No morning ever broke which brought more exciting expectations than the
morning of the 25th September in the various houses in which our history
lies. Of the dozen people whose interests were concerned, not one but
awoke early to the touch of the warm autumnal sunshine, and took up with
a start of troubled energy, painful or otherwise, the burden of
existence, of which for a few hours they had been partially oblivious.
The women had the best of it, which is not usual; although in the
mingled feelings of Lady Lindores, glad that her child had carried out
her expectations, yet half sorry, now it was over, that Edith had not
accepted the great matrimonial prize put into her hands--and in those of
Edith herself, happy in having so successfully surmounted the incident
Millefleurs, yet greatly disturbed and excited about the coming events
as concerned John Erskine, and doubtful whether she ought to have
written to him so very frank and undisguised a letter,--there was as
much pain as pleasure. As for Carry, when she woke in the gloomy
magnificence of Tinto, and all the warmth and glowing hopes of yesterday
came back to her mind with a bound, there was nothing in her thoughts
which prevented her lying still upon her pillows and letting the flood
of light sweep into her heart, in a luxury of happiness and peace which
was past describing. She did not for the moment even need to think of
the meeting to come. Blessedness seemed suddenly to have become habitual
to her once more. She woke to the delight of life. "Bliss was it in that
dawn to be alive." The past had flown away like a dream: was it a dream
altogether, a nightmare, some dark shadow of fear and pain, from which
the oppressed soul, having at last awoke, was free? Beaufort at
Dalrulzian got up a similar feeling. He had been obliged to find himself
something of a failure--but he, too, seemed to be restored to the hopes
and the standing-ground of youth. He would now have no excuse to himself
for his absence of energy and ambition. His youthful strength was still
unimpaired, though he had made so much less of it than he ought. And now
here were all the occasions for a fresh beginning--sympathy to support
him and to inspire him. Not only would he be happy, but at last he would
do something--he would carry out all hopes and prophecies of him now.
This was the brighter side--but in Lindores the sentiments of the chief
personages in the house were not so pleasant. Lord Lindores was angry
and humiliated, furious with his daughter and still more with his wife,
who, he had no doubt, with her ridiculous romance, had filled the girl's
head with follies--and not much less with Millefleurs, who had thus
suffered himself to be foiled. But his disturbed cogitations were as
nothing to the tumult of pain and alarm which rose up in Rintoul's mind
when he opened his eyes to the morning light. When the young man awoke
he had first a moment of bewildered consideration, what was the meaning
of the confused sense of disaster of which he became instantly
conscious--and then he sprang from his bed unable to rest, eager for
movement or anything which would counterbalance the fever of the crisis.
This was the day. He could delay no longer; he could not trifle with the
situation, or leave things to chance after to-day. It would be a new
beginning in his life. Hitherto all had gone on serenely enough. He had
gone with the stream, he had never set himself in opposition to the
world or its ways, never done anything to draw men's eyes upon him. But
after to-day all would be changed. To-morrow his name would be
telegraphed over all the world in newspaper paragraphs; to-morrow every
fellow he had ever known would be saying: "Rintoul! what Rintoul? You
never can mean?----" No, they would all feel it to be impossible.
Rintoul who was so safe, who never got into scrapes, whom they even
laughed at as a canny Scot, though he did not feel a Scot at all. It
would be incredible to all who had ever known him. And what a scandal,
what an outcry it would make! In his own family even! Rintoul knew that
Carry was not a broken-hearted widow, and yet it seemed to him that,
after she knew, she would never speak to him again. It made his heart
sink to think of all the changes that in a moment, in the twinkling of
an eye, would become inevitable. His father, with what rage, and misery,
and confusion of all his plans and hopes, would he hear it! with what
consternation his mother and sister! As for himself, everything would be
interrupted and set aside, his life in every way turned upside-down, his
ambition checked, his hopes destroyed. And all this to save John Erskine
from a certain amount of inconvenience! That was how at least it
appeared to him--really from inconvenience, nothing more. John was not a
man of rank like himself, full in the eyes of the world--he was not
responsible to a proud and ambitious father. A short term of
imprisonment to him would be like a disagreeable visit, nothing more.
Many people had to spend a certain part of every year, for instance,
with an old uncle or aunt, somebody from whom they had expectations. It
really would be little or nothing more than this. And it was not as if
it had been anything disgraceful. The county would not think the worse
of him; it was an accident, a thing that might have happened to any one.
But to Rintoul how much more terrible! he the brother-in-law of the man,
with a sort of interest in his death. He would have to leave his
regiment. All his projects for life would be interrupted. By the time he
was free again, he would be forgotten in society, and his name would be
_flétri_ for ever. These thoughts sent him pacing about his room with
hasty steps, the perspiration standing on his forehead. All to save John
Erskine, who was just as much to blame as he was--for the first quarrel
was the one which had excited that unfortunate fellow; all to save from
a little inconvenience another man!
Perhaps if he had been placed simply in front of the question whether he
would let another man be punished for what he had done, Rintoul would
have had spirit enough to say No; certainly if it had been put to him
quickly for an instant decision, without time to think, he would have
said No, and held by his honour. But something else more determined than
himself stood before him. Nora! He might use sophistries for the
confusing of his own intellect--but not hers. She would look at him, he
knew how. She would turn away from him, he knew how. The anticipation of
that glance of high scorn and unspoken condemnation made Rintoul tremble
to the depths of his being. When he thought of it he braced himself up
with a rapidity and certainty much unlike the previous hesitating strain
of his thoughts. "It must be done," he said to himself. He might beguile
himself with argument, but he could not beguile _her_. The thought might
intrude upon him whether he had been wise to let her know--whether it
might not have been better to keep it to himself; but, having done it,
the question was now not only whether he was content to lose Nora--but
if he was content to put up with her scorn and immeasurable contempt.
They all remarked how pale he was when he came to breakfast--ghastly
pale, lines under his eyes, the corners of his mouth drooping; his hair,
which he had tried hard to brush as usual, hung limp, and would not take
its accustomed curl. Lady Lindores tortured him by useless inquiries
about his health. "You are ill--I am sure you are ill. You must let me
send for the doctor." "For goodness' sake, mother, let a fellow alone. I
am as well as you are," had been his amiable answer. He all but swore at
the servants, all but kicked the dog, who thrust with confiding
importunity his head under his master's arm. The situation was
intolerable to him--his thoughts were buzzing in his ears and all about
him, so that he did not hear what the other people said; and they
talked--with what frivolous pertinacity they talked!--about nothing at
all, about the most trivial things; while he was balancing something
that, in his excitement, he felt inclined to call life or death.
But, indeed, Rintoul's impressions as to the gaiety and lively
conversation going on were as far as possible from the truth. There was
scarcely any conversation, but a general embarrassment. Millefleurs was
the only one who said much. He bore his disappointment so sweetly, and
was so entirely master of the situation, that Lord Lindores grew more
and more angry. He made various sharp replies, but the little Marquis
took no heed. He gushed forth, like a flowing stream, a great many
pleasant details about his going home. He was going home in a day or
two. His visit to Lindores was one which he could never forget; it had
gained him, he hoped, friends for life. Wherever he went he would carry
with him the recollection of the kindness he had received. Thus he
flowed forth, doing his best, as usual, to smooth down the embarrassment
of the others. But the hour of the repast was somewhat terrible to
everybody. Decorum required that they should all sit a certain time at
the table, and make a fashion of eating. People have to eat will they
nill they, that they may not betray themselves. They all came to the
surface, so to speak, with a gasp, as Millefleurs said in his round and
velvety voice, "I suppose you are going to Dunearn to this examination,
Lord Lindores?"
"It is a private affair, not an open court; but to show an interest, I
suppose I ought to be somewhere near----" was the answer; and there
arose at that moment a howl of fright and pain from the dog, upon whom
Rintoul had spilt a cup of tea. He got up white and haggard, shaking off
the deluge from his clothes. "These brutes get insufferable," he cried;
"why can we never have a meal without a swarm of them about?"
The proceedings had begun at Dunearn before any of the party from
Lindores arrived there. Rintoul, who was the first to set out, walked,
with a sort of miserable desire of postponing the crisis; and Lord
Lindores, with a kind of sullen friendliness towards John, followed in
his phaeton. They were both late, and were glad to be late; which was
very different from Miss Barbara, who, wound up by anxiety to an
exertion which she could not have believed herself capable of, had
walked from her house, leaning on Nora's arm, and was waiting on the
spot when John was driven up in a shabby old fly from Dunnottar. The old
lady was at the door of the fly before it could be opened, putting out
her hand to him. "My bonnie lad, you'll come to your luncheon with me at
half-past one; and mind that you're not late," she said, in a loud,
cheerful, and confident voice, so that every one could hear. She took no
notice of the lookers-on, but gave her invitation and her greeting with
a fine disdain of all circumstances. Nora, upon whom she was leaning,
was white as marble. Her eyes were strained with gazing along the
Lindores road. "Who are you looking for, Nora?" Miss Barbara had already
asked half-a-dozen times. It was not much support she got from the
tremulous little figure, but the old lady was inspired. She stood till
John had passed into the Town House, talking to him all the time in a
voice which sounded over all the stir of the little crowd which had
gathered about to see him. "Janet cannot bide her dishes to be spoilt.
You will be sure and come in time. I'll not wait for you, for I'm not a
great walker; but everything will be ready at half-past one."
When she had thus delivered her cheerful message, Miss Barbara turned
homeward, not without another remark upon Nora's anxious gaze along the
road. "You are looking for your fine friends from Lindores; we'll see
none of them to-day," said the old lady resolutely, turning her
companion away. She went on talking, altogether unaware how the girl was
suffering, yet touched by a perception of some anxiety in her. "You are
not to be unhappy about John Erskine," she said at last. These words
came to Nora's ears vaguely, through mists of misery, anger, bitter
disappointment, and that wrath with those we love which works like
madness in the brain. What did she care for John Erskine? She had almost
said so, blurting out the words in the intolerance of her trouble, but
did not, restrained as much by incapacity to speak as by any other
hindrance. To think that he for whom she was watching had proved himself
incapable of an act of simple justice! to think that the man whom she
had begun by thinking lightly of, but had been beguiled into loving she
did not know how, sure at all events of his honour and manliness--to
think that he should turn out base, a coward, sheltering himself at the
cost of another! Oh, what did it matter about John Erskine? John Erskine
was a true man--nothing could happen to him. Then there arose all at
once in poor Nora's inexperienced brain that bitterest struggle on
earth, the rally of all her powers to defend and account for, while yet
she scorned and loathed, the conduct of the man she loved. It is easy to
stand through evil report and good by those who are unjustly accused,
who are wronged, for whom and on whose behalf you can hold your head
high. But when, alas! God help them, they are base, and the accusation
against them just! Nora, young, unused to trouble, not knowing the very
alphabet of pain, fell into this horrible pit in a moment, without
warning, without escape. It confused all her faculties, so that she
could do nothing save stumble blindly on, and let Miss Barbara talk of
John Erskine--as if John Erskine and the worst that could happen to him
were anything, anything! in comparison with this passion of misery which
Nora had to bear.
And she was so little used to suffering. She did not know how to bear.
Spartans and Indians and all those traditionary Stoics are bred to
it--trained to bear torture and make no sign; but Nora had never had any
training, and she was not a Spartan or a Red Indian. She was a woman,
which is perhaps next best. She had to crush herself down; to turn away
from the road by which Rintoul might still appear; to go in to the quiet
rooms, to the ordinary morning occupations, to the needle-work which
Miss Barbara liked to see her do. Anything in the world would have been
easier; but this and not anything else in the world was Nora's business.
And the sunny silence of the gentle feminine house, only disturbed by
Miss Barbara's ceaseless talk about John, closed round her. Janet came
"ben" and had her orders. Agnes entered softly with her mistress's cap
and indoor shawl. All went on as it had done for years.
This calm, however, was soon interrupted. The Lindores' carriage drew up
at the door, with all the dash and splendour which distinguishes the
carriage of a countess when it stops at a humble house. Miss Barbara had
a standing prejudice against these fine half-foreign (as she supposed)
people. She rose up with the dignity of an archduchess to receive her
visitors. Lady Lindores was full of anxiety and sympathy. "We are as
anxious as you can be," she said, kissing Miss Barbara warmly before the
old lady could draw back.
"'Deed I cannot say that I am anxious at all," said Miss Barbara, with
her head high. "A thing that never happened cannot be proved against any
man. I am expecting my nephew to his luncheon at half-past one. As
there's nothing against him, he can come to no harm. I will be glad to
see your ladyship and Lady Edith to meet him--at half-past one," the old
lady said, with marked emphasis. She had no inclination to allow herself
to be intruded upon. But Edith attained what her mother failed to
achieve. She could not conceal her agitation and excitement. She grew
red and pale a dozen times in a minute. "Oh yes, Miss Barbara, I feel
with you. I am not anxious at all!" she cried.
Why should she be anxious? what had she to do with John? Her flutter of
changing colour touched Miss Barbara's heart in spite of herself. No,
she would not be a suitable wife for John Erskine; an earl's daughter
was too grand for the house of Dalrulzian. But yet----Miss Barbara could
not help being mollified. She pushed an easy-chair towards the mother of
this bonnie creature. "It will be a pleasure to him to hear that there
are kind hearts caring for what happens to him. If your ladyship will do
me the honour to sit down," she said, with punctilious yet suspicious
respect.
"Papa is there now," said Edith, whispering to Nora; "and Lord
Millefleurs came with us, and will bring us word how things are going.
Rintoul started before any of us----"
"Rintoul!" said Nora--at least she thought she said it. Her lips moved,
a warm suffusion of colour came over her, and she looked wistfully in
Edith's face.
"He thought he would get to Dunearn before us,--but, after all, horses
go faster than men. What is the matter? Are you ill, Nora?"
Nora was past making any reply. The cessation of pain, that is more, a
great deal more, than a negative good. For the first moment, at least,
it is bliss, active bliss--more than anything else known to men. Of
course Nora, when she came to herself, explained that it was a sudden
little spasm, a feeling of faintness,--something she was used to. She
was quite well, she declared; and so it proved by the colour that came
back to her face. "She has not been herself all the morning," said Miss
Barbara; "she will be the better of young company--of somebody like
herself."
After this the ladies tried to talk on indifferent subjects. There were
inquiries to be made for Lady Caroline, "poor thing!" and she was
described as being "better than we should have dared to hope," with as
near an approach to the truth as possible; and then a scattered fire of
remarks, now one, now another, coming to the front with sudden energy;
while the others relapsed into the listening and strain of curiosity.
Miss Barbara held her head high. It was she who was the most steady in
the conversation. She would not suffer it to be seen that she had any
tremor as to what was going on. But the girls were unequal to this
fortitude. They fluctuated from red to white, and from white to red.
They would stop in the middle of a sentence, their voices ending in a
quaver, as if the wind had blown them out. Why should they be so moved?
Miss Barbara noted it keenly, and felt with a thrill of pleasure that
John was getting justice. Two of them!--the bonniest creatures in the
county! How their rival claims were to be settled afterwards she did not
inquire; but in the meantime, at the moment when he was under so dark a
cloud, it warmed her heart to see him so much thought of: the Erskines
always were so; they were a race that women loved and men liked, and the
last representative was worthy of his sires.
Hours seemed to pass while the ladies thus held each other in a
wonderful tension and restraint, waiting for the news: until a little
commotion in the stair, a hurried step, brought them all to their feet
with one impulse. It was little Millefleurs who rushed in with his hat
pressed to his breast. "Forgive the intrusion," he cried, with pants of
utterance; "I'm out of breath; I have run all the way. Erskine is coming
after me with Lord Lindores." He shook hands with everybody vehemently
in his satisfaction. "They let me in because I was the Duke's son, don't
you know; it's convenient now and then; and I bolted with the news. But
nobody presents me to Miss Erskine," he said, aggrieved. "Madam, I am
Millefleurs. I was Erskine's fag at Eton. I have run miles for him to
buy his buns and jam; but I was slimmer in those days."
Miss Barbara had sunk upon a chair. She said, with a panting of her
ample bosom as if she had been running too, "You are too kind, my Lord
Millefleurs. I told John Erskine to be here at half-past one to his
luncheon. You will all wait and meet him. You will wait and meet
him----" She repeated the words with a little sob of age, half laughter
half tears. "The Lord be praised!--though I never had any doubt of it,"
the proud old lady said.
"It has all come perfectly clear," said Millefleurs, pleased with his
position as the centre of this eager group. "The right man, the person
to whom it really happened, has come forward most honourably and given
himself up. I don't clearly understand all the rights of the story. But
there it is; the man couldn't stand it, don't you know. I suppose he
thought nothing would ever be found out; and when he heard that Erskine
was suspected and taken, he was stunned at first. Of course he should
have produced himself at once; but all's well that ends well. He has
done it now."
"The man--that did it?" It was Nora that said this, gazing at him with
perfectly colourless cheeks, standing out in the middle of the room,
apart from the others, who were for the moment too completely satisfied
with the news to ask more.
"Don't think it is crime," said Millefleurs, soothingly. "There is every
reason to conclude that accident will be the verdict. In the meantime, I
suppose he will be committed for trial; but all these are details,
don't you know," he said, in his smooth voice. "The chief thing is, that
our friend is clear and at liberty; and in a few minutes he'll be here."
They scarcely noticed that Nora disappeared out of the room in the
joyful commotion that followed. She went away, almost suffocating with
the effort to keep her emotion down. Did he know of whom it was that he
was speaking? Was it possible that he knew? the son of one, the brother
of another--to Nora more than either. What did it mean? Nora could not
get breath. She could not stay in the room, and see all their relieved,
delighted faces, the undisturbed satisfaction with which they listened
and asked their questions. Was the man a fool? Was he a creature devoid
of heart or perception? An hour ago Nora had thought that Rintoul's
absence from his post would kill her, that to see him do his duty was
all she wanted on earth. But now the indifference of everybody around to
what he had done, the ease with which the story was told, the
unconsciousness of the listeners, was more intolerable to her than even
that despair. She could not bear it. She hurried away, not capable of a
word, panting for breath, choked by her heart, which beat in her throat,
in her very ears--and by the anguish of helplessness and suspense, which
was more than she could bear.