The summer went over without any special incident. August and the grouse
approached, or rather the Twelfth approached, August having already
come. Every bit of country not arable or clothed with pasture, was
purple and brilliant with heather; and to stand under the columns of the
fir-trees on a hillside, was to be within such a world of "murmurous
sound" as you could scarcely attain even under the southern limes, or by
the edge of the sea. The hum of the bees among the heather--the warm
luxurious sunshine streaming over that earth-glow of heather-bells--what
is there more musical, more complete? These hot days are rare, and the
sportsman does not esteem them much; but when they come, the sun that
floods the warm soil, the heather that glows back again in endless
warmth and bloom, the bees that never intermit their hum "numerous" as
the lips of any poet, the wilder mystic note that answers from the
boughs of the scattered firs, make up a harmony of sight and sound to
which there are few parallels. So Lord Millefleurs thought when he
climbed up the hill above Dalrulzian, and looking down on the other
side, saw the sea of brilliant moorland, red and purple and golden, with
gleams here and there of the liveliest green,--fine knolls of moss upon
the grey-green of the moorland grass. He declared it was "a new
experience," with a little lisp, but a great deal of feeling. Lady
Lindores and Edith were of the party with John Erskine. They had lunched
at Dalrulzian, and John was showing his poor little place with a
somewhat rueful civility to the Duke of Lavender's son. Millefleurs was
all praise and admiration, as a visitor ought to be; but what could he
think of the handful of a place, the small house, the little wood, the
limited establishment? They had been recalling the Eton days, when John
was, the little Marquis declared, far too kind a fag-master. "For I must
have been a little wretch," said the little fat man, folding his hands
with angelical seriousness and simplicity. Lady Lindores, who had once
smiled at his absurdities with such genial liking, could not bear them
now, since she had taken up the idea that Edith might be a duchess. She
glanced at her daughter to see how she was taking it, and was equally
indignant with Millefleurs for making himself ridiculous, and with
Edith for laughing. "I have no doubt you were the best fag that ever
was," she said.
"Dear Lady Lindores! always so good and so kind," said Millefleurs,
clasping his little fat hands. "No, dearest lady, I was a little brute;
I know it. To be kicked every day would have been the right thing for
me--and Erskine, if I recollect right, had an energetic toe upon
occasions, but not often enough. Boys are brutes in general:--with the
exception of Rintoul, who, I have no doubt, was a little angel. How
could he be anything else, born in such a house?"
"If you think Lindores has so good an effect, Rintoul was not born
there," she said, laughing, but half vexed: for she had not indeed any
idea of being laughed at in her turn, and she was aware that she had
never thought Rintoul an angel. But Lord Millefleurs went on seriously--
"Rintoul will despise me very much, and so, probably, will Erskine; but
I do not mean to go out to-morrow. I take the opportunity here of
breaking the news. If it is as fine as this, I shall come out here (if
you will let me) and lie on this delicious heather, watch you strolling
forth, and listen to the crack of the guns. No; I don't object to it on
principle. I like grouse, and I suppose that's the best way to kill
them, if you will take so much trouble; but for me, it is not my way of
enjoyment. I was not made to be a son of civilisation. Do not laugh,
Lady Edith, please; you hurt my feelings. If you take luncheon to the
sportsmen anywhere, I will go with you: unless you, as I suppose you
will, despise me too."
"I don't think it is such a noble thing to shoot birds, Lord
Millefleurs."
"But yet you don't dislike grouse--and it must be killed somehow," said
John, somewhat irritated, as was natural.
"My dear fellow, I don't find fault with you. I see your position
perfectly. It is a thing you have always done. It is an occupation, and
at the same time an excitement, a pleasure. I have felt the same thing
in California with the cattle. But it doesn't amuse me, and I am not a
great shot. I will help to carry your luncheon, if Lady Lindores will
let me, and enjoy the spectacle of so many healthy happy persons who
feel that they have earned their dinner. All that I sympathise in
perfectly. You will excuse me saying dinner," said Millefleurs, with
pathos. "When we got our food after a morning's work we always called it
dinner. In many things I have quite returned to civilisation; but there
are some particulars still in which I slip--forgive me. May we sit down
here upon the heather and tell stories? I had a reputation once in that
way. You would not care for my stories, Lady Edith; you know them all
by heart. Now this is what I call delightful," said little Millefleurs,
arranging himself carefully upon the heather, and taking off his hat.
"You would say it is lovely, if you were an American."
"Do you mean the moor? I think it is very lovely, with all the heather
and the gorse, and the burns and the bees. Out of Scotland, is there
anything like it?" Edith said.
"Oh yes, in several places; but it is not the moor, it is the moment. It
is lovely to sit here. It is lovely to enjoy one's self, and have a good
time. Society is becoming very American," said Millefleurs. "There are
so many about. They are more piquant than any other foreigners. French
has become absurd, and Italian pedantic; but it is amusing to talk a
foreign language which is in English words, don't you know."
"You are to come back with them to dinner, Mr Erskine," Lady Lindores
said. She thought it better, notwithstanding her prevailing fear that
Millefleurs would be absurd, to leave him at liberty to discourse to
Edith, as he loved to discourse. "I hope you are going to have a fine
day. The worst is, you will all be so tired at night you will not have a
word to bestow upon any one."
"I have not too many at any time," said John, with a glance, which he
could not make quite friendly, at the visitor--who was flowing blandly
on with his lisp, with much gentle demonstration, like a chemical
operator or a _prestidigitateur_, with his plump hands. Our young man
was not jealous as yet, but a little moved with envy--being not much of
a talker, as he confessed--of Millefleurs's fluency. But he had thrown
himself at Edith's feet, and in this position felt no bitterness, nor
would have changed places with any one, especially as now and then she
would give him a glance in which there was a secret communication and
mirthful comment upon the other who occupied the foreground. Lady
Lindores preferred, however, that he should talk to her and withdraw his
observation from her daughter. Reluctantly, against the grain, she was
beginning in her turn to plot and to scheme. She was ashamed of herself,
yet, having once taken up the plan, it touched her pride that it should
be carried out.
"I have always found you had words enough whenever you wished to say
them," she said. "Perhaps you will tell me everybody has that. And Lord
Lindores tells me you don't do yourself justice, Mr Erskine. He says you
speak very well, and have such a clear head. I think," she added with a
sigh, "it is you who ought to be in Parliament, and not Rintoul."
"That is past thinking of," John said, with a little heightened colour.
He thought so himself; but neither could the party bear a divided
interest, nor had he himself any influence to match that of Lord
Lindores.
"You are going to Tinto on Tuesday," said Lady Lindores, "with the rest?
Do you know, Mr Erskine, my boy has never met his brother-in-law since
that evening here, when some words passed. I never could make out what
they were. Not enough to make a quarrel of? not enough to disturb
Carry----"
"I do not think so. It was only a--momentary impatience," John said.
"Mr Erskine, I am going to ask you a great favour. It is if you would
keep in Rintoul's company, keep by him; think, in a family how dreadful
it would be if any quarrel sprang up. The visit will not last long. If
you will keep your eye upon him, keep between him and temptation----"
John could not help smiling. The position into which he was being urged,
as a sort of governor to Rintoul, was entirely absurd to his own
consciousness. "You smile," cried Lady Lindores, eagerly; "you think
what right has this woman to ask so much? I am not even a very old
friend."
"I am laughing at the idea that Rintoul should be under my control; he
is more a man of the world than I am."
"Yes," said his mother, doubtfully, "that is true. He is dreadfully
worldly in some ways; but, Mr Erskine, I wonder if you will disapprove
of me when I say it has been a comfort to me to find him quite boyish
and impulsive in others? He is prudent--about Edith for example."
"About--Lady Edith?" John said, faltering, with a look of intense
surprise and anxiety on his face.
There is no doubt that Lady Lindores was herself a most imprudent woman.
She gave him a quick sudden glance, reddened, and then looked as
suddenly at the other group: Millefleurs, flowing forth in placid talk,
with much eloquent movement of his plump hands, and Edith listening,
with a smile on her face which now and then seemed ready to overflow
into laughter. She betrayed herself and all the family scheme by this
glance,--so sudden, so unintentional,--the action of one entirely
unskilled in the difficult art of deception. John's glance followed hers
with a sudden shock and pang of dismay. He had not thought of it before;
now in a moment he seemed to see it all. It was an unfortunate moment
too; for Edith was slightly leaning forward, looking at her companion
with a most amiable and friendly aspect, almost concealing, with the
forward stoop of her pretty figure, the rotund absurdity of his. She
smiled, yet she was listening to him with all the absorbed attention of
a Desdemona; and the little brute had so much to say for himself! The
blood all ran away from John's healthful countenance to replenish his
heart, which had need of it in this sudden and most unlooked-for shock.
Lady Lindores saw the whole, and shared the shock of the discovery,
which to her was double, for she perceived in the same moment that she
had betrayed herself, and saw what John's sentiments were. Some women
divine such feelings from their earliest rise--foresee them, indeed,
before they come into existence, and are prepared for the emergencies
that must follow; but there are some who are always taken by surprise.
She, too, became pale with horror and dismay. She ought to have foreseen
it--she ought to have guarded against it; but before she had so much as
anticipated such a danger, here it was!
"I mean," she faltered, "that she should--meet only the best people, go
to the best houses--and that sort of thing; even that she should be
perfectly dressed; he goes so far as that," she said, with an uneasy
laugh.
John did not make any reply. He bowed his head slightly, that was all.
He found himself, indeed, caught in such a whirlpool of strange emotion,
that he could not trust his voice, nor even his thoughts, which were
rushing head-long on each other's heels like horses broken loose, and
were altogether beyond his control.
"But he is himself as impulsive as a boy," cried the unlucky mother,
rushing into the original subject with no longer any very clear
perception what it was; "and Mr Torrance's manner, you know, is
sometimes--offensive to a sensitive person. He does not mean it," she
added hurriedly; "people have such different degrees of perception."
"Yes--people have very different degrees of perception," said John,
dreamily; he did not mean it as a reproach. It was the only observation
that occurred to him; his mind was in too great a turmoil to be able to
form any idea. To think he had never budged from his place at her feet,
and that all in a moment this should have happened! He felt as if, like
a man in a fairy tale, he had been suddenly carried off from the place
in which he was, and was hearing voices and seeing visions from some
dull distance, scarcely knowing what they meant.
Meanwhile Millefleurs purled on like the softest little stream, smooth
English brooklet, without breaks or boulders. He was never tired of
talking, and himself was his genial theme. "I am aware that I am
considered egoistical," he said. "I talk of things I am acquainted with.
Now, you know most things better than I do--oh yeth! women are much
better educated nowadays than men; but my limited experiences are, in
their way, original. I love to talk of what I know. Then my life over
yonder was such fun. If I were to tell you what my mates called me, you
would adopt the name ever after by way of laughing at me: but there was
no ridicule in their minds."
"I hope you don't think I would take any such liberty, Lord
Millefleurs."
"It would be no liberty; it would be an honour. I wish you would do it.
They called me Tommy over there. Now, my respectable name is Julian.
Imagine what a downfall. I knew you would laugh: but they meant no harm.
I acknowledge myself that it was very appropriate. When a man has the
misfortune to be plump and not very tall--I am aware that is a pretty
way of putting it; but then, you don't expect me to describe my personal
appearance in the coarsest terms--it is so natural to call him Tommy. I
was the nurse when any of them were ill. You have no notion how grateful
they were, these rough fellows. They used to curse me, you know--that
was their way of being civil--and ask where I had got such soft hands."
Here Millefleurs produced those articles, and looked at them with a
certain tenderness. "I was always rather vain of my hands," he said,
with the most childlike _naïveté_, "but never so much as when Jack and
Tim d----d them, in terms which I couldn't repeat in a lady's presence,
and asked me where the something I had learned to touch a fellow like
that? It occurred to me after that I might have studied surgery, and
been of some use that way; but I was too old," he said, a soft little
sigh agitating his plump bosom--"and then I have other duties. Fortune
has been hard upon me," he added, raising pathetically the eyes, which
were like beads, yet which languished and became sentimental as they
turned upwards. It was when he spoke of Jack and Tim that Edith had
looked at him so prettily, bending forward, touched by his tale; but now
she laughed without concealment, with a frank outburst of mirth in which
the little hero joined with great good-humour, notwithstanding the
pathos in his eyes.
This pair were on the happiest terms, fully understanding each other;
but it was very different with the others, between whom conversation had
wholly ceased. Lady Lindores now drew her shawl round her, and
complained that it was getting chilly. "That is the worst of Scotland,"
she said--"you can never trust the finest day. A sharp wind will come
round a corner all in a moment and spoil your pleasure." This was most
unprovoked slander of the northern skies, which were beaming down upon
her at the moment with the utmost brightness, and promising hours of
sunshine; but after such a speech there was nothing to be done but to go
down hill again to the house, where the carriage was waiting. John, who
lingered behind to pull himself together after his downfall, found, to
his great surprise, that Edith lingered too. But it seemed to him that
he was incapable of saying anything to her. To point the contrast
between himself and Millefleurs by a distracted silence, that, of
course, was the very thing to do to take away any shadow of a chance he
might still have! But he had no chance. What possibility was there that
an obscure country gentleman, who had never done anything to distinguish
himself, should be able to stand for a moment against the son of a rich
duke, a marquis, a millionaire, and a kind of little hero to boot, who
had been very independent and original, and made himself a certain
reputation, though it was one of which some people might be afraid?
There was only one thing in which he was Millefleurs's superior, but
that was the meanest and poorest of all. John felt inclined to burst out
into savage and brutal laughter at those soft curves and flowing
outlines, as the little man, talking continuously, as he had talked to
Edith, walked on in front with her mother. The impulse made him more and
more ashamed of himself, and yet he was so mean as to indulge it,
feeling himself a cad, and nothing else. Edith laughed too, softly,
under her breath. But she said quickly--"We should not laugh at him, Mr
Erskine. He is a very good little man. He has done more than all of us
put together. They called him Tommy in America," said the traitress,
with another suppressed laugh. John was for a moment softened by the
"we" with which she began, and the gibe with which she ended. But his
ill-humour and jealous rage were too much for him.
"He is Marquis of Millefleurs, and he will be Duke of Lavender," he
said, with an energy which was savage, trampling down the tough heather
under his feet.
Edith turned and looked at him with astonished eyes. It was a revelation
to her also, though for the first moment she scarcely knew of what. "Do
you think it is for that reason we like him, Mr Erskine? How strange!"
she said, and turned her eyes away with a proud movement of her head,
full of indignation and scorn. John felt himself the pettiness and
petulance of which he had been guilty; but he was very unhappy, and it
seemed to him impossible to say or do anything by which he might get
himself pardoned. So he walked along moodily by her side, saying
nothing, while Lord Millefleurs held forth just a few steps in advance.
Edith bent forward to hear what he was saying, in the continued silence
of her companion, and this was a renewed draught of wormwood and gall to
John, though it was his own fault. It was with relief that he put the
ladies into their carriage, and saw them drive away, though this relief
was changed into angry impatience when he found that Millefleurs
lingered with the intention of walking, and evidently calculated upon
his company. The little Marquis, indeed, took his arm with friendly
ease, and turned him with gentle compulsion towards the avenue. "You are
going to walk with me," he said. "An excellent thing in Scotland is that
it is never too warm to walk, even for me. Come and talk a little. I
have been telling tales about myself. I have not heard anything of you.
The first is such an easy subject. One has one's little experiences,
which are different from any one else's; and wherever there are kind
women you find your audience, don't you know?"
"No, I don't know," said John, abruptly. "It never occurs to me to talk
about myself. I can't see what interest anybody can have in things that
happen to me. Besides, few things do happen for that matter," he added,
in an undertone.
"My dear fellow," said Millefleurs, "I don't want to appear to teach
you, who are a man of much more intelligence than I. But that ith a
mithtake, I must say it. You can always talk best on the subject you
know best. Don't you find it a great difference coming here after
knocking about the world? Yes, I feel it; but society is quite fresh to
me, as fresh as California while it lasts. Then I have had my eyes
opened as to my duties. My father and mother are as kind as possible. A
friend of mine tells me, and I am partly convinced, that to keep them
comfortable is my chief business. You are of that opinion too? there is
much to be said for it. It belongs to civilisation; but so long as
civilisation lasts, perhaps----And so I am going to marry and range
myself," Millefleurs said, with his air of ineffable self-satisfaction,
turning up the palms of his fat pink-tinged hands.
"Really!" John cried, with faint derision, feeling as if this innocent
exclamation were an oath. "And the lady?" he added, with a still more
fierce laugh.
Millefleurs gave his arm a little squeeze. "Not settled yet," he
said--"not settled yet. I have seen a great many. There are so many
pretty persons in society. If any one of them would ask me, I have no
doubt I should be perfectly happy; but choice is always disagreeable. In
America also," he added, with some pathos, "there are many very pretty
persons: and they like a title. The field is very wide. Let us take an
easier subject. Is Beaufort coming to you?"
"His answer is very enigmatical," said John. "I do not know whether he
means to come or not."
"He is enigmatical," said Millefleurs. "He is the queerest fellow. What
is the connection between him and the family here?"
This question took John entirely by surprise. It was so sudden, both in
form and meaning. He had expected his companion, before he paused, to go
on for at least five minutes more. He hesitated in spite of himself.
"There is no connection that I know of between him and the family here."
"Oh yes, yes, there is," said Millefleurs, with gentle pertinacity;
"think a minute. Erskine, my dear fellow, forgive me, but you must have
Beaufort here. If he is not near me, he will lose the confidence of my
papa--who will think Beaufort is neglecting his precious son. I speak to
you with perfect freedom. Beaufort and I understand each other. I am in
no need of a governor, but he is in want of a _protégé_. Don't you see?
By this arrangement everything is made comfortable. Beaufort understands
me. He knows that control is a mistake in my case. He found me and
brought me home, because I was already on my way: he keeps me from
harm--for what you call harm has no attraction for me, don't you know.
It is only my curiosity that has to be kept in check, and at present I
have plenty to occupy that; but my father does not understand all this.
Minds of that generation are a little limited, don't you know. They
don't see so clearly as one would wish them to see. If Beaufort is long
away from me, he will think I am in danger,--that I may bolt again.
Also, it will interfere with Beaufort's prospects, which the Duke is to
take charge of----"
"But this seems to me rather--not quite straightforward on Beaufort's
part," said John.
At this little Millefleurs shrugged his plump shoulders. "It is
permitted to humour our elders," he said. "It pleases them and it does
no one any harm. Beaufort, don't you know, is not a fellow to walk
alone. He is clever and all that; but he will never do anything by
himself. Between him and me it suits very well. So, to save the Duke's
feelings and to help Beaufort on, you must stretch a point and have him
here. It will be thought he is watching over me at a little distance
like the sweet little cherub, don't you know, in the song. What
objection have they got to seeing him here?"
"None that I know of," said John steadily, turning his face to the other
side to escape the scrutiny of those small black bead-like eyes.
"Oh come, come, come!" said little Millefleurs, remonstrating yet
coaxing, patting him lightly on the arm, "one sees it must have been
one of the daughters. It will do no harm to tell me. Am I such an
ignorant? These things are happening every day. Is it this one
here?----"
"What are you thinking of?" cried John, angrily. "Lady Edith was only a
child."
"Ah! then it was the other one," Millefleurs said, seriously; "that
suits me better. It would have been a trifle ridiculous--Beaufort might
keep in the background if there is any reason for it: but we must really
think of the Duke. He will be in a state of mind, don't you know, and so
will my mother. They will think I have bolted again."
"And when is it," said John satirically, for he was sick at heart and
irritable in the discovery which he had made, "that Beaufort's mission
is to be accomplished, and the Duke to fulfil his hopes?"
Millefleurs laughed a soft rich laugh, not loud. "My dear fellow," he
said, "that is when I marry, don't you know. That is my occupation now
in the world. When I have a wife, the other will be off duty. I am much
interested in my occupation at present. It brings so many specimens of
humanity under one's eyes. So different--for women are just as different
as men, though you don't think so perhaps. It might make a man vain," he
said, turning out his pink-tinged palm, "to see how many fair creatures
will take notice of him; but then one remembers that it was not always
so, and that takes one down again. In California I was liked, I am proud
to say, but not admired. It was, perhaps, more amusing. But I must not
be ungrateful: for life everywhere is very entertaining. And here are
fresh fields and pastures new," said the little man. "When you have a
pursuit, every new place is doubly interesting. It does not matter
whether you are hunting or botanising or----, a pursuit gives interest
to all things. Now is the time for the country and rural character. I
sometimes think it is that which will suit me best."
"Then I suppose you are on a tour of inspection, and one of our country
young ladies may have the honour of pleasing you," said John, somewhat
fiercely. His companion, looking up in his face with deprecating looks,
patted his arm as a kind of protest.
"Don't be brutal, Erskine," he said with his little lisp; "such things
are never said." John would have liked to take him in his teeth and
shake him as a dog does, so angry was he, and furious. But little
Millefleurs meant no harm. He drew his old schoolfellow along with him,
as long as John's civility held out. Then, to see him strolling along
with his little hat pushed on the top of his little round head, and all
the curves of his person repeating the lines of that circle! John
stopped to look after him with a laugh which he could scarcely restrain
so long as Millefleurs was within hearing. It was an angry laugh, though
there was nothing in the young man to give occasion for it. There was
nothing really in him that was contemptible, for to be plump is not an
offence by any code. But John watched him with the fiercest derision
going along the country road with his cane held in two fingers, his hat
curling in the brim, his locks curling the other way. And this was the
man whom even Lady Lindores--even she, a woman so superior to worldly
motives--condescended to scheme about. And Edith? was it possible that
she, too--even she? Everything seemed to have turned to bitterness in
John's soul. Tinto before him in the distance, with its flaunting flag,
gave emphasis to the discovery he had made. For mere money, nothing
else, one had been sacrificed. The other, was she to be sacrificed, too?
Was there nothing but wealth to be thought of all the world over, even
by the best people, by women with every tender grace and gift? When he
thought of the part in the drama allotted to himself--to entertain
Beaufort, who was the keeper of Millefleurs, in order that Millefleurs
might be at liberty to follow his present pursuit, John burst into a
laugh not much more melodious than that of Torrance. Beaufort and he
could condole with each other. They could communicate, each to each,
their several disappointments. But to bring to the neighbourhood this
man whom Carry dared not see, whom with such tragic misery in her face
she had implored John to keep at a distance--and that it should be her
parents who were bringing him in cold blood in order to advance their
schemes for her sister--was it possible that anything so base or cruel
could be?