The drive home would have been very embarrassing to the ladies had not
Millefleurs been the perfect little gentleman he was. Rintoul, though he
ought to have been aware that his presence was specially desirable, had
abandoned his mother and sister; and the consciousness of the secret,
which was no secret, weighed upon Lady Lindores so much, that it was
scarcely possible for her to keep up any appearance of the easy
indifference which was her proper _rôle_ in the circumstances: while it
silenced Edith altogether. They could scarcely look him in the face,
knowing both the state of suspense in which he must be, and the false
impression of Edith's feelings which he was probably entertaining. Lady
Lindores felt certain that he was aware she had been informed by her
husband of what had passed, and feared to look at him lest he might, by
some glance of intelligence, some look of appeal, call upon her
sympathy; while on the other hand, it was all-essential to keep him, if
possible, from noticing the pale consciousness of Edith, her silence and
shrinking discomfort, so unlike her usual frank and friendly aspect.
Millefleurs was far too quick-sighted not to observe this unusual
embarrassment; but there was no more amiable young man in England, and
it was his part for the moment to set them at their ease, and soothe the
agitation which he could not but perceive. He talked of everything but
the matter most near his heart with that self-sacrifice of true
politeness which is perhaps the truest as it is one of the most
difficult manifestations of social heroism. He took pains to be amusing,
to show himself unconcerned and unexcited; and, as was natural, he got
his reward. Lady Lindores was almost piqued (though it was so great a
relief) that Edith's suitor should be capable of such perfect calm; and
Edith herself, though with a dim perception of the heroism in it, could
not but console herself with the thought that one so completely
self-controlled would "get over" his disappointment easily. Their
conversation at last came to be almost a monologue on his part. He
discoursed on Tinto and its treasures as an easy subject. "It has one
great quality--it is homogeneous," he said, "which is too big a word for
a small fellow like me. It is all of a piece, don't you know. To think
what lots of money those good people must have spent on those great
vases, and candelabra, and things! We don't do that sort of thing
nowadays. We roam over all the world, and pick up our _bric-a-brac_
cheap. But, don't you know, there's something fine in the other
principle--there's a grand sort of spare-no-expense sentiment. I'd like
to do it all over again for them--to clear away all that finery, which
is mere _Empire_, and get something really good, don't you know. But at
the same time, I respect this sort of thing. There is a thoroughness in
it. It is going the 'whole animal,' as we say in America. Mr Torrance,
who is a fine big man, just like his house, should, if you'll allow me
to say so, have carried out the principle a little further; he should
not have gone so entirely into a different _genre_ in his wife."
"You mean that Carry is--that Carry looks----She is not very strong,"
said Lady Lindores, with involuntary quickening of attention, taking up
instantly an attitude of defence.
"Dear Lady Lindores," cried little Millefleurs, "entirely out of
keeping! A different _genre_ altogether; a different date--the finest
ethical nineteenth century against a background _Empire_! preposterous
altogether. We have no style to speak of in china, or that sort of
thing--which is odd, considering how much we think of it. We can't do
anything better than go back to Queen Anne for our furniture. But in
respect to women, it's quite different. We've got a Victorian type in
that, don't you know. I am aware that it is the height of impertinence
to make remarks. But considering the family friendship to which you have
been so good as to admit me, and my high appreciation--Lady Caroline, if
you will allow me to say so, is a different _genre_. She is out of
keeping with the decoration of her house."
"Poor Carry!" Lady Lindores said with a sigh; and they were thankful to
Millefleurs when he ran on about the china and the gilding. It was he,
with those keen little beady eyes of his, who saw John Erskine
disappearing among the trees. He had possession of the stage, as it
were, during all that long way home, which to the ladies seemed about
twice as long as it had ever been before.
Lord Lindores had not accompanied the party. He did not come in contact
with his son-in-law, indeed, any more than he could help. Though he had
taken up Tinto so warmly at first, it was not to be supposed that a man
of his refinement could have any pleasure in such society; and though he
made a point of keeping on scrupulously good terms with Torrance, even
when the latter set himself in opposition to the Earl's plans, yet he
kept away from the spectacle afforded by his daughter and her husband in
their own house. If Lord Lindores's private sentiments could have been
divined, it would probably have been apparent that in his soul he
thought it hard upon poor Caroline to have married such a man. There
were reasons which made it very desirable, even necessary; but it was a
pity, he felt. In the present case, however, there was nothing but
congratulations to be thought of. Edith was, there could be no doubt, a
thoroughly fortunate young woman. Nobody could say a word against
Millefleurs. He had shown himself eccentric, but only in a way quite
approved by his generation; and there was no doubt that a wife, at once
pretty and charming, and sufficiently clever, was all that he wanted to
settle him. Not Carry--Carry was too intellectual, too superior
altogether, for the democratic little Marquis; but Edith had just the
combination of simplicity and mental competence that would suit his
position. It was the most admirable arrangement that could have been
devised. Lord Lindores sat in his library with much satisfaction of
mind, and thought over all the new combinations. He had no doubt of the
Duke's content with the alliance--and through the Duke, the whole
Ministry would be affected. It would be felt that to keep a man of Lord
Lindores's abilities in the hopeless position of a mere Scotch lord,
would be a waste prejudicial to the country. With Millefleurs for his
son-in-law, a mere representative seat in the House of Lords no longer
seemed worth his while--an English peerage would be his as a matter of
course. He had said a few words to Rintoul on the subject before the
party left the house. There could be no harm in drawing the bonds
tighter which were to produce so admirable an effect. "There is Lady
Reseda, a very charming girl," he said. "It is time you were thinking of
marrying, Rintoul. I don't know any girl that has been more admired."
"One doesn't care for one's wife having been admired," said Rintoul,
somewhat sulkily. "One would rather admire her one's self."
His father looked at him with some severity, and Rintoul coloured in
spite of himself. Perhaps this was one reason why his temper was so
unpleasant at Tinto, and moved him to fling off from the party in the
midst of their inspection of the place, and declare that he would walk
home. In his present temper, perhaps he would not have been much help to
them, whereas Millefleurs managed it all capitally, being left to
himself.
They got home only in time to dress for dinner, at which meal Rintoul
did not appear. It was unlike him to stay behind and dine at Tinto; but
still there was nothing impossible in it, and the minds of the four
people who sat down together at table were all too much absorbed by the
immediate question before them to have much time to consider Rintoul.
Lady Lindores's entire attention was given to Edith, who, very pale and
with a thrill of nervous trembling in her, which her mother noted
without quite understanding, neither ate nor talked, but pretended, at
least, to do the first, veiling herself from the eyes of her lover
behind the flowers which ornamented the centre of the table. These
flowers, it must be allowed, are often a nuisance and serious hindering
of conversation. On this occasion they performed a charitable office.
There was one plume of ferns in particular which did Edith the most
excellent service. She had been commanded to repair to the library when
she left the table, to await her father there. And if she trembled, it
was with the tension of high-strung nerves, not the hesitation of
weakness, as her mother thought. Lord Lindores, for his part, watched
her too, with an uneasy instinct. He would not allow himself to imagine
that she could have the folly to hesitate even; and yet there was a
sensation in him, an unwilling conviction that, if Edith resisted, she
would be, though she was not so clever, a different kind of antagonist
from poor Carry. There arose in him, as he glanced at her now and then,
an impulse of war. He had no idea that she would really attempt to
resist him: but if she did! He, too, had little to say during dinner. He
uttered a formal sentence now and then in discharge of his duty as
host, but that was all; and by intervals, when he had leisure to think
of it, he was angry with his son. Rintoul ought to have been there to
take the weight of the conversation upon him: Rintoul ought to have had
more discrimination than to choose this day of all others for absenting
himself. His mother was of the same opinion. She, too, was almost wroth
with Rintoul--to leave her unsupported without any aid at such a crisis
was unpardonable. But Millefleurs was quite equal to the emergency. He
took everything upon himself. The servants, closest of all critics, did
not even guess that anything was going on in which "the wee English
lord" was involved. They made their own remarks upon Lady Edith's pallor
and silence, and the preoccupation of Lady Lindores. But Millefleurs was
the life of the company; and not even the butler, who had seen a great
deal in his day, and divined most things, associated him with the
present evident crisis. It was amazing how much he found to say, and how
naturally he said it, as if nothing particular was going on, and no
issues of any importance to him, at least, were involved.
When the ladies left the table, Lady Lindores would have detained her
daughter with her. "Come into the drawing-room with me first, Edith.
Your father cannot be ready for you for some minutes at least."
"No, mamma. I must keep all my wits about me," Edith said, with a faint
smile. They were in the corridor, where it was always cold, and she
shivered a little in spite of herself.
"You are chilly, Edith--you are not well, dear. I will go myself and
tell your father you are not able to talk to him to-night."
Edith shook her head without saying anything. She waved her hand to her
mother as she turned away in the direction of the library. Lady Lindores
stood looking after her with that strange struggle in her mind which
only parents know,--the impulse to take their children in their arms as
of old, and bear their burdens for them, contradicted by the
consciousness that this cannot be done--that the time has come when
these beloved children can no longer be carried over their difficulties,
but must stand for themselves, with not another to interfere between
them and fate. Oh the surprise of this penetrating the heart! Lady
Lindores went back to the drawing-room with the wonder and pain of it
piercing her like an arrow, to sit down and wait while Edith--little
Edith--bore her trial alone. It was intolerable, yet it had to be
endured. She stood aside and let her child do what had to be done; any
trial in the world would have been easier. The pang was complicated in
every way. There seemed even an ingratitude in it, as if her child
preferred to stand alone; and yet it was all inevitable--a thing that
must be. She waited, the air all rustling round her, with expectation
and suspense. What would the girl find to say? Caroline had wept and
struggled, but she had yielded. Edith would not weep, she would stand
fast like a little rock; but, after all, what was there to object to?
Millefleurs was very different from Torrance of Tinto. Why should he not
please the girl's fancy as well as another? He had so much in him to
please any girl's fancy; he was clever and amusing, and romantic even in
his way. If Edith would but content herself with him! True, he was
little; but what did that matter after all? He would no doubt make the
best of husbands--unquestionably he would make the best of sons-in-law.
And then, your mind must be impartial indeed if you are impervious to
the attractions of an English dukedom. Who could be indifferent to that?
With a little laugh of nervous pleasure, Lady Lindores permitted herself
to think how amusing it would be to see her little girl take precedence
of her. Alas! things were far from being so advanced as that; but yet
she could not help more or less being on the side of ambition this time.
The ambition that fixed upon Torrance of Tinto was poor enough, and
shamed her to think of it; but the Marquis Millefleurs, the Duke of
Lavender, that was an ambition which had some justification. Not love
him! Why should not she love him? Lady Lindores even went so far as to
ask herself with some heat. He was delightful; everything but his
stature was in his favour. He was excellent; his very failings leant to
virtue's side.
While, however, her mother was thus discussing the question with so
strong a bias in favour of Millefleurs, Edith was standing in her
father's library waiting for him, not entering into any argument with
herself at all. She would not sit down, which would have seemed somehow
like yielding, but stood with her hand upon the mantelpiece, her heart
beating loudly. She had not summoned herself to the bar of her own
judgment, or asked with any authority how it was that she neither could
nor would for a moment take the qualities of Millefleurs into
consideration. The question had been given against him before even it
was put; but Edith would not allow herself to consider why. No doubt she
knew why; but there are occasions in which we do not wish to see what is
going on in our spirits, just as there are occasions when we turn out
all the corners and summon everything to the light. She heard the door
of the dining-room open, then the voices of the gentlemen as they came
out, with a sudden tightening of her breath. What if little Millefleurs
himself were coming instead of her father? This idea brought a gleam of
a smile over her face; but that was driven away as she heard the heavy
familiar step approaching. Lord Lindores, as he came along the corridor,
had time enough to say to himself that perhaps he had been foolish. Why
had he determined upon speaking to Edith before he allowed her lover to
speak to her? Perhaps it was a mistake. He had his reasons, but it might
be that they were not so powerful as he had supposed, and that he would
have done better not to have interfered. However, it was now too late to
think of this. He went into the library, shutting the door deliberately,
asking himself why he should have any trouble about the matter, and what
Edith could feel but happiness in having such a proposal made to her;
but when he turned round and met Edith's eye his delusions fled. Surely
there was nobody so unfortunate as he was in his children. Instead of
their perceiving what was for their own interest, he was met by a
perpetual struggle and attempt to put him in the wrong. It was
inconceivable. Was it not their interest solely which moved him? and yet
they would resist as if he were plotting nothing but wrong. But though
these thoughts passed through his mind with a sweep of bitterness, he
would not indulge them. He went up to Edith with great urbanity, putting
down all feelings less pleasant. "I am glad to find you here," he said.
"Yes, papa; you wanted me, my mother told me."
"I wanted you. As I came along the corridor, I began to ask myself
whether I was doing right in wanting you. Perhaps I ought to have let
you hear what I am going to say from--some one who might have made it
more agreeable, Edith."
"Oh, let me hear what you want, please, from yourself, papa."
He took her hand, which trembled in his hold, and looked down on her
with fatherly eyes--eyes which were tender, and admiring, and kind.
Could any one doubt that he wished her well? He wished her everything
that was best in the world--wealth and title, and rank and
importance,--everything we desire for our children. He was not a bad
man, desiring the sacrifice of his child's happiness. If he had,
perhaps, made something of a mistake about Carry, there was no mistake
here.
"Edith, I want to speak to you about Lord Millefleurs. He came here, I
believe, on your own invitation----"
At this Edith started with sudden alarm, and her hand trembled still
more in her father's easy clasp. She had an indefinite pang of fear, she
could not tell why.
"He has been here now for some time. I was glad to ratify your
invitation by mine--nothing could have pleased me better. I like his
family. His father and I have always thought alike, and the Duchess is a
most excellent woman. That your mother and you should have taken him up
so much, was very good for him, and quite a pleasure to me."
"I don't know why you should say we took him up very much," said Edith,
with some confusion. "He took us up--he came to us wherever we were. And
then he was Robin's friend. It was quite natural--there was nothing----"
She paused, with a painful eagerness to excuse herself: and yet there
was nothing to excuse. This changed the position for the moment, and
made everything much more easy for the indulgent father, who was so
ready to approve what his child herself had done.
"It is perfectly natural, my dear--everything about it is natural. Lord
Millefleurs has been quite consistent since he first saw you. He has
explained himself to me in the most honourable way. He wishes--to marry
you, Edith. I don't suppose this is any surprise to you?"
Edith was crimson; her temples throbbed with the rush of the blood,
which seemed to rise like an angry sea. "If it is so, he has had
opportunity enough to tell me so. Why has he taken so unfair an
advantage? Why--why has he gone to you?"
"He has behaved like an honourable man. I see no unfair advantage. He
has done what was right--what was respectful at once to you and to me."
"Oh, papa,--honourable! respectful!" cried the girl. "What does that
mean in our position? Could he have been anything but honourable--to me?
You forget what kind of expressions you are using. If he had _that_ to
say, it is to me he ought to have come. He has taken an unkind--a cruel
advantage!" Edith cried.
"This is ridiculous," said her father. "He has done what it is seemly
and right to do--in his position and yours. If he had gone to you, as
you say, like a village lad to his lass, what advantage could there have
been in that? As it is, you have your father's full sanction, which, I
hope, you reckon for something, Edith."
"Father," she said, somewhat breathless, collecting herself with a
little effort. The wave of hot colour died off from her face. She grew
paler and paler as she stood firmly opposite to him, holding fast with
her hand the cool marble of the mantelpiece, which felt like a support.
"Father, if he had come to me, as he ought to have done, this is what
would have happened,--I should have told him at once that it was a
mistake, and he would have left us quietly without giving you any
trouble. How much better that would have been in every way!"
"I don't understand you, Edith. A mistake? I don't see that there is any
mistake."
"That is very likely, papa," she said, with returning spirit, "since it
is not you that are concerned. But I see it. I should have told him
quietly, and there would have been an end of the matter, if he had not
been so formal, so absurd--so old-fashioned--as to appeal to you."
This counterblast took away Lord Lindores's breath. He made a pause for
a moment, and stared at her; he had never been so treated before.
"Old-fashioned," he repeated, almost with bewilderment. "There is enough
of this, Edith. If you wish to take up the _rôle_ of the advanced young
lady, I must tell you it is not either suitable or becoming. Millefleurs
will, no doubt, find an early opportunity of making his own explanations
to you, and of course, if you choose to keep him in hot water, it is, I
suppose, your right. But don't carry it too far. The connection is one
that is perfectly desirable--excellent in every point of view."
"It is a pity, since you think so, that it is impossible," she said in a
low tone.
Lord Lindores looked at her, fixing her with his eye. He felt now that
he had known it all along--that he had felt sure there was a struggle
before him, and that his only policy was to convince her that he was
determined from the very first. "There is nothing impossible," he said,
"except disobedience and folly. I don't expect these from you. Indeed I
can't imagine what motive you can have, except a momentary perverseness,
to answer me so. No more of it, Edith. By to-morrow, at least,
everything will be settled between you and your lover----"
"Oh, papa, listen! don't mistake me," she cried. "He is not my lover.
How can you--how can you use such a word? He can never be anything to
me. If he had spoken to me, I could have settled it all in a moment. As
it is you he has spoken to, why give him a double mortification? It will
be so easy for you to tell him: to tell him--he can never be anything to
me."
"Edith, take care what you are saying! He is to be your husband. I am
not a man easily balked in my own family."
"We all know that," she cried, with bitterness; "but I am not Carry,
papa."
He made a step nearer to her, with a threatening aspect. "What do you
mean by that? Carry! What has Carry to do with it? You have a chance
poor Carry never had--high rank, wealth,--everything that is desirable:
and a man whom the most fantastic could not object in any way to."
There is scarcely any situation in the world into which a gleam of
ridicule will not fall. It takes us with the tear in our eye--it took
Edith in the nervous excitement of this struggle, the most trying moment
which personally she had ever gone through. Millefleurs, with his little
plump person, his round eyes, his soft lisp of a voice, seemed to come
suddenly before her, and at the height of this half-tragical contention
she laughed. It was excitement and high pressure as well as that sudden
flash of perverse imagination. She could have cried next moment--but
laugh she did, in spite of herself. The sound drove Lord Lindores to
fury. "This is beyond bearing," he cried. "It seems that I have been
deceived in you altogether. If you cannot feel the honour that has been
done you--the compliment that has been paid you--you are unworthy of it,
and of the trouble I have taken."
"I suppose," said Edith, irritated too, "these are the right words for a
girl to use to any man who is so good as to think she would suit him. I
was wrong to laugh, but are not you going too far, papa? I am likely to
get more annoyance by it than honour. Please, please let me take my own
way."
She had broken down a little when she said this, in natural reaction,
and gave him a pitiful look, with a little quiver of her lip. After
such a laugh it is so likely that a girl will cry, as after a sudden
self-assertion it is to be expected that she will be subdued and
humbled. She looked at him with a childlike appeal for pity. And he
thought that now he had her securely in his hands.
"My love," he said, "you will regret it all your life if I yield to you
now. It is your happiness I am thinking of. I cannot let a girl's folly
spoil your career. Besides, it is of the highest importance to
everybody,--to Rintoul, even to myself,--that you should marry
Millefleurs----"
"I am very sorry, papa; but I shall never--marry Lord Millefleurs----"
"Folly! I shall not allow you to trifle with him, Edith--or with me. You
have given him the most evident encouragement--led him on in every way,
invited him here----"
Edith grew pale to her very lips. "Papa, have pity on me! I never did
so; it was all nothing--the way one talks without meaning it--without
thinking----"
"That is all very well on our side, but on the other----I tell you, I
will permit no trifling, Edith. He has a right to a favourable answer,
and he must have it----"
"Never, never! if I have been wrong, I will ask his pardon----"
"You will accept him in the first place," said Lord Lindores, sternly.
"I will never accept him," Edith said.
Her father, wound up to that pitch of excitement at which a man is no
longer master of what he says, took a few steps about the room. "Your
sister said the same," he cried, with a short laugh, "and you know what
came of that."
It was an admission he had never intended to make,--for he did not
always feel proud of his handiwork,--but it was done now, and could not
be recalled. Edith withdrew even from the mantelpiece on which she had
leant. She clasped her hands together, supporting herself. "I am not
Carry," she said, in a low tone, facing him resolutely as he turned back
in some alarm at what he had been betrayed into saying. He had become
excited, and she calm. He almost threatened her with his hand in the
heat of the moment.
"You will obey your parents," he cried.
"No, papa," she said.
He remembered so well, too well, what Carry had done in the same
circumstances--she had wept and pleaded. When he demanded obedience from
her she had not dared to stand against him. He recollected (too well for
his own comfort sometimes) every one of those scenes which brought her
to submission. But Edith did not weep, and was not shaken by that final
appeal. She was very pale, and looked unusually slight and young and
childlike standing there with her hands clasped, her steadfast eyes
raised, her little mouth close--so slight a thing, not stately like
Carry. He was confounded by a resistance which he had not foreseen,
which he could not have believed in, and stood staring at her, not
knowing what next to say and do. Matters were at this point when all at
once there arose a something outside the room, which not even the solid
closed doors and heavy curtains could keep out,--not positive noise or
tumult, but something indescribable--a sensation as of some unknown
dread event. Ordinarily all was still in the well-ordered house, and my
lord's tranquillity as completely assured as if he had been Prime
Minister. But this was something that was beyond decorum. Then the door
was hastily opened, and Rintoul ghastly, his face grey rather than pale,
his hair hanging wildly on his forehead, came into the room.