It is a strange experience for a man whose personal freedom has never
been restrained to find himself in prison. The excitement and amazement
of the first day made it something so exceptional and extraordinary,
that out of very strangeness it was supportable: and Erskine felt it
possible to wind himself up to the necessity of endurance for one night.
But the dead stillness of the long, long morning that followed, was at
once insupportable and incomprehensible to him. What did it mean? He saw
the light brighten in his barred window, and persuaded himself, as long
as he could, that it was as yet too early for anything to be done; but
when he heard all the sounds of life outside, and felt the long moments
roll on, and listened in vain for any deliverance, a cold mist of
amazement and horror began to wrap John's soul. Was he to be left there?
to lie in jail like any felon, nobody believing him, abandoned by all?
He could not do anything violent to relieve his feelings; but it was
within him to have dashed everything wildly about the room,--to have
flown at the window and broken it to pieces,--to have torn linen and
everything else to shreds. He stood aghast at himself as this wild fury
of impatience and misery swept over him. He could have beaten his head
against the wall. To sit still, as a man, a gentleman, is compelled to
do, restraining himself, was more hard than any struggles of Hercules.
And those slow sunny moments stole by, each one of them as long as an
hour. The sun seemed to be stationary in the sky: the forenoon was a
century. When he heard some one at last approaching, he drew a long
breath of satisfaction, saying to himself that now at last the suspense
would be over. But when it proved to be Miss Barbara with her arms full
of provisions for his comfort, her maid coming after, bearing a large
basket, it is impossible to describe the disappointment, the rage that
filled him. The effort to meet her with a smile was almost more than he
was capable of. He did it, of course, and concealed his real feelings,
and accepted the butter and eggs with such thanks as he could give
utterance to; but the effort seemed almost greater than any he had ever
made before. Miss Barbara, for her part, considered it her duty to her
nephew to maintain an easy aspect and ignore the misery of the
situation. She exerted herself to amuse him, to talk as if nothing was
amiss. She told him of Tinto's grand funeral, with which the whole
country-side was taken up. "Everybody is there," Miss Barbara said, with
some indignation,--"great and small, gentle and simple, as if auld
Torrance's son was one of the nobles of the land."
"They care more for the dead than the living," John said, with a laugh.
It was well to laugh, for his lip quivered. No doubt this was the reason
why no one had leisure to think of him. And his heart was too full of
his own miseries to be capable of even a momentary compassion for the
fate of Torrance--a man not very much older than himself, prosperous and
rich and important--snatched in a moment from all his enjoyments. He had
been deeply awed and impressed when he heard of it first; but by this
time the honours paid to the dead man seemed to John an insult to his
own superior claims--he who was living and suffering unjustly. To think
that those who called themselves his friends should have deserted him to
show a respect which they could not feel for the memory of a man whom
they had none of them respected while he lived! He was no cynic, nor
fond of attributing every evil to the baseness of humanity, but he could
not help saying now, between his closed teeth, that it was the way of
the world.
He had another visitor in the afternoon, some time after Miss Barbara
took her departure, but not one of those he expected. To his great
surprise, it was the white erect head of old Sir James which was the
next he saw. The veteran came in with a grave and troubled countenance.
He gave a shudder when he heard the key turn in the door. "I have come
to see if there was--anything I could do for you?" Sir James said.
John laughed again. To laugh seemed the only possible way of expressing
himself. It is permissible for a man to laugh when a woman would cry,
and the meaning is much the same. This expressed indignation,
incredulity, some contempt, yet was softened by a gentler sentiment, at
sight of the old soldier's kind and benign but puzzled and troubled
face. "I don't know what any one can do for me but take me out of this,"
he said, "and no one seems disposed to do that."
"John Erskine," said the old General solemnly, "the circumstances are
very serious. If you had seen, as I have seen, a young, strong man laid
in his grave this day, with a little toddling bairn, chief mourner." His
voice broke a little, as he spoke. He waved his hand as if to put this
recollection away. "And your story was not satisfactory. It did not
commend itself to my mind. Have patience and hear me out. I came away
from you in displeasure, and I've done nothing but turn it over and
over in my thoughts ever since. It's very far from satisfactory; but I
cannot find it in my heart to disbelieve you," the old man cried, with a
quiver of emotion in his face. He held out his large, soft, old hand
suddenly as he spoke. John, who had been winding himself up to indignant
resistance, was taken entirely by surprise. He grasped that kind hand,
and his composure altogether failed him.
"I am a fool," he cried, dashing the tears from his eyes, "to think that
one day's confinement should break me down. God bless you, Sir James! I
can't speak. If that's so, I'll make shift to bear the rest."
"Ay, my lad, that's just so. I cannot disbelieve you. You're a
gentleman, John Erskine. You might do an act of violence,--any man might
be left to himself; but you would not be base, and lie. I have tried to
think so, but I cannot. You would never deceive an old friend."
"If I had murdered poor Torrance in cold blood, and meaning it," said
John, "there is no telling, I might have lied too."
"No, no, no," said Sir James, putting out his hand--"at the worst it was
never thought to be that; but you have no look of falsehood in you.
Though it's a strange story, and little like the truth, I cannot
disbelieve you. So now you will tell me, my poor lad, what I can do for
you. We're friends again, thank God! I could not bide to be
unfriends--and my old wife was at me night and day."
"If Lady Montgomery believes in me too----"
"Believes in you! she would give me no rest, I tell you--her and my own
spirit. She would not hear a word. All she said was, 'Hoots, nonsense,
Sir James!' I declare to you that was all. She's not what you call a
clever woman, but she would not listen to a word. 'Hoots, nonsense!'
that was all. We could not find it in our hearts."
He was a little disposed, now that he had made his avowal, to dwell upon
it, to the exclusion of more important matters; but when at last he
permitted John to tell him what his expectations had been, and what his
disappointment, as the long, slow morning stole over unbroken, Sir James
was deeply moved. "Why did not Monypenny come to me?" he said. "He was
taken up, no doubt, with what was going on to-day. But I would have been
your bail in a moment. An old friend like me--the friend not only of
your father, but of your grandfather before him!" But when he had said
so much he paused, and employed a little simple sophistry to veil the
position. "The sheriff will be round in the end of the week. I would not
trouble him, if I were you, before that. What's three or four days? You
will then come out with every gentleman in the county at your back. It's
not that I think it would be refused. People say so, but I will not
believe it, for one; only I would not stir if I were you. A day or two,
what does that matter? _My_ pride would be to bide the law, and stand
and answer to my country. That is what I would do. Of course I'll be
your caution, and any other half dozen men in the county; but I'll tell
you what I would do myself,--I would stand it out if I were you."
"You never were shut up in a jail, Sir James?"
"Not exactly in a jail," said the old soldier; "but I've been in prison,
and far worse quarters than this. To be sure, there's an excitement
about it when you're in the hands of an enemy----"
"In the hands of an enemy," cried John--"a thing to be proud of; but
laid by the heels in a wretched hole, like a poacher or a thief!"
"I would put up with it if I were you. There is nothing disgraceful in
it. It is just a mistake that will be put right. I will come and see
you, man, every day, and Lady Montgomery will send you books. I hope
they will not be too good books, John. That's her foible, honest woman.
You seem to be victualled for a siege," Sir James added, looking round
the room. "That is Miss Barbara Erskine, I will be bound."
"I felt disposed to pitch them all out of the window," said John.
"Nothing of the sort; though they're too good to fall into the hands of
the turnkeys. Keep up your heart, my fine lad. I'll see Monypenny
to-night before I dine, and if we cannot bring you out with flying
colours, between us, it will be a strange thing to me. Just you keep up
your heart," said Sir James, patting John kindly on the back as he went
away. "The sheriff will be round here again on the 25th, and we'll be
prepared for the examination, and bring you clear off. It's not so very
long to wait."
With this John was forced to be content. The 25th was four days off, and
to remain in confinement for four days more was an appalling
anticipation; but Sir James's visit gave him real cheer. Perhaps Mr
Monypenny, too, on thinking it over, might turn to a conviction of his
client's truth.
While Sir James rode home, pleased with himself that he had obeyed his
own generous impulse, and pleased with John, who had been so unfeignedly
consoled by it, Lord Lindores and his son were driving back from Tinto
together in the early twilight. There was not a word exchanged between
them as they drove down the long avenue in the shadow of the woods; but
as they turned into the lighter road, Lord Lindores returned to the
subjects which occupied his mind habitually. "That is a business well
over," he said, with a sigh of satisfaction. "It is always a relief when
the last ceremonies are accomplished; and though Carry chose to meet me
with heroics, it is very satisfactory to know that her position is so
good. One could never be sure with a man of Torrance's temper. He was as
likely as not to have surrounded his widow with annoyances and
restraints. He has erred just a little on the other side now, poor
fellow! Still he meant it, no doubt, for the best." Lord Lindores spoke
to his son with an ease and confidence which he could not feel with the
other members of his family. Rintoul himself, indeed, had been somewhat
incomprehensible for a little time past; but indigestion, or any other
trifling reason, might account for that. "And now that all is over, we
must think of other matters," he continued. "This business about Edith
must be settled. Millefleurs must have his answer. He has been very
patient; but a young fellow like that knows his own importance, and
Edith must hear reason. She will never have another such chance."
Rintoul made a little movement in his corner, which was all that stood
for a reply on his part; and his father could not even see the
expression of his face.
"I can only hope that she will be more amenable to his influence than to
mine," said Lord Lindores, with a sigh. "It is strange that she, the
youngest of my children, should be the one to give me the most trouble.
Rintoul, it is also time that I should speak to you about yourself. It
would give your mother and me great satisfaction to see you settled. I
married early myself, and I have never had any reason to repent it.
Provided that you make a wise choice. The two families will no doubt see
a great deal of each other when things are settled between Edith and
Millefleurs; and I hear on all hands that his sister, Lady Reseda--you
met her several times in town----"
"Yes,--I met her," said Rintoul, reluctantly. He turned once more in his
corner, as if he would fain have worked his way through and escaped; but
he was secured for the moment, and in his father's power.
"And you admired her, I suppose, as everybody does? She is something
like her brother; but what may perhaps be thought a little--well,
comical--in Millefleurs, is delightful in a girl. She is a merry little
thing, the very person I should have chosen for you, Rintoul: she would
keep us all cheerful. We want a little light-heartedness in the family.
And though your father is only a Scotch peer, your position is
unimpeachable; and I will say this for you, that you have behaved very
well; few young men would have conducted themselves so irreproachably in
such a sudden change of circumstances. I feel almost certain that
though a daughter of the Duke's might do better, you would not be looked
upon with unfavourable eyes."
"I--don't know them. I have only met them--two or three times----"
"What more is necessary? You will be Millefleurs's brother-in-law----"
"Are you so sure of that?" asked Rintoul. There was something in his
tone which sounded like nascent rebellion. Lord Lindores pricked up his
ears.
"I do not willingly entertain the idea that Edith would disobey me," he
said with dignity. "She has high-flown notions. They are in the air
nowadays, and will ruin the tempers of girls if they are not checked.
She makes a fight to have her own way, but I cannot believe that she
would go the length of downright disobedience. I have met with nothing
of the kind yet----"
"I think you are likely to meet with it now," said Rintoul; and then he
added, hastily, "Carry has not been an encouraging example."
"Carry!" said Lord Lindores, opening his eyes. "I confess that I do not
understand. Carry! why, what woman could have a nobler position? Perfect
control over a very large fortune, a situation of entire
independence--too much for any woman. That Carry's unexampled good
fortune should be quoted against me is extraordinary indeed."
"But," cried Rintoul, taken by surprise, "you could not hold up to Edith
the hope of what might happen if--Millefleurs were to----"
"Break his neck over a scaur," said Lord Lindores, almost with a sneer.
He felt his son shrink from him with an inarticulate cry, and with
instant perception remedied his error in taste, as he thought it. "I
ought not to speak so after such a tragedy; you are right, Rintoul. No:
Millefleurs is a very different person; but of course it is always a
consolation to know that whatever happens, one's child will be
abundantly and honourably provided for. My boy, let us look at the other
matter. It is time you thought of marrying, as I say."
Rintoul flung himself against the side of the carriage with a muttered
curse. "Marrying!--hanging is more what I feel like!" he cried.
"Rintoul!"
"Don't torture me, father. There is not a more wretched fellow on the
face of the earth. Link an innocent woman's name with mine? Ask a girl
to?----For heaven's sake let me alone--let me be!"
"What is the meaning of this?" Lord Lindores cried. "Are you mad,
Rintoul? I am altogether unprepared for heroics in you."
The young man made no reply. He put his head out to the rushing of the
night air and the soft darkness, through which the trees and distant
hills and rare passengers were all like shadows. He had looked stolidly
enough upon all the shows of the external world all his life, and
thought no more of them than as he saw them.
"A primrose by the river's brim,
A yellow primrose was to him."
There had been no images or similitudes in light or darkness; but now
another world had opened around him. He had a secret with the
silence--the speechless, inanimate things about knew something of him
which nobody else knew: and who could tell when they might find a voice
and proclaim it to the world? He uncovered his head to the air which
blew upon him and cooled his fever. The touch of that cool fresh wind
seemed the only thing in earth or heaven in which there was any
consolation. As for Lord Lindores, he sat back in his corner, more angry
than concerned, and more contemptuous than either. A woman has perhaps
some excuse for nerves; but that his son, upon whose plain understanding
he could always rely, and whose common-sense was always alive to the
importance of substantial arguments, should thus relapse into tragedy
like his sisters, was more than he could tolerate. He would not even
contemplate the idea that there was any cause for it. Rintoul had always
been well behaved. He was in no fear of any secrets that his son might
have to reveal.
"Rintoul," he said, after a pause, "if you have got into any scrape, you
should know well enough that I am not the sort of man to take it
tragically. I have no faith in making molehills into mountains. I don't
suppose you have done anything disgraceful. You must be off your head, I
think. What is it? You have been out of sorts for some time past."
These words came like beatings of a drum to Rintoul's ears, as he leant
out into the rushing and sweep of the night air. There was a composure
in them which brought him to himself. Anything disgraceful meant
cheating at cards, or shirking debts of honour, or cowardice.
Practically, these were about the only things disgraceful that a young
man could do. An "entanglement," a heavy loss at cards or on the turf,
any other minor vice, could be compounded for. Lord Lindores was not
alarmed by the prospect of an explanation with his son. But that Rintoul
should become melodramatic, and appeal to earth and heaven, was
contemptible to his father. This cool and common-sense tone had its
natural effect, Lord Lindores thought. Rintoul drew in his head, sat
back in his corner, and was restored to himself.
"I have been out of sorts," he said--"I suppose that's what it is. I see
everything _en noir_. All this business--seeing to things--the black,
the house shut up----"
"Let me warn you, Rintoul; don't cultivate your susceptibilities," said
his father. "What is black more than blue or any other colour? This sort
of thing is all very well for a woman; but I know what it is. It's
stomach--that is really at the bottom of all tragedy. You had better
speak to the doctor. And now, thank heaven, this Tinto business is over;
we can get back to the affairs of life."
The rest of the drive passed in complete silence. And all the time they
were together, Rintoul said not a word to his father about John Erskine.
His situation was altogether ignored between them. It was not that it
was forgotten. If these two men could have opened Dunnottar jail--nay,
could they have swept John Erskine away into some happy island where he
would have been too blessed to think anything more about them--they
would have done it,--the one with joyous alacrity, the other with
satisfaction at least. This gloomy incident was over, and Lord Lindores
had no desire to hear any more of it. It was just the end that anybody
might have expected Torrance to come to. Why could not the officious
blockheads of the country-side let the matter alone? But he did not
feel that desire to help and right John Erskine which his warm adoption
of the young man to his friendship would have warranted. For why? such
an incident, however it ended, would certainly spoil young Erskine's
influence in the county. He would be of no more advantage to any one. A
quarrel was nothing; but to escape from the consequences of that
quarrel, to let a man die at the foot of a precipice without sending
help to him, that was a thing which all the country-side turned against.
It was this that had roused so strong a feeling against John, and Lord
Lindores made up his mind philosophically, that though Erskine would
probably be cleared of all imputation of blood-guiltiness, yet, innocent
or guilty, he would never get over it, and, consequently, would be of no
further use in any public projects. At the same time, his own views had
changed in respect to the means of carrying these projects out. Lord
Millefleurs was a better instrument than country eminence. A seat gained
was of course always an appreciable advantage. But it was not certain
even that the seat could have been gained; and a son-in-law in hand is
better than many boroughs in the bush. The Duke could not ignore Lord
Lindores's claims if Edith was a member of the family. This was far more
important than anything that could concern John Erskine, though Lord
Lindores would have been heartily thankful--now that he was good for
nothing but to excite foolish sympathies--if he could have got John
Erskine happily out of the way.
Millefleurs had reached Lindores some time before: he had returned
direct from the funeral along with Beaufort, who, much marvelling at
himself, had stood among the crowd, and seen Carry's husband laid in his
grave. The sensation was too extraordinary to be communicated to any
one. It had seemed to him that the whole was a dream, himself a spectre
of the past, watching bewildered, while the other, whom he had never
seen, who was nothing but a coffin, was removed away and deposited among
the unseen. He had not been bold enough to go into the house to see
Carry, even from the midst of the crowd. Whether she was sorrowing for
her husband, or feeling some such thrills of excitement as were in his
own bosom at the thought that she was free, Beaufort could not tell; but
when he found himself seated at table that evening with her father and
brother, he could not but feel that his dream was going on, and that
there was no telling in what new scene it might unfold fresh wonders.
The four gentlemen dined alone, and they were not a lively party. After
dinner they gathered about the fireplace, not making any move towards
the forsaken drawing-room. "This is a sad sort of amusement to provide
for you," Lord Lindores said. "We hoped to have shown you the more
cheerful side of Scotch life."
"I have had a very good time: what you might call a lovely time," said
Millefleurs. Then he made a pause, and drawing closer, laid his plump
finger on Lord Lindores's arm. "I don't want to make myself a nuisance
now; but--not to be troublesome--if I am not likely soon to have an
opportunity of addressing myself to Lady Edith, don't you think I had
better go away?"
"You may well be tired of us; a house of mourning," said Lord Lindores,
with a smile of benevolent meaning. "It was not for this you came into
those wilds."
"They are far from being wilds: I have enjoyed myself very much," said
little Millefleurs. "All has been new; and to see a new country, don't
you know, is always the height of my ambition. But such a thing might
happen as that I wasn't wanted. When a lady means to have anything to
say to a fellow, I have always heard she lets him know. To say nothing
is, perhaps, as good a way of saying no as any. It may be supposed to
save a man's feelings----"
"Am I to understand that you have spoken to my daughter, Millefleurs?"
"I have never had the chance, Lord Lindores. On the very evening, you
will remember, when I hoped to have an explanation, this unfortunate
accident happened. I am very sorry for the gentleman whom, in the best
of circumstances, I can never now hope to call my brother-in-law; but
the position is perhaps a little awkward. Lady Edith is acquainted with
my aspirations, but I--know nothing; don't you know?" said the little
Marquis. He had his hand upon his plump bosom, and raised himself a
little on one foot as he spoke. "It makes a fellow feel rather
small--and, in my case, that isn't wanted," he added, cheerfully.
Nothing less like a despairing lover could be imagined; but though he
resembled a robin-redbreast, he was a man quite conscious of the
dignities of his position, and not to be played with. A cold chill of
alarm came over Lord Lindores.
"Edith will return to-morrow, or next day," he said; "or if you choose
to go to Tinto, her mother regards you so much as a friend and
favourite, that she will receive you gladly, I am sure. Go, then----"
"No," said Millefleurs, shaking his head, "no, that would be too strong.
I never saw the poor fellow but once or twice, and the last time I had
the misfortune to disagree with him; no--I can't convey myself to his
house to learn if I'm to be taken or not. It is a droll sort of
experience. I feel rather like a bale of goods, don't you know, on
approval," he said with a laugh. He took it with great good-humour; but
it was possible that even Millefleurs's good-humour might be exhausted.
"I undertake for it that you shall not have to wait much longer," said
Lord Lindores.