John Erskine returned to Dalrulzian alone after this wonderful morning's
work. He could scarcely believe that he was free to walk where he
pleased,--to do what he liked. Four days is not a long period of time.
But prison has an extraordinary effect, and his very limbs had seemed to
tingle when he got the uncontrolled use of them again. Lord Lindores had
driven him back as far as the gates of Lindores, and from thence he
walked on, glad of the air, the sense of freedom and movement,--the
silence in which to realise all that had passed. Enough had passed,
indeed, to give full occasion for thought; and it was only now that the
extraordinary character of the event struck him. Rolls! to associate
Rolls with a tragedy. In his excitement John burst into a wild fit of
laughter, which echoed along the quiet road; then, horrified by the
sound, drew himself quickly together, and went on with the gravest
countenance in the world. But it must be added that this thought of
Rolls was only momentary,--it came and went, and was dropped into the
surrounding darkness, in which all accidents of common life were heaped
together as insignificant and secondary, in comparison with one central
consciousness with which his whole firmament was ablaze. He had demanded
"More! more!" but had not received another word. No explanation had
ensued. The mother had come in with soft authority, with a steadfast
blank of all understanding. Lady Lindores would not see that they wanted
to talk to each other. She had not ceased to hold her daughter by the
arm, affectionately leaning upon her, until they went away: and Edith
had not spoken another word--had not even met his anxious looks with
more than the most momentary fugitive glance. Thus John had withdrawn in
that state of half certainty which, perhaps, is more absorbing to the
faculties and more transporting to the heart than any definite and
indisputable fact ever can be. His whole being was in movement, agitated
by a delicious doubt, by an eager breathless longing to know, which was
sweeter than knowledge. All the romance and witchcraft of passion was in
it, its most ethereal part
"Hopes, and fears that kindle hopes--
An indistinguishable throng;
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long."
Such was the potency of this charm, that, after he had thrown one
thought at Rolls, and perceived the absurdity of the event, and given
vent to the excited commentary of that laugh, John abandoned himself
altogether to the sea of fancies, the questions, the answers, the
profound trains of reasoning which belonged to that other unresolved and
all-entrancing problem. He discussed with himself every word of Edith's
letter, turning it over and over. Did it mean this? or peradventure,
after all, did it only mean _that_? But if it meant that and not this,
would she have so replied to his looks? would not she have said
something more definitely discouraging when he appealed to her for More!
more? She had not given him a word more; but she had replied with no
stony look, no air of angry surprise or disdain, such as surely----Yet,
on the other hand, might it not be possible that compassion and sympathy
for his extraordinary circumstances, and the wrong he had undergone,
might keep her, so sweet and good as she was, from any discouraging
word? Only, in that case, would she have cast down her eyes _like that_?
would they have melted into that unspeakable sweetness? So he ran on, as
so many have done before him. He thought no more of the matter which had
affected him so deeply for the last week, or of Torrance, who was dead,
or of Rolls, who was in jail, than he did of last year's snow. Every
interest in heaven and earth concentrated to him in these endless
delightful questions. When a man, or, for that matter, a woman, is in
this beatific agitation of mind, the landscape generally becomes a sort
of blurr of light around them, and, save to the inward eye, which more
than ever at such a moment is "the bliss of solitude," there is nothing
that is very clearly visible. John saw this much, but no more, in Miss
Barbara's old-fashioned dining-room--the genial gentlemen still at
table, and Miss Barbara herself, in her white shawl, forming only a
background to the real interest; and he perceived no more of the country
round him as he walked, or the glow of the autumn foliage, the distance
rolling away in soft blueness of autumnal mists to Tinto. He managed to
walk along the road without seeing it, though it was so familiar, and
arrived at his own gate with great surprise, unable to comprehend how he
could have come so far. When he opened the gate, Peggy Fleming came out
with her apron folded over her hands; but when she saw who it was,
Peggy, forgetting the soap-suds, which showed it was washing day, flung
up her red moist arms to the sky, and gave utterance to a wild "skreigh"
of welcome and joy. For a moment John thought nothing less than that he
was to be seized in those wildly waving and soapy arms.
"Eh, it's the master!" Peggy cried. "Eh, it's himsel'! Eh, it's lies,
every word; and I never believed it, no' a moment!" And with that she
threw her apron over her head and began to sob--a sound which brought
out all her children, one after another, to hang upon her skirts and
eagerly investigate the reason why.
The warmth of this emotional welcome amused him, and he paused to say a
word or two of kindness before he passed on. But he had not anticipated
the excitement with which he was to be received. When he came in sight
of his own house, the first sound of his step was responded to by the
watchers within with an anxious alacrity. A head popped out at a window;
a white-aproned figure appeared from the back of the house, and ran back
at the sight of him. And then there arose a "skreigh" of rapture that
threw Peggy's altogether into the shade, and Bauby rushed out upon him,
with open arms, and all her subordinates behind her, moist and flowing
with tears of joy. "Eh, Mr John! Eh, my bonny man! Eh, laddie,
laddie--that I should call you sae! my heart's just broken. And have you
come hame? and have you come hame?"
"As you see," said John. He began to be rather tired of this primitive
rejoicing, which presupposed that his detention had been a very serious
matter, although by this time, in the crowd of other thoughts, it had
come to look of no importance at all. But he remembered that he had a
communication to make which, no doubt, would much lessen this delight;
and he did not now feel at all disposed to laugh when he thought of
Rolls. He took Bauby by the arm, and led her with him, astonished, into
the library. The other maids remained collected in the hall. To them, as
to Peggy at the lodge, it seemed the most natural thing to imagine that
he had escaped, and might be pursued. The excitement rose very high
among them: they thought instantly of all the hiding-places that were
practicable, each one of them being ready to defend him to the death.
And it was very difficult to convey to the mind of Bauby the information
which John had to communicate. "Oh ay, sir," she said, with a curtsey;
"just that. I was sure Tammas was at Dunnotter to be near his maister.
He has a terrible opinion of his maister; but now you're back yoursel',
there will be nothing to keep him."
"You must understand," said John, gently, "that Rolls--it was, I have no
doubt, the merest accident; I wonder it did not happen to myself:
Rolls--caught his bridle, you know----"
"Oh ay,--just that, sir," said Bauby; "but there will be nothing to keep
him, now you're back yoursel'."
"I'm afraid I don't make myself plain," said John. "Try to understand
what I am saying. Rolls--your brother, you know----"
"Oh ay," said Bauby, smiling broadly over all her beaming face, "he's
just my brother--a'body kens that--and a real good brother Tammas has
aye been to me."
John was at his wits' end. He began the story a dozen times over, and
softened and broke it up into easy words, as if he had been speaking to
a child. At last it gradually dawned upon Bauby, not as a fact, but as
something he wanted to persuade her of. It was a shock, but she bore it
nobly. "You are meaning to tell me, sir, that it was Tammas--our
Tammas--that killed Pat Torrance, yon muckle man? Na,--it's just your
joke, sir. Gentlemen will have their jokes."
"My joke!" cried John in horror; "do you think it is anything to joke
about? I cannot understand it any more than you can. But it is fact;--it
is himself that says so. He got hold of the bridle----"
"Na, Mr John; na, na, sir. What is the good of frightening a poor lone
woman? The like of that could never happen. Na, na."
"But it is he himself who has said it; no one else could have imagined
it for a moment. It is his own story----"
"And if it is," said Bauby--"mind ye, Mr John, I ken nothing about it;
but I ken our Tammas,--if it is, he's just said it to save--ithers:
that's the way of it. I ken him and his ways----"
"To save--others?" The suggestion bewildered John.
"Oh ay--it's just that," said Bauby again. She dried her eyes carefully
with her apron, pressing a tear into each corner. "_Him_ pit forth his
hand upon a gentleman, and a muckle man like Pat Torrance, and a muckle
beast! Na, na, Mr John! But he might think, maybe, that a person like
him, no' of consequence--though he's of awfu' consequence to me," said
Bauby, almost falling back into tears. She made an effort, however, and
recovered her smile. "It's just a thing I can very weel understand."
"I think you must be out of your mind," cried her master. "Such things
are not done in our day. What! play with the law, and take upon him
another man's burden? Besides," said John, impatiently, "for whom? In
whom could he be so much interested as to play such a daring game?"
"Oh ay, sir, that's just the question," Bauby said composedly. From time
to time she put up her apron. The shock she had received was
comprehensible, but not the consolation. To follow her in this was
beyond her master's power.
"That is the question indeed," John said gravely. "I think you must be
mistaken. It is very much simpler to suppose what was the case,--that he
gripped at the brute's bridle to save himself from being ridden down. It
is the most wonderful thing in the world that I did not do it myself."
"I'm thinking sae, sir," said Bauby, drily; and then she relapsed for a
moment to the darker view of the situation, and rubbed her eyes with her
apron. "What will they do with him?--is there much they can do with
him?" she said.
She listened to John's explanations with composure, broken by sudden
relapses into emotion; but, on the whole, she was a great deal more calm
than John had expected. Her aspect confounded her master: and when at
last she made him another curtsey, and folding her plump arms, with her
apron over them, announced that "I maun go and see after my denner," his
bewilderment reached its climax. She came back, however, after she had
reached the door, and stood before him for a moment with, if that was
possible to Bauby, a certain defiance. "You'll no' be taking on another
man," she said, with a half-threatening smile but a slight quiver of her
lip, "the time that yon poor lad's away?"
This encounter was scarcely over when he had another claim made upon him
by Beaufort, who suddenly rushed in, breathless and effusive, catching
him by both hands and pouring forth congratulations. It was only then
that it occurred to John as strange that Beaufort had not appeared at
Dunearn, or taken any apparent interest in his fate; but the profuse
explanations and excuses of his friend had the usual effect in directing
his mind towards this dereliction from evident duty. Beaufort overflowed
in confused apologies. "I did go to Dunearn, but I was too late; and I
did not like to follow you to your aunt's, whom I don't know; and
then--and then----The fact is, I had an engagement," was the end of the
whole; and as he said this, a curious change and movement came over
Beaufort's face.
"An engagement! I did not think you knew anybody."
"No,--nor do I, except those I have known for years."
"The Lindores?" John said hastily,--"they were all at Dunearn."
"The fact is----" Here Beaufort paused and walked to the fire, which was
low, and poked it vigorously. He had nearly succeeded in making an end
of it altogether before he resumed. "The fact is,"--with his back to
John,--"I thought it only proper--to call--and make inquiries." He
cleared his throat, then said hurriedly, "In short, Erskine, I have been
to Tinto." There was a tremulous sound in his voice which went to
John's heart. Who was he that he should blame his brother? A
fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind.
"_Déjà!_" was all that John said.
"_Déjà_--yes; perhaps I ought to have waited. But when you reflect how
long--how long it is: and all that has happened, and what we both have
suffered----"
"Do you mean that you have gone over all that already?" John asked,
amazed. But Beaufort made him no reply. The fumes of that meeting were
still in his head, and all that he had said and all that had been said
to him. The master of the house was scarcely out of it, so to speak; his
shadow was still upon the great room, the staircases, and passages; but
Carry had lived, it seemed to her years, since the decree of freedom was
pronounced for her. If there was indecorum in his visit, she was unaware
of it. To feel themselves together, to be able each to pour out to the
other the changes in their minds, the difference of age and experience,
the unchangeableness of the heart, was to them both a mystery--a wonder
inscrutable. Beaufort did not care a brass farthing for John's escape;
he had heard all about it, but he had not even taken it into his mind.
He tried to put on a little interest now, and asked some confused
questions without paying any attention to the answers he received. When
they met at dinner they talked upon indifferent subjects, ignoring on
both sides the things that were of the deepest interest. "Has not Rolls
come back with you? Oh, I beg your pardon,--I forgot," said Beaufort.
And John did not think very much more of Rolls, to tell the truth.
Lord Millefleurs went away a few days after; but Beaufort considered
that, on the whole, it would suit him better to remain in Scotland a
little longer. "What can I do for you?" he said; "the Duke is deceiving
himself. You are quite as well able to look after yourself as I am. Why
should I pretend to exercise functions which we all know are quite
unnecessary? I have only just come, and Erskine is willing to keep me. I
think I shall stay."
"My dear fellow," said little Millefleurs, "your sentiments are mine to
a T; but we agreed, don't you know, that the Duke has a great many
things in his power, and that it might be as well to humour him. You
have eased his mind, don't you know,--and why shouldn't you get the good
of it? You are too viewy and disinterested, and that sort of thing. But
I am a practical man. Come along!" said Millefleurs. When Beaufort
continued to shake his head, as he puffed out solemn mouthfuls of smoke,
planting himself ever more deeply, as if to take root there, in his
easy-chair, Millefleurs turned to John and appealed to him. "Make that
fellow come along, Erskine; it will be for his good," the little Marquis
said. There was a slight pucker in his smooth forehead. "Life is not
plain sailing," he went on; "_les convenances_ are not such humbug as
men suppose. Look here, Beaufort, come along; it will be better for you,
don't you know----"
"I am sick of thinking what is better for me," said Beaufort. "I shall
please myself for once in my life. What have the _convenances_ to do
with me?" He did not meet the look of his junior and supposed pupil, but
got up and threw away his cigar and stalked to the window, where his
long figure shut out almost all the light. Little Millefleurs folded his
plump hands, and shook his round boyish head. The other was a much more
dignified figure, but his outline against the light had a limp
irresolution in it. He knew that he ought to go away; but how could he
do it? To find your treasure that was lost after so many years, and then
go straight away and leave it--was that possible? And then, perhaps, it
had flashed across Beaufort's mind, who had been hanging on waiting for
fortune so long, and never had bestirred himself,--perhaps it flashed
upon him that now--_now_--the Duke's patronage, and the places and
promotions in his power, might be of less importance. But this was only
a shadow flying like the shadows of the hills upon which he was gazing,
involuntary, so that he was not to blame for it. Millefleurs went away
alone next day. He took a very tender farewell of the ladies at
Lindores, asking permission to write to them. "And if I hear anything of
_her_, don't you know? I shall tell you," he said to Edith, holding her
hand affectionately in both of his. "You must hear something of her--you
must go and find her," said Edith. Millefleurs put his head on one side
like a sentimental robin. "But it is quite unsuitable, don't you know?"
he said, and drove away, kissing his hand with many a tender token of
friendship. Lord Lindores could scarcely endure to see these evidences
of an affectionate parting. He had come out, as in duty bound, to speed
the parting guest with the proper smile of hospitable regret; but as
soon as Millefleurs was out of sight, turned upon his heel with an
expression of disgust. "He is a little fool, if he is not a little
humbug. I wonder if he ever was in earnest at all?" This was addressed
to Rintoul, who of late had avoided all such subjects, and now made no
reply.
"I say, I wonder whether he ever meant anything serious at all?" said
Lord Lindores, in a tone of irritation, having called his son into the
library after him; "and you don't even take the trouble to answer me.
But one thing he has done, he has invited you to Ess Castle; and as I
suggested to you before, there is Lady Reseda, a very nice girl, in
every way desirable----"
"I have had my leave already," said Rintoul, hastily. "It was kind of
Millefleurs; but I don't see how I can go----"
"I never knew before that there was any such serious difficulty about
leave," said his father. "You can cut off your last fortnight here."
"I don't think that would do," said Rintoul, with a troubled look. "I
have made engagements--for nearly every day."
"You had better speak out at once. Tell me, what I know you are
thinking, that the Duke's daughter, because your father suggests her, is
not to be thought of. You are all alike. I once thought you had some
sense, Rintoul."
"I--I hope I have so still. I don't think it is good taste to bring in a
lady's name----"
"Oh, d----n your good taste," cried the exasperated father; "a
connection of this kind would be everything for me. What I am trying to
obtain will, remember this, be for you and your children as well. You
have no right to reap the benefit if you don't do what you can to bring
it about."
"I should like to speak to you on--on the whole subject--some time or
other," said the young man. He was like a man eager to give a blow, yet
so frightened that he ran away in the very act of delivering it. Lord
Lindores looked at him with suspicious eyes.
"I don't know any reason why you shouldn't speak now. It would be well
that we should understand each other," he said.
But this took away all power from Rintoul. He almost trembled as he
stood before his father's too keen--too penetrating eyes.
"Oh, don't let me trouble you now," he said, nervously; "and besides, I
have something to do. Dear me, it is three o'clock!" he cried, looking
at his watch and hurrying away. But he had really no engagement for
three o'clock. It was the time when Nora, escaping from her old lady,
came out for a walk; and they had met on several occasions, though never
by appointment. Nora, for her part, would not have consented to make any
appointment. Already she began to feel herself in a false position. She
was willing to accept and keep inviolable the secret with which he had
trusted her; but that she herself, a girl full of high-mindedness and
honour, should be his secret too, and carry on a clandestine intercourse
which nobody knew anything of, was to Nora the last humiliation. She had
not written home since it happened; for to write home and not to tell
her mother of what had happened, would have seemed to the girl
falsehood. She felt false with Miss Barbara; she had an intolerable
sense at once of being wronged, and wrong, in the presence of Lady
Lindores and Edith. She would no more have made an appointment to meet
him than she would have told a lie. But poor Nora, who was only a girl
after all, notwithstanding these high principles of hers, took her walk
daily along the Lindores road. It was the quietest, the prettiest. She
had always liked it better than any other--so she said to herself; and
naturally Rintoul, who could not go to Dunearn save by that way, met her
there. She received him, not with any rosy flush of pleasure, but with a
blush that was hot and angry, resolving that to-morrow she would turn
her steps in a different direction, and that this should not occur
again; and she did not even give him her hand when they met, as she
would have done to the doctor or the minister, or any one of the
ordinary passers-by.
"You are angry with me, Nora," he said.
"I don't know that I have any right to be angry. We have very little to
do with each other, Lord Rintoul."
"Nora!" he cried; "Nora! do you want to break my heart. What is this? It
is not so very long since!----"
"It is long enough," she said, "to let me see----It is better that we
should not say anything more about that. One is a fool--one is taken by
surprise--one does not think what it means----"
"Do you imagine I will let myself be thrown off like this?" he cried,
with great agitation. "Nora, why should you despise me so--all for the
sake of old Rolls?"
"It is not all for the sake of old Rolls."
"I will go and see him, if you like, to-day. I will find out from him
what he means. It is his own doing, it is not my doing. You know I was
more surprised than any one. Nora, think! If you only think, you will
see that you are unreasonable. How could I stand up and contradict a man
who had accused himself?"
"I was not thinking of Rolls," cried Nora, who had tried to break in on
this flood of eloquence in vain. "I was thinking of----Lord Rintoul, I
am not a person of rank like you--I don't know what lords and ladies
think it right to do--but I will not have clandestine meetings with any
one. If a man wants me, if he were a prince, he must ask my father,--he
must do it in the eye of day, not as if he were ashamed. Good-bye! do
not expect me to see you any more." She turned as she spoke, waved her
hand, and walked quickly away. He was too much astonished to say a
word. He made a step or two after her, but she called to him that she
would not suffer it, and walked on at full speed. Rintoul looked after
her aghast. He tried to laugh to himself, and to say, "Oh, it is that,
is it?" but he could not. There was nothing gratifying to his pride to
be got out of the incident at all. He turned after she was out of sight,
and went home crestfallen. She never turned round, nor looked
back,--made no sign of knowing that he stood there watching her. Poor
Rintoul crept along homeward in the early gloaming with a heavy heart.
He would have to beard the lions, then--no help for it; indeed he had
always intended to do it, but not now, when there was so much excitement
in the air.