Beaufort drove home on that eventful afternoon by himself. He had left
his friend in the county jail, in a state in which surprise was still
perhaps the predominant feeling. John had said little on the way, except
to point out, with something which perhaps bore the character of
bravado, the new features of the landscape beyond Dunearn. "It is an
opportunity for you to see a little more of the country," he said, with
a smile. Something of the same indignant amusement which had been his
first apparent sensation on hearing the sheriff's decision was still in
his manner now. He held his head high and a little thrown back, his
nostrils were dilated, his eyes more widely open and alert than usual,
and a smile in which there was a little scorn was upon his face. Those
who did not know John or human nature might have thought him unusually
triumphant, excited by some occurrence which enhanced instead of
humiliating his pride. "I cannot tell you how surprised I am to see you
here, Mr Erskine," said the governor of the jail with consternation.
"You cannot be more surprised than I am," said John. He gave his orders
about the things he wanted in the same tone, taking no notice of the
anxious suggestion that it would only be for a few days. He was too
deeply offended with fate to show it. He only smiled and said, "The
first step is so extraordinary that I prefer not to anticipate the
next." "But they must allow you bail," said Beaufort; "that must be my
first care." John laughed. He would not condescend to be anxious. "Or
hang me," he said; "the one just as sensible as the other." Beaufort
drove away with the strangest feelings, guiding his friend's horse along
the road with which he was so little acquainted, but from which
presently he saw the great house of Tinto on one side, and on the other
the towers of Lindores appearing from among the trees. How hard it was
to keep his thoughts to John, with these exciting objects on either side
of him! This country road, which all its length kept him in sight of the
big castellated front of Tinto, with its flag half-mast high--the house
in which she was who had been his love and promised bride--seemed to
Beaufort to have become the very thread of his fate. That Carry should
be there within his reach, that she should be free and mistress of
herself, that there should be even a certain link of connection which
brought him naturally once more within the circle of her immediate
surroundings, was so wonderful that everything else seemed of less
importance. He could not disengage his thoughts from this. He was not a
man in whose mind generosity was the first or even a primary quality,
and it is so difficult to think first of another when our own affairs
are at an exciting stage. The only step which he could think of for
John's advantage confused him still more, for it was the first direct
step possible to put him once more in contact with Carry. He turned up
the avenue of Lindores with a thrill of sensation which penetrated his
whole being. He was relieved indeed to know that the ladies were not
there--that he would not at least be exposed to their scrutiny, and to
the self-betrayal that could scarcely fail to follow; but the very sight
and name of the house was enough to move him almost beyond his errand.
The last rays of the sunset had gone out, and the autumn evening began
to darken by the time he got there. He went on like a man in a dream,
feeling the very air about him tremulous with his fate, although he made
an attempt to think of John first. How could he think of anything but of
Carry, who was free? or recollect anything except that the mistress of
this house had allowed him to call her mother; and that even its lord,
before he was its lord, had not refused to permit the suggestion of a
filial relationship? There was a carriage already standing before the
door when he drove up, but his mind was by this time too much excited to
be moved by any outside circumstance. But when he stepped into the hall
upon his mission, and, following the servant to the presence of Lord
Lindores, suddenly found himself face to face with the two ladies going
out, Beaufort's agitation was extreme. They were returning to Tinto,
after a day's expedition in search of those "things" which seem always
necessary in every domestic crisis. Lady Lindores recognised him with a
start and cry of amazement. "Mr Beaufort! you here!" she cried, unable
to contain herself. She added, "at such a time!" in a lower tone, with
the self-betrayal to which impulsive persons are always liable, and with
so much indignation mingled with her astonishment, that a man in full
possession of his faculties might have drawn from it the most favourable
auguries. But Beaufort, to do him justice, was not cool enough for this.
He said hurriedly, "I came on Thursday--I knew nothing. I came--because
it was impossible to help it." Edith had come close up behind her
mother, and grasped her arm, half in support, half in reproof. "You knew
Mr Beaufort was coming, mamma; why should you be surprised?" she said,
with a certain disdain in the tone with which she named him. Edith was
unreasonable, like all the rest. She would have had him throw away
everything rather than come here to interfere with Carry's comfort,
notwithstanding that her own father had invited him to come, and though
it had been explained to her that all his prospects depended upon the
favour of the Duke, Lord Millefleurs's gracious papa. Her idea was, that
a man should have thrown away all that, rather than put himself in a
false position, or expose a woman whom he had once loved to
embarrassment and pain. They were all unreasonable together, but each in
his or her characteristic way. After these first utterances of
agitation, however, they all stopped short and looked at each other in
the waning light, and awoke to a recollection of the ordinary
conventionalities which in such circumstances are so great a relief to
everybody concerned.
"We must not detain you, Mr Beaufort," Lady Lindores said; "you were
going to my husband--or Lord Millefleurs--who is still here."
The last four words were said with a certain significance, as if
intended for a hint,--persuade him, they seemed to say, that this is not
a time to remain here. "It is getting late, mother," said Edith, with a
touch of impatience.
"One moment, Lady Lindores. I must tell you why I have come: not for
myself--to ask help for Erskine, whom I have just left in custody,
charged with having occasioned somehow--I can't tell you how--the death
of--the late accident--your son-in-law," Beaufort stammered out.
The next moment he seemed to be surrounded by them, by their cries of
dismay, by their anxious questions. A sharp keen pang of offence was the
first feeling in Beaufort's mind,--that John should be so much more
interesting to them than he was! It gave him a shock even in the
excitement of the moment.
"This was what he meant"--he could at last hear Edith distinctly after
the momentary babel of mutual exclamations--"this was what he meant:
that we might hear something, which he might not be able to explain, but
that we were to believe in him--you and I, mamma."
"Of course we believe in him," cried Lady Lindores; "but something else
must be done, something more. Come this way, Mr Beaufort; Lord Lindores
is here."
She called him Mr Beaufort without any hesitation now--not pausing, as
she had done before, with the more familiar name on her lips. It was
John who was in the foreground now--John who, perhaps, for anything they
knew, had caused the event which had put them in mourning. With a
whimsical mortification and envy, Beaufort exaggerated in his own mind
the distress caused by this event. For the moment he looked upon it as a
matter of real loss and pain to this unthinking family who showed such
interest in the person who perhaps----But the sentiment did not go so
far as to be put into words; it resolved itself into a half-indignant
wonder at the interest taken in John, and sense of injured superiority
on his own account--he, of whom no man could say that he had been
instrumental in causing the death even of a dog.
Lady Lindores led the way hastily into the library, where three figures
were visible against the dim light in the window as the others came in.
Lord Lindores, seated in his chair; little Millefleurs, leaning against
the window, half turned towards the landscape; and in front of the
light, with his back to it, Rintoul, who was speaking. "With you as
bail," he was saying, "he may be set free to-night. Don't let him be a
night in that place."
"Are you speaking of John Erskine, Robin, my dear boy? Oh, not a night,
not an hour! Don't lose any time. It is too dreadful, too preposterous.
Your father will go directly. Take the carriage, which is at the door.
If we are a little late, what does it matter?" said Lady Lindores,
coming forward, another shadow in the dim light. Millefleurs turned half
round, but did not come away from the window on which he was leaning.
He was somewhat surprised too, very curious, perhaps a trifle indignant,
to see all this fuss made about Erskine. He drew up his plump little
person, altogether indifferent to the pronounced manifestation of all
its curves against the light, and looked beyond Lady Lindores to
Edith,--Edith, who hurried after her mother, swift and silent, as if
they were one being, moved by the same unnecessary excitement.
Millefleurs had not been in a comfortable state of mind during these
last days. The delay irritated him; though Lord Lindores assured him
that all was well, he could not feel that all was well. Why should not
Edith see him, and give him his answer? She was not so overwhelmed with
grief for that brute. What did it mean? And now, though she could not
see him on such urgent cause, she was able to interest herself in this
eager way on behalf of John Erskine! Millefleurs was very tolerant, and
when the circumstances demanded it, could be magnanimous, but he thought
he had reason of offence here.
There was a momentary pause--enough to show that Lord Lindores did not
share the feeling so warmly expressed. "I am surprised that you should
all be so inconsiderate," he said; "you, at least, Rintoul, who
generally show more understanding. I have understood that Erskine had
laid himself under suspicion. Can you imagine that I, so near a
connection of poor Torrance, am the right person to interfere on behalf
perhaps of his--murd--that is to say, of the cause--of the
instrument----"
"It is impossible," cried Edith, with such decision that her soft voice
seemed hard--"impossible! Can any one suppose for a moment----"
"Be silent, Edith," cried her father.
"Why should she be silent?" said Lady Lindores. "Robert, think what you
are saying. We have all known John Erskine for years. He is as incapable
as I am--as unlikely as any one of us here. Because you are so near a
connection, is not that the very reason why you should interfere? For
God's sake, think of that poor boy in prison--in prison! and lose no
time."
"I will do it, mother," said Rintoul.
"Oh, God bless you, my boy! I knew you were always right at heart."
"Rintoul," said his father, "enthusiasm of this sort is new in you. Let
us take a little common-sense into the question. In the first place,
nothing can be done to-night--that is evident. Then consider a moment:
what does 'in prison' mean? In the governor's comfortable rooms, where
he will be as well off as at home; and probably--for he is not without
sense--will be taking the most reasonable view of the matter. He will
know perfectly well that if he deserves it he will find friends; in
short, that we are all his friends, and that everybody will be too glad
to assist him--as soon as he has cleared himself----"
"As soon as he wants it no longer," cried Lady Lindores.
"My dear, you are always violent; you are always a partisan," said her
husband, drawing back his chair a little, with the air of having ended
the discussion; and there was a pause--one of those breathless pauses of
helplessness, yet rebellion, which make sick the hearts of women. Lady
Lindores clasped her hands together with a despairing movement. "This is
the curse of our life," she cried. "I can do nothing; I cannot go
against your father, Edith, and yet I am neither a fool nor a child. God
help us women! we have to stand by, whatever wrong is done, and
submit--submit. That is all that is left for us to do----"
"Submit!" Edith said. She was young and strong, and had not learned her
lesson. It galled her beyond endurance. She stood and looked round her,
seeing the whiteness of the faces, but little else in the evening gloom.
Was it true that there was nothing--nothing in her power? In poetry, a
girl can throw herself on her knees, can weep and plead--but only weep
and plead; and she, who had not been trained to that, who was conscious
of her individuality, her independent mind and judgment in every
nerve--heaven above! was she as helpless still? She stood breathless
for a moment, with wondering eyes fixed on the darkness, with a gasp of
proud resistance to fate. Submit to injustice, to cruel heartlessness of
those who could aid, to still more cruel helplessness--impotence, on her
own part? She stood for a moment gazing at the blank wall that seemed to
rise before her, as the poor, the helpless have to do,--as women have to
do in all circumstances. It was her first experience in this kind. She
had been proud to know that she was not as Carry, that no tyranny could
crush her spirit: but this was different. She had not anticipated such a
trial as this. There came from her bosom one sob of supreme pain which
she could not keep in. Not for John only, whom she could not help in his
moment of need, but for herself also--to feel herself impotent,
helpless, powerless as a child.
Millefleurs came forward from the window hurriedly. Perhaps being so
much a man of his time it was he who understood that gasp of suffering
best. He said, "Lady Edith, if I can help----" quickly, on the impulse
of the moment; then, thorough little gentleman as he was, checked
himself. "Lady Lindores, though I am a stranger, yet my name is good
enough. Tell me what to do and I will do it. Perhaps it is better that
Lord Lindores should not commit himself. But I am free, don't you know,"
he said, with something of the easy little chirrup of more ordinary
times. Why was it that, at such a moment, Edith, of all others, in her
personal despair, should burst out into that strange little laugh? She
grasped her mother's arm with both hands in her excitement. Here was a
tragic irony and ridicule penetrating the misery of the crisis like a
sharp arrow which pricked the girl to the very heart.
This sympathiser immediately changed the face of affairs. Lord Lindores,
indeed, continued to hold himself apart, pushing back his chair once
more; but even to Lord Lindores, Millefleurs made a difference. He said
no more about enthusiasm or common-sense, but listened, not without an
occasional word of direction. They clustered together like a band of
shadows against the great window, which was full of the paleness of the
night. Beaufort, who was the person most acquainted with all the
circumstances, recovered his sense of personal importance as he told his
story. But after all, it was not as the narrator of John Erskine's story
that he cared to gain importance in the eyes of Carry's family, any more
than it was as bail for John Erskine that Lord Millefleurs desired to
make himself agreeable to the ladies at Lindores. Both of the strangers,
thus caught in the net of difficulties and dangers which surrounded
their old comrade, resented it more or less; but what could they do?
Edith took no further part in the consultation. She retired behind her
mother, whose arm she continued to hold firm and fast in both her hands.
When she was moved by the talk going on at her side she grasped that arm
tightly, which was her only sign of emotion, but for the rest retired
into the darkness where no one could see, and into herself, a still more
effectual retirement. Lady Lindores felt that her daughter's two hands
clasping her were like a sort of anchor which Edith had thrown out in
her shipwreck to grasp at some certainty. She bore the pressure with a
half smile and sigh. She too had felt the shipwreck with keen passion,
still more serious than that of Edith: but she had no one to anchor to.
She felt this, half with a grateful sense of what she herself was still
good for; but still more, perhaps, with that other personal sense which
comes to most--that with all the relationships of life still round her,
mother and wife, she, for all solace and support, was like most of us
virtually alone.