It happened after this that John Erskine, by no will of his own, was
drawn repeatedly into the society of the somewhat lonely pair at Tinto.
Torrance had never been popular, though the county extended to him that
toleration which a rich man, especially when young, is apt to receive.
There were always benevolent hopes that he might mend as long as he
remained unmarried; and after his marriage, his wife bore the blame of
more than half his misdeeds. To tell the truth, poor Carry, being so
unhappy, did not take pains to conciliate her neighbours. Some she took
up with almost feverish eagerness, and she had two or three impassioned
friends; but she had none of that sustaining force of personal happiness
which makes it possible to bear the weariness of dull country company,
and she had not taken any particular pains to please the county: so
that, except on the periodical occasions when the great rooms were
thrown open to a large party, she and her husband, so little adapted as
they were to indemnify each other for the loss of society, lived much
alone in their great house, with none of that coming and going which
enlivens life. And since what he called the satisfaction which John had
given him, Torrance had experienced a sort of rough enthusiasm for his
new neighbour. He was never weary of proclaiming him to be an honest
fellow. "That's the way to meet a man," he would say--"straightforward;
if there's any mistake, say it out." And Erskine was overwhelmed with
invitations to "look in as often as he pleased," to "take pot-luck,"--to
come over to Tinto as often as he wearied. Sometimes he yielded to those
solicitations out of pity for poor Carry, who seemed, he thought,
pleased to see him; and sometimes because, in face of this oppressive
cordiality, it was difficult to say no. He did not enjoy these evenings;
but the soft look of pleasure in poor Carry's eyes, the evident relief
with which she saw him come in, went to John's heart. Not a word had
passed between them on the subject which all their neighbours discussed
so fully. No hint of domestic unhappiness crossed Carry's lips: and yet
it seemed to John that she had a kind of sisterly confidence in him. Her
face brightened when he appeared. She did not engage him in long
intellectual conversations as she did Dr Stirling. She said, indeed,
little at all to him, but she was grateful to him for coming, and
relieved from that which she would not complain of or object to--the
sole society of her husband. This consciousness touched John more than
if he had been entirely in her confidence. A kind of unspoken alliance
seemed to exist between them.
One evening when June was nearly over in the long never-ending Northern
daylight, this tacit understanding was at once disturbed and
intensified. John had been captured by his too cordial neighbour in the
languid afternoon when he had nothing to do, and had been feeling
somewhat drearily the absence of occupation and society. Torrance could
not supply him with either, but his vacant condition left him without
excuse or power to avoid the urgent hospitality. He had walked to Tinto
in all the familiarity of county neighbourhood, without evening dress or
ceremony of any kind. They had dined without the epergnes and mountains
of silver which Torrance loved, in the low dining-room of the old house
of Tinto, which still existed at one end of the great modern mansion.
This room opened on the terrace which surrounded the house, with an ease
not possible in the lofty Grecian erection, well elevated from the
ground, which formed the newer part. Lady Caroline, who had left the
gentlemen some time before, became visible to them as they sat at their
wine, walking up and down the terrace with her baby in her arms. The
child had been suffering from some baby ailment, and had been dozing a
great part of the day, which made it unwilling to yield to sleep when
evening came. The mother had brought it out wrapped in a shawl, and was
singing softly to lull it to rest. The scene was very tranquil and
sweet. Sunset reflections were hanging still about the sky, and a pearly
brightness was diffused over the horizon--light that looked as if it
never meant to fade. The trees of the park lay in clustered masses at
their feet, the landscape spread out like a map beyond, the hills rose
blue against the ethereal paleness of the distance. Close at hand, Lady
Caroline's tall, pliant figure, so light and full of languid grace, yet
with a suggestion of weakness which was always pathetic, went and
came--the child's head upon her shoulder, her own bent over it--moving
softly, singing under her breath. The two men, sitting together with
little conversation or mutual interest between them, were roused by the
sight of this passing figure. Even Tinto's rude gaze was softened by it.
He looked out at his wife and child with something more like human
tenderness than was usual to him. Himself for a moment gave place in the
foreground to this embodiment of the nearest and closest ties of life.
He stopped in the talk which he was giving forth at large in his usual
loud monologue, unaffected by any reply, and something softened the big
balls of his light projecting eyes. "Let's step outside and finish our
cigars," he said, abruptly. Lady Caroline herself looked different from
her wont. The child against her heart soothed the pain in it: there is
no such healing application. It was not a delightful child, but it was
her own. One of its arms was thrown round her neck; its head, heavy with
sleep, to which it would not yield, now nestled into her shoulder, now
rose from it with a sleepy half-peevish cry. She was wholly occupied
with the little perverse creature, patting it with one thin soft hand,
murmuring to it. The little song she was crooning was contemptible so
far as music went, but it was soft as a dove's cooing. She had forgotten
herself, and her woes, and her shipwrecked life. Even when that harsher
step came out on the gravel, she did not recognise it with her usual
nervous start. All was soothed and softened in the magical evening calm,
in the warm softness of the baby, lying against the ache in its mother's
heart.
And Torrance, for a wonder, did not disturb this calm. He stopped to
touch the child's cheek with his finger as his wife passed him, but as
this broke once more the partial slumber, he subsided into quiet with a
sense of guiltiness, puffing his cigar at intervals, but stepping as
lightly as he could with his heavy feet, and saying nothing. A touch of
milder emotion had come to his rude bosom. Not only was that great park,
those woods, and a large share of the surrounding country, his own, but
this woman with her baby was his, his property, though so much more
delicate, and finer than he. This moved him with a kind of wondering
sense of the want of something which amid so much it might yet be
possible to attain--happiness, perhaps, in addition to possession. His
breast swelled with pride in the thought that even while thus engrossed
in the humblest feminine occupation, like any cottager, nobody could
mistake Lady Car Torrance for anything less than she was. They might
think her a princess, perhaps. He did not know any princess that had
that carriage, he said to himself; but less or meaner, nobody could
suppose her to be. And he was touched to see her with his child, her
whole soul--that soul which had always eluded him, and retained its
chill superiority to him--wrapped up in the baby, who was his as much as
hers. There was in the air a kind of flutter of far-off wings, as if
peace might be coming, as if happiness might be possible even between
this ill-matched pair.
John Erskine was the spectator in this curious domestic scene. He looked
on with wondering, half-pleased, half-indignant observation. He was
almost angry that Carry should be lowered to the level of this husband
of hers, even if it gave her for a time a semblance of happiness; and
yet his heart was touched by this possibility of better things. When the
child went to sleep, she looked up at the two men with a smile. She was
grateful to her husband for his silence, for bringing no disturbance of
the quiet with him; and grateful to John for having, as she thought,
subdued Torrance by his influence. She made to them both that little
offering of a grateful smile as she sat down on the garden-seat, letting
the child rest upon her knee. The baby's head had slid down to her arm,
and it lay there in the complete and perfect repose which a mother's
arms, protecting, sustaining, warm, seem to give more than any bed. The
air was so sweet, the quiet so profound, that Carry was pleased to
linger out of doors. Not often had she shown any desire to linger in her
husband's society when not bound by duty to do so. This evening she did
it willingly. For the moment, a _faux air_ of well-being, of happiness
and domestic peace, seemed to pervade the earth and the air. "It is so
sweet, it cannot do her any harm to stay out a little," she said,
smiling at them over the baby's sleeping face, which was half hidden in
the soft, fleecy white shawl that enveloped it. John Erskine sat down at
a little distance, and Torrance stood with a half humility about him,
half ashamed, willing to do or say something which would be tender and
conciliatory, but not knowing how. They began to talk in low tones,
Erskine and Carry bearing the _frais_ of the conversation. Sometimes
Torrance put in a word, but generally the large puffs of his cigar were
his chief contribution. He was willing to let them talk. Nay, he was not
without a certain pleasure, in this softened mood of his, in hearing
them talk. He would have allowed freely that conversation was not in his
way.
"They are coming now in about ten days," Carry said. "Of course they
have stayed longer than they meant to stay. People never leave town on
the appointed day."
"There are so many people to see."
"And so many things are put off till the last. I remember how hurried we
were,--how rapidly the days flew at the end."
"You do not go to town now?"
"No," she said, hurriedly; "it is no deprivation. We--neither of
us--care for London."
Torrance felt a certain gratitude to his wife for thus identifying her
inclinations with his. "If truth were told, maybe that might be
modified," he said. "I daresay you would like it, Car. You would get
people to talk to. That's what amuses her," he added, with an
explanatory glance at John. It was a novel sort of pleasure to him to
give this amiable explanation of Lady Caroline's peculiarities, without
any of the rough satire in it with which he was accustomed to treat the
things he did not understand; and his constant pride in her found a new
outlet. "It's not gaieties she wants, it's conversation," he said, with
a softened laugh. "Next year we must see if we can't manage it, Car."
She turned to him with a startled glance, not knowing whether to
deprecate all change so far as herself was concerned, or to thank him
for this unusual thoughtfulness. Fortunately, her instinct chose the
latter course. "It is kind of you to think of me," she said, in her soft
voice. In all their wretched married life, they had never been so near
before. He replied by his usual laugh, in which there was always a
consciousness of that power of wealth which he could never forget he
possessed. Oh yes, he would do it--he could do it whenever he
pleased--buy pleasures for her, just as he might buy dresses or jewels
for her, if she would take a little pains to make herself agreeable. But
even the laugh was much softer than usual. She gave him a little nod
over the sleeping child, in which there was kindness as well as an
astonished gratitude. Perhaps she had never been so much at her ease
with him before.
"They are going to fill the house in the autumn," she said, returning
to the previous subject. "I hear of several people coming. A certain
Lord Millefleurs----"
"That reminds me," said John, "that I had a letter the other day--from
one of our old Swiss party. You will remember him, Lady Caroline----"
Here he paused, with a sudden recollection and putting together of
various things which, in the curious inadvertence of an indifferent
mind, he had not thought of before. This made him break off somewhat
suddenly, and raise his eyes to Carry, at whom he had not been looking,
with an alarmed glance.
He saw her take a large grasp, in the hand which had been laid softly
upon it, at ease, with extended fingers, of the baby's shawl. Her face,
which had been so smiling and soft, grew haggard and wild in a moment.
Her eyes seemed to look out from caverns. There was a momentary pause,
which seemed to arouse heaven and earth to listen. Then her voice came
into this suddenly altered, vigilant, suspicious atmosphere. "Who was
it, Mr Erskine?" Poor Carry tried to smile, and to keep her voice in its
usual tone. But the arrow flying so suddenly at a venture had gone
straight into her heart. She had no need to ask--had she not divined it
all along?
"Probably you have forgotten--his very name. It was--one of those
fellows," stammered John. "I forget how little a party like ours was
likely to interest you. Beaufort--you may remember the name."
He felt that every word he uttered--his artificial levity, his forced
attempt to make that unimportant which only his consciousness that it
was deeply important could have suggested such a treatment of, was a new
folly. He was doing it for the best--most futile of all excuses. When he
looked at her again at the end of this speech, not daring to meet her
eyes while he gave it forth, he saw, to his astonishment, a rising
colour, a flutter of indignation, in Carry's pale face.
"Surely," she said, with a strange thrill in her voice, "you do your
friend injustice, Mr Erskine. So far as I remember, he was very
distinguished--far the most remarkable of the party. I do not think I
can be mistaken."
"No, no, you are quite right," John cried; "I only meant that--these
things were much to us; but I did not know whether you would
recollect--whether to a lady----"
"You are all so contemptuous of women," Lady Caroline said, with a faint
smile, "even the kindest of you. You think a lady would only notice
frivolous excellences, and would not care for real distinction. That is
a great mistake. It is all the other way. It is we who think of these
things most."
"I beg a thousand pardons--I had no such meaning," John said; and she
made him a little tremulous bow. She was so deadly pale, that he
expected every moment to see her faint. But she did not. She continued,
naturally calling him back to what he had been about to tell her.
"You had a letter from Mr Beaufort? about----you were going to tell
me----"
"About coming here," said John, feeling that to say it out bluntly was
now the best. "It appears he has a sort of charge of this Lord
Millefleurs."
"Charge of Lord?----That is not a dignified position--for--your friend,
Mr Erskine."
"No. I don't know what it means; he has not made the progress he ought
to have made; but there is something special about this," said John,
hesitating, not knowing how far to go.
Again Lady Caroline made him a little bow. She rose, with some stiffness
and slowness, as if in pain. "It grows late, though it is so light. Baby
will be better indoors," she said. She went quickly away, but wavering a
little in her gait, as if she were unconscious of obstacles in the way,
and disappeared through the window of the old library, which was on the
same level as the dining-room. John stood looking after her, with a
bewildering sense of guilt, and alarm for he knew not what. All this
time Torrance had not said a word; but he had taken in every word that
was said, and his jealous eyes had noted the changes in his wife's face.
He watched her go away, as John did. When she had disappeared, both of
them listened for a moment in silence. Neither would have been surprised
to hear a fall and cry; but there was nothing. Torrance threw himself
down heavily in the seat from which she had risen.
"That was a pity, Erskine," he said; "you saw that well enough. You can
tell me the rest about this Beaumont--Beaufort--what do you call
him?--that you thought it best not to tell Lady Car."
"There is nothing to tell about Beaufort," said John, "which Lady
Caroline, or any lady, might not hear."
"Now just look you here, John Erskine," said Tinto, projecting his big
eyes, "I thought you were he--that is the truth. She told me there was
somebody. I thought it was you, and I was determined to be at the bottom
of it. Now here's the man, beyond a doubt, and you know it as well as I
do."
"I don't know it at all," cried John, "which probably is as much as you
do. Can you suppose I should have spoken to Lady Caroline as I did if I
had supposed--believed--known anything at all?"
"I will say," said Torrance, "that you're an honest fellow. That stands
to reason: you wouldn't have opened your mouth if you had thought--but
then you never thought till after you had spoken. Then you saw it as
well as me."
"Torrance!" cried John, "for heaven's sake, don't imagine things that
were never thought of! I know nothing about it--absolutely nothing. Even
had there been anything in it, it is six years ago--it is all over; it
never can have had anything to say to you----"
"Oh, as for that," said Torrance, "if you think I've any fear of Lady
Car going wrong, set your mind at rest on that point. No fear of Lady
Car. If you suppose I'm jealous, or that sort of thing"--and here he
laughed, insolent and dauntless. "I thought it was you," he said--"I
don't see why I should conceal that--I thought it was you. And if you
think I would have shut her ladyship up, or challenged you!--not a bit
of it, my fine fellow! I meant to have asked you here--to have seen you
meet--to have taken my fun out of it. I'm no more afraid of Lady Car
than I am of myself. Afraid!--not one bit. She shall see just as much of
him as possible, if he comes here. I mean to ask him to the house. I
mean to have him to dinner daily. You can tell him so, with my
compliments. You needn't say any more to Lady Car; but as for me,
there's nothing I'd enjoy more. Tutoring, is he?" Torrance said, with a
sort of chuckle of wrathful enjoyment: and he cast an eye over his
demesne, with a glow of proud satisfaction upon his face.
The sentiment of the evening calm had altogether disappeared. The peace
of nature was broken up; a sense of human torture, human cruelty, was in
the air. It was as if a curtain had been lifted in some
presence-chamber, and the rack disclosed beneath. Torrance lounged
back--with his hands in his pockets, his cheeks inflamed, his great eyes
rolling--in the seat from which poor Carry with her baby had risen. His
mind, which had been softened, touched to better things, and which had
even begun to think of means and ways of making her happier, turned in a
moment to more familiar preoccupations. To have _him_ here--he who was
merely "tutoring," a genteel attendant upon a foolish young lord,--to
exhibit him, probably penniless, probably snubbed by everybody around, a
dependant, a man without position or wealth,--was an idea altogether
delightful to him. It was indeed a fierce delight, a cruel pleasure; but
it was more congenial to his mind than the unnatural softness of the
hour before.
And was it all John Erskine's doing?--his foolishness, his want of
thought? When he left Torrance in disgust, and hurried away along the
now familiar avenue, where he no longer took any wrong turns, his
foolishness and thoughtlessness overwhelmed him. To be sure!--a thousand
recollections rushed upon his mind. He had known it all along, and how
was it that he had not known it? The moment he had committed himself and
begun to speak of Beaufort's letter, that moment he had foreseen
everything that followed--just as poor Carry had read what was coming in
his first sentence. It was he who had disturbed the evening calm--the
_rapprochement_ of the two who, doomed as they were to live their lives
together, ought by all about them to be helped to draw near each other.
Full of these disquieting thoughts, he was skirting a clump of thick
shrubbery at some distance from the house, when something glided out
from among the bushes and laid a sudden light touch upon his arm. He was
already in so much excitement that he could not suppress a cry of alarm,
almost terror. There was no light to distinguish anything, and the dark
figure was confused with the dark foliage. Almost before the cry had
left his lips, John entreated pardon. "You are--breathing the evening
air," he said, confused, "now that the little one is asleep."
But she had no leisure for any vain pretences. "Mr Erskine," she said,
breathless, "do not let him come--ask him not to come! I have come out
to tell you. I could not say it--there."
"I will do whatever you tell me, Lady Caroline."
"I know you will be kind. This makes me very miserable. Oh, it is not
that I could not meet him! It is because I know my husband has an
idea,--not that he is jealous--and he does not mean to be cruel,--but he
has an idea----He would like to look on, to watch. That is what I could
not bear. Tell him, Mr Erskine--beg him--of all places in the world, not
to come here."
"He will not come, I am sure, to give you a moment's uneasiness."
"Mr Erskine, I must say more to you," she said, drawing closer, putting
once more her hand on his arm. "It must not be on that ground--nothing
must be said of me. Cannot you understand? He must not come; but not
because of me--nothing must be said of me. If it was your sister, oh
would you not understand?"
He took her hand into his in the profound feeling of the moment. "I will
try to do--what I should do if it were my own sister," he said, resting
it in his. "It was my fault; I ought to have known."
"There was no fault," she said, faintly; "an accident. I knew it must
happen some time. I was--prepared. But, Mr Erskine, it is not because I
could not meet--any one. Do not think that for me only----It is
because--because----But if you understand, that is all."
"Let me walk back with you to the house," John said.
"No, no; it is almost wrong to speak to you in this clandestine way. But
what can I do? And you who know--all parties----If I said anything to my
brother, it might make a breach. There is no one I could speak to but
you. I should have had to suffer helplessly, to hold my peace."
"Believe me--believe me," cried John, "all that a brother can do, I will
do."
In the midst of this misery, which he felt to the bottom of his heart,
there ran through him a secret stir of pleasure. Her brother!--the
suggestion went through all his veins. Strange encounter of the dream
with the fact! The cold trembling hand he held in his gave him a thrill
of warmth and happiness, and yet his sympathy was as strong, his pity as
profound, as one human creature ever felt for another. He stood still
and watched her as she flitted back to the house, like a shadow in the
gathering darkness. His heart ached, yet beat high. If it should ever be
so, how different would be the fate of the other daughter of
Lindores's!--how he would guard her from every vexation, smooth every
step of her way, strew it with flowers and sweetnesses! He resumed his
way more quickly than ever, hastening along in the soft darkness which
yet was not dark, by the Scaur--the short cut which had alarmed his
groom. To the pedestrian the way by the Scaur was the best way. He
paused a moment when he reached it, to look out through the opening in
the trees over the broad country, lying like a dream in that mystical
paleness which was neither night nor day. Underneath, the river rushed
joyously, noisily, through the night--not still, like a Southern stream,
but dashing over the stones, and whirling its white eddies in foam
against the bank. The sound of the water accompanied the quick current
of his thoughts. He had a long walk before him, having come without
preparation and left in haste and displeasure. But seven or eight miles
of country road in a night of June is no such punishment. And the
thoughts that had been roused in him, made the way short. How
different--how different would be the fate of that other daughter of
Lindores's! It was only when he reached his own gate that he woke up
with a start to remember indeed how different it would be. The bare
little white house, with its little plantation, its clump of firs on the
hill-top, its scanty avenue--the little estate, which could almost be
said, with scornful exaggeration, to lie within the park of Tinto--the
position of a small squire's wife,--was it likely that Lord Lindores
would smile upon that for his daughter? John's heart, which had been so
buoyant, sank down into the depths. He began to see that his dream was
ridiculous, his elation absurd. He to be the brother, in that sweetest
way, of Carry Lindores! But nevertheless he vowed, as he went home
somewhat crestfallen, that he would be a brother to her. She had given
him her confidence, and he had given her his promise, and with this bond
no worldly prudence nor rule of probabilities should be allowed to
interfere.