embarrassment about it. And so he knew the
Lindores! She would ask Edith all about him. There was no doubt he was a
very interesting figure in the country-side, "something for the misses
to think about," as Agnes said, though it was somewhat humiliating to
think that "that dreadful man at Tinto" had roused a similar excitement.
But the oftener John Erskine passed the window, the more he pleased Nora
Barrington. He was "very nice," she was sure. How kind and careful he
was of Miss Barbara! How frank and open his countenance! his voice and
his laugh so natural and cheerful! Up to this time, though Nora's
imagination had not been utterly untouched, she was still free of any
serious inclination, almost if not entirely fancy-free. It could not be
denied that when the new Rintoul became known in the country-side, he,
too, had been the object of many prognostications. And he had been, she
felt, "very nice" to Nora. Though he had pretensions far above hers, and
was not in the least likely to ally himself to a family without fortune,
his advances had been such as a girl cannot easily overlook. He was the
first who had paid Nora "attention," and awakened her to a consciousness
of power. And she had been flattered and pleased, being very young. But
Nora now felt herself at that junction of the two roads, which, as has
been said, is inevitable in the experience of every young soul. She was
standing in suspense, saying to herself, with a partial sense of
treachery and guilt, that Mr Erskine was still more nice than Lord
Rintoul. John Erskine of Dalrulzian; there was something delightful in
the very name. All this, it is true, was entirely visionary, without
solid foundation of any kind; for they had exchanged nothing but two shy
bows, not a word as yet--and whether he would be as "nice" when he
talked, Nora did not know.
Her decision afterwards, made with some mortification, was, that he was
not nearly so nice when he talked. He showed no wish to talk to her at
all, which was an experience quite out of Nora's way. She sat and
listened, for the most part, at this simple banquet, growing angry in
spite of herself, and altogether changing her opinion about Lord
Rintoul. If she had been a little girl out of the nursery, John Erskine
could scarcely have taken less notice of her. Miss Barbara and he
continued their talk as if Nora had no existence at all.
"I always thought it a great pity that you were brought up so far from
home," the old lady said. "You know nothing about your own place, or the
ways of the country-side. It will take you a long time to make that up.
But the neighbours are all very kind, and Lindores, no doubt, will be a
great resource, now there's a young family in it. Fortunately for you,
John, you're not grand enough nor rich enough to come into my lord's
plans."
"Has my lord plans? For county hospitals and lunatic asylums. So he
told me; and he wants my help. To hear even so much as that astonished
me. When I knew him he was an elegant hypochondriac, doing nothing at
all----"
"He does plenty now, and cares much, for the world and the things of the
world," said Miss Barbara. "I think I have divined his meaning; but
we'll wait and see. You need not sit and make those faces at me, Nora. I
know well enough _they_ are not to blame. A woman should know how to
stand up for her own child better than that; but she was just struck
helpless with surprise, I say nothing different. Speak of manœuvring
mothers! manœuvring fathers are a great deal worse. I cannot away with a
man that will sacrifice his own flesh and blood. Fiegh! I would not do
it for a kingdom. And the son, you'll see, will do the same. Hold you
your tongue, Nora. I know better--the son will do the very same. He will
be sold to some grocer's daughter for her hogsheads. Perhaps they're
wanted; two jointures to pay is hard upon any estate, and a title will
always bring in money when it's put up for sale in a judicious way. But
you must have your wits about you now, if you have any dealings with
your elegant hypochondriac, John, my man. You're too small--too small
for him; but if you had fifty thousand a-year, you would soon--soon be
helpless in his hands----"
"Oh, Miss Barbara," cried Nora, "you are unjust to Lord Lindores.
Remember how kind he has been to us, and we have not fifty thousand, nor
fifty hundred a-year."
"You're not a young man," said Miss Barbara; "but John, take you care of
dangling about Lindores. I am not naming any names; but there may be
heartaches gotten there--nothing more for a man of your small means. Oh
ay! perhaps I ought to hold my tongue before Nora; but she will be well
advised if she takes care too; and besides, she knows all about it as
well as I do myself."
"I hope," said John, courteously--for he saw that Nora's composure was
disturbed by these last warnings, and he was glad of a chance to change
the subject--"I hope I may be so fortunate as to see Colonel Barrington
before he leaves the country. He has done so well by Dalrulzian, I
should like to thank him for his care."
This made Nora more red than before. She could not get over that foolish
idea that Dalrulzian was far more to her than to this stranger, who
could not care for it as she did. She felt that his thanks were an
offence. "Papa has gone, Mr Erskine," she said, with unusual
stateliness. "I am left behind to pay some visits. Everybody here has
been so good to us."
"That means we are all fond of her bit bright face," said Miss Barbara;
"but we'll say no more on that subject, Nora. Human nature's selfish in
grain. The like of me will take no trouble for lad or lass that is not
sweet to see, and a comfort to the heart."
"I never heard such a pretty apology for selfishness before," said John.
And Miss Barbara took his compliment in good part. But he and Nora made
no further approach to each other. Those praises of her made him draw
back visibly, she thought, and embarrassed herself beyond bearing. To be
praised before an unsympathetic, silently protesting audience--can
anything be more humiliating? Nora was conscious of something like
dislike of John Erskine before he went away.
And yet his state of feeling was natural enough. He believed that the
young lady, so dangerously suitable for him, the very wife he wanted,
was being thrust upon him on every side, and the thought revolted him.
No doubt he thought, if she were conscious of it, it must be revolting
to her too; and in such a case the highest politeness was to be all but
rude to her, to show at once and conclusively that schemes of the kind
were hopeless. This sentiment was strengthened in the present case by
the irritation caused by Miss Barbara's warning about Lindores, and the
heartache which was all that a man of his means was likely to get there.
He laughed at it, yet it made him angry. He who had been always used to
feel himself a person of importance--he for whom, even now, the whole
country was taking the trouble to scheme--to have himself suddenly
classified with other small deer as quite beneath the consideration of
the Lindores family, too small for my lord's plans! It was scarcely
possible to imagine anything more irritating. After all, a Scotch lord
was no such grand affair; and John could not be ignorant that, five
years ago, neither father nor mother would have repulsed him. Now! but
the doubt, the risk, did not induce the young man to be wise--to put
Lady Edith out of his imagination, and turn his thoughts to the other,
just as pretty, if that were all, who was manifestly within his reach.
What a pity that young people are so slow to see reason in such matters,
that they will never take the wiser way! Thus John had his opportunity
offered to him to escape from a world of troubles and embarrassments
before he had committed himself to that dangerous path; and distinctly
refused, and turned his back upon it, not knowing--as indeed at the real
turning-point of our fortunes we none of us know.
But as he set out on his homeward walk, his eyes caught that great house
of Tinto, which from Dunearn was the central object in the landscape--an
immense house, seated on a high platform of rock, dominating the river
and the whole country, with scarcely wood enough about it to afford any
shadow; an ostentatious pile of building, with that spot of audacious
red against the grey sky--the flag always flying (set him up! Miss
Barbara said) when the master was at home, which was, so to speak, the
straw which broke the camel's back, the supreme piece of vanity which
the county could not tolerate. Pat Torrance to mount a flag upon his
house to mark his presence! What more could Sacred Majesty itself do?
John Erskine felt as if some malicious spirit had thrown a stone at him
out of the clouds as his eye was caught by that flaunting speck of red.
He felt all the local intolerance of the man, without a claim but his
money to crow thus over his neighbours. And then he thought of Carry
Lindores and her poetry and enthusiasm. That was how the Earl disposed
of his daughters. A thrill ran through John's frame, but it was a thrill
of defiance. He raised his stick unawares and waved it, as if at the big
bully who thus scorned him from afar.