This extraordinary interruption put a stop at once to the struggle
between the father and daughter. They both came to a sudden pause, not
only in their conversation, but in their thoughts, which were suspended
instantly by the breaking in of something more urgent. "What is it? What
has happened?" they both cried in a breath; and Edith, after a moment,
added, "Carry--there is something wrong with Carry," scarcely aware what
she said.
Rintoul came to the table on which stood a crystal jug of water. He
filled himself out a large glass and drank it. He was in a tremor which
he attempted to conceal from them, though with no success. Then he said,
"There is nothing the matter with Carry; but a dreadful accident has
happened,"--and stopped, his mouth being parched, his very articulation
difficult.
"What is it? what is it? The children?----"
Rintoul turned his face away from Edith and directed himself towards
his father. He made a great effort over himself, as if what he had to
say was almost beyond his powers. Then he said with a strange hoarseness
of voice, "Torrance--has been killed."
"Torrance!--killed! Good God! Rintoul."
"It is so. Instantaneous, they say. He cannot have suffered much, thank
God."
Rintoul was not emotional or used to show very much feeling, but the
lines of his face were drawn and his lips quivered as he spoke.
"Killed! But how did it happen? where? Was it accident, or----For
heaven's sake tell us all!" cried his father. Edith stood by struck
dumb, yet with a host of sudden rising thoughts, or rather images, in
her breast. It was to her sister that her mind suddenly reverted, with a
perception of everything involved so clear and vivid that her very
spirit was confused by the distinctness of her sight.
"Accident," said Rintoul almost with a stammer, stumbling on the word.
"He must have been riding home by the Greenlaws road, which was his
favourite way. He and his horse were found at the foot of the Scaur. The
brute must have reared and lost its footing. The ground was soft with
the rain. That's all that any one knows."
"And he is dead? Good God!"
A shiver came over Rintoul. Who would have thought he had so much
feeling? and concerning Torrance, whom he had never been able to endure.
"It's dreadful," he said in a low tone; "but it's true. One moment never
to be recalled, and that big fellow with all his strength----O Lord,
it's terrible to think of it. It has taken all the strength out of me."
Edith hurried to him, trembling herself, to clasp his arm in hers and
soothe her brother. She was almost too much excited and agitated to be
aware that he repulsed her, though unconsciously, but this increased the
general impression of pain and horror on her mind. There was so strong a
thrill of agitation in him that he could not bear to be touched or even
looked at. He put her away, and threw himself down into the nearest
chair. A hundred questions were on the lips of both; but he looked as if
he had said all that was possible--as if he had no power to add
anything. Lord Lindores, after the first pause of horror, of course
pursued his inquiries, and they gathered certain details as to the way
of finding "the body," and the manner in which horse and man seemed to
have fallen. But Rintoul evidently had been too much impressed by the
sight to be able to dwell on the subject. He wiped the perspiration from
his forehead, and took again large draughts of water as he brought forth
sentence after sentence. "Get me some wine, or brandy, or something--I
am done," he cried; but when his father rang the bell, Rintoul recoiled.
"Let Edith fetch it; don't let us have any prying servants about here."
"There is no reason why we should be afraid of prying servants," said
Lord Lindores, with surprise and disapproval. "It is not a matter to be
concealed. I suppose there is nothing to conceal?" "Oh no, no," said
Rintoul, with a groan--"nothing to be concealed; you can't conceal a
dead man," and he shuddered, but added directly, raising himself to meet
his father's eye, "it was accident--nothing but accident,--everybody has
warned him. I said myself something was sure to happen sooner or later
at the Scaur." Edith, who had flown to bring him the wine he asked for,
here came back with it, having sent away the officious butler, anxious
to hear all about it, who hovered near the door. Her brother took the
decanter from her hand without a word of thanks, and poured out the wine
lavishly, but with a shaking hand, into the glass from which he had been
drinking water. It brought a little colour back into his cheeks. To
Edith the emotion he showed was a new revelation. She had never expected
from Rintoul so much tenderness of feeling. But Lord Lindores went on
with his questions.
"Something sure to happen? Yes--to children or people incapable of
taking care of themselves; but Torrance, who knew it all like his own
hand! had he--been drinking, poor fellow?"
"Not that I know of; but how can I tell? Nobody knows."
"Some one must have seen him before the accident happened. There must be
some one who can tell. Of course everything must be investigated. Where
had he been? Why was he not with you, when you went by appointment to
see the place? It was surely very extraordinary----"
"He was with us at first," said Rintoul, "but he took offence at some of
Millefleurs's criticisms; and then John Erskine----"
"What had John Erskine to do with it?"
"They had some words. I can't remember; something passed. Erskine left
early too. Now that I think of it," said Rintoul, suddenly, "Erskine
must have gone that way, and perhaps----But no, no; I mistake--they did
not meet."
"They had no words," said Edith, eagerly; "there was no quarrel, if
that is what you mean. Mr Torrance was annoyed because Lord
Millefleurs----But Mr Erskine had nothing to do with it," she added, her
colour rising. Lord Lindores paced up and down the room, stopping at
every turn to ask another question. Rintoul sat leaning his head upon
his hand, his face concealed by it; while Edith, to whom this reference
had given animation, stood between them, her senses quickened, her mind
alert. But they were both too deeply occupied to notice the change in
her which was made by the mention of this name.
"Of course there must be a thorough investigation into all the
circumstances," Lord Lindores said.
"Who can do that? I thought there were no coroners in Scotland?" said
Rintoul, rousing himself. "I was thinking, indeed, what a good thing for
poor Carry to be spared this. Besides, what can investigation do? He
went off from among us excited. Very likely, poor fellow, he had been
drinking. He rode off in haste, thundering down that dangerous road, as
was his custom. Everybody knows it was his custom. It was his way of
blowing off steam. Coming back, the road was soft with the rain, and he
still excited and in a nervous state. He pushed Black Jess a step too
close. She reared, and----I don't know what you can find out more by any
investigation." Rintoul wiped his forehead again and poured himself out
more wine.
"That may be, but there must be an investigation all the same," said
Lord Lindores. "A man of importance like poor Torrance does not
disappear like this in a moment without any notice being taken of it. If
he had been a ploughman, perhaps----"
Here the door was opened hastily, and Lady Lindores hurried in. "What is
this?" she cried; "what is this I hear?--the servants are full of it.
Something about Torrance and a bad accident. What does it mean?"
Edith ran to her mother, taking her by the arm, with the instinct of
supporting her against the shock; and Lord Lindores gave her the
information, not without that almost pleasure in recounting even the
most terrible news, which is the instinctive sentiment of those whose
hearts are not deeply concerned. Lady Lindores heard it with
horror,--with the instant and keen self-question as to whether she had
done justice to this man, of whom no one now could ask pardon,--whose
wrongs, if he had any, could never be remedied--which, in a generous
mind, is the first result of such a tragedy. Out of keen excitement and
horror she shed a few tears, the first that in this house at least had
been expended on the dead man. A pang of wondering pity was in her
heart. The sight of this softer feeling stilled the others. She arrested
every other sentiment in a natural pause of terrified compassion. She
who had never called him by it in his life, suddenly found his Christian
name come to her lips: "Oh, poor Pat! poor Pat! like that--in a
moment--with his home close by that he was so proud of, and all his good
things--summoned in a moment. O God, have mercy upon him!" she cried.
"It is too late for that," said Lord Lindores, gravely, for the moment
ashamed of all other questions. "Short as the time is, and dreadful as
it is to think of it, his account must be made by this time. It is a
terrible lesson to us all----"
"O God, have mercy upon him! I cannot think it is ever too late for
that," cried Lady Lindores through her tears. And there was a pause. She
did not, so far as we know, entertain any heterodox ideas about the
after state; but nature spoke in her, which is stronger than creeds. And
they were all silent, ashamed to have thought of anything else than
this. Rintoul still sat with his head hid in his hands. He had not
looked at his mother. He did not say anything to help out the narrative
which his father, of course, had given minutely. He had made a great
effort to get over his personal agitation and the tremor of his nerves,
but he was not used to such violent emotions, and it was hard to get
them under control.
Then Lady Lindores rose from the chair upon which she had sunk in the
first shock. "I must go to Carry at once," she said. "Poor Carry! how
must she be feeling? In a moment--without time for a word----"
Now at this there was a slight movement on the part of the two men--even
in Rintoul, though he was so much overcome. They thought it was the
usual feminine hypocrisy. Carry had never pretended to be a fond or
loving wife. The shock was great, but it brought her deliverance. A
touch of indignation and of wonder at what they considered that
incomprehensible female nature, which one moment brought them back by
sheer natural tenderness to a loftier state of feeling, and the next
disgusted them with mere conventionalism and make-believe, stirred in
their minds. They durst not say anything, for of course it was needful
to the world to keep up this fiction, and take it for granted that Carry
was heart-broken; but in their hearts they despised the false sentiment,
as they thought it. Nobody understood that divine compunction in Lady
Lindores's heart--that terrible and aching pity for the unworthy on her
own part--that sense of awful severance from a human creature with whom
there had been nothing in common, with whom there could be no hope of
reunion, which, she felt, must be in her daughter's mind. God help poor
Carry! What could she be but glad to be free? Her mother's heart bled
for her in this awful satisfaction and misery. Meanwhile her husband
rang the bell and ordered the carriage for her, with a sensation not
quite unlike contempt, though he was pleased, too, that she should be
able to keep up the natural superstitions, and go through all
traditional formalities so well. He made a pause, however, when he found
Edith hastily preparing to go too.
"There is Lord Millefleurs to be thought of? What am I to do," he said,
"with Millefleurs?"
"At such a moment surely everything of the kind must be suspended," said
Lady Lindores. "You cannot think that Edith could--go on with
this--while her sister----"
Millefleurs himself made his appearance on the stairs while she was
speaking. It was a curious scene. The great hall-door was open, the
night wind blowing in, making the light waver, and penetrating all the
excited group with cold. Lady Lindores, wrapped in a great cloak which
covered her from head to foot, stood below looking up, while Edith
paused on the lower steps in the act of tying a white shawl about her
head. The servants, still more excited, stood about, all anxious to
help, by way of seeing everything that was going on. Rintoul stood in
the doorway of the library, entirely in shadow,--a dark figure
contrasting with the others in the light. To these actors in the drama
came forth Millefleurs in his exact evening costume, like a hero of
genteel comedy coming in at the height of the _imbroglio_. "I need not
say how shocked and distressed I am," he said, from his platform on the
landing. "I would go away at once, but that would not help you. Never
think of me; but I feel sure you would not do me the injustice to think
of me in presence of such a catastrophe."
Lady Lindores waved her hand to him as she hurried out, but he overtook
Edith on the stairs. It was impossible that he should not feel that she
knew all about it by this time; and after all, though he was so
humble-minded, Millefleurs was aware that the heir of a great Duke is
not usually kept in suspense. "Lady Edith," he said in an undertone,
"should I go away? I will do what you think best."
He had faded entirely out of her mind in the excitement of this new
event. "Lord Millefleurs----Oh, I cannot tell," she said; "it will be
painful for you in the midst of this horror and mourning----"
"You cannot think that is what I mean," he said anxiously. "If I could
be of any use; a cooler person is sometimes of use, don't you know--one
that can sympathise and--without being overwhelmed with--feeling."
"We shall not be overwhelmed. Oh, you have seen, you know, that it is
not so much grief as----It is Carry we all must think of--not----poor Mr
Torrance. I am sorry--I am sorry with all my heart--but he did not
belong to us, except by----"
"Marriage--that is not much of a tie, is it?" said little Millefleurs,
looking at her with a mixture of half-comic ruefulness and serious
anxiety. "But this is not a moment to trouble you. Lady Edith, do you
think I may stay?"
At this moment her mother called her from the door, and Edith ran
hastily down the steps. She scarcely knew whether she had said anything,
or what she had said. It was only "Oh," the English ejaculation which
fits into every crisis; but it was not "No," Lord Millefleurs said to
himself, and he hastened after her to close the carriage-door, and bid
Lady Lindores good-night. As the carriage drove off he turned and found
himself in face of Lord Lindores, who had a somewhat anxious look. "I
have been asking if I should go or stay," he said; "I know your
hospitality, even when you are in trouble----"
"There is no trouble in having you in the house, even in the midst of
this calamity; but what did they say to you?" asked Lord Lindores.
"Nothing, I think; but I will stay if you will let me, Lord Lindores,
till we can see. And may I hear the details of the accident--if it was
an accident."
"You think there is something more in it?" cried Lord Lindores, quickly.
"No; how can I tell? I should like to hear everything. Sometimes a
looker-on, who is not so much interested, sees more of the game, don't
you know."
"It is a tragic game," said Lord Lindores, shaking his head; "but there
is no agrarian crime here, no landlord-killing, no revenge. Poor
Torrance had not an enemy, so far as I know."
All this time Rintoul stood motionless in the doorway, concealed by the
shadow; but here he seemed piqued to speak. "He had plenty of enemies,"
he said hastily. "A man of such a temper and manners, how could he help
having enemies?"
"De mortuis nil nisi bonum," said his father,--"say no harm of the
dead----"
"That is all very well; but it is of more importance to do no injustice
to the living," said Rintoul, with a sort of sullen solemnity; and he
suddenly gave place to the others and went off in the direction of his
own den, a little room in which he smoked and kept his treasures. Lord
Lindores took his guest into the library, gravely apologetic. "I have
never seen Rintoul so upset; his nerves seem to have received a shock. I
don't think he cares to go over the melancholy story again."
"It is very natural," said little Millefleurs. "A man who has been
always at home, who has never roughed it in the world, naturally loses
his head when he first comes in contact with tragedy, don't you know. I
did myself in California the first time I touched actual blood. But that
was murder, which is a different sort of thing."
"Very different," said Lord Lindores; and he proceeded to satisfy his
guest with an account of all the particulars, to which Millefleurs
listened very seriously. He had the Scaur described to him with much
minuteness, and how it might be possible that such an accident could
happen. Instinctively Lord Lindores made it appear that the wonder was
it had not happened before. "I warned poor Torrance repeatedly," he
said; although he had in equal good faith expressed his amazement that
such a thing could happen to a man who knew the place so well, only a
short time before. Millefleurs listened to everything very gravely,
giving the profoundest attention to every detail.
The house was full of agitation and excitement, and Lord Lindores sent
repeatedly for his son to consult with him over what ought to be done;
but Rintoul was not to be found. He had gone out, the servants said; and
the general impression was that he had returned to Tinto, though he
could only have done that by a long walk through the gloomy night.
Millefleurs went out into the grounds while this question was
proceeding. He had a great many things to think about. He lit his cigar
and wandered about, thoughtfully discussing with himself various
questions. Did Edith mean that he should stay? Had he any right to stay
in the circumstances of the family? He had a strong desire to do so
that was not entirely connected with Edith. To be sure, the suspense in
which he was kept, the impossibility of addressing her at such a moment,
would have made a passionate lover very restless; but Millefleurs was
not the sort of stuff out of which passionate lovers are made. He
thought Edith would make him a delightful wife, and that with such a
wife he would be a very happy man; but he did not feel that heaven and
earth would be changed to him without Edith, and therefore other motives
were free to come in. He had something in his mind which for the moment
almost obliterated all thoughts of her. He walked up and down in the
darkness, turning it over and over in his mind. Vaguely, one way or
another, this thought was associated with Edith too. After some time he
perceived another red spark in the darkness, and became aware of some
one else smoking like himself a thoughtful cigar. He called out to
Rintoul and came upon him at the end of an alley. Millefleurs had an
internal conviction that Rintoul wished to avoid him, so he went up to
him quickly and caught him by the arm.
"It was thought that you had gone back to Tinto," he said, putting his
arm familiarly through his. He had to reach up on tiptoe to do it, but
this was what pleased Millefleurs.
"What! walking at this time of night? I am not so eager about it," said
Rintoul. "Besides, what should I do there? Everything is settled so far
as it can be for to-night, and my mother and Edith have gone to Carry:
there is no need for me."
"I wish you would tell me all about it, my dear Rintoul."
"Didn't my father tell you?"
"Yes, in his way; but that is different. You want the details from an
eyewitness, don't you know. You want to see it through the eyes that
have seen it. I have a great curiosity about that kind of thing ever
since I have been in California, where it is an incident of everyday
life."
"It is not an incident of everyday life here, and I'm sick of it," cried
Rintoul. "Don't question me any more--it's too terrible. It must have
been instantaneous they say; that is the only comfort about the
business--everything else is hideous from beginning to end."
"Ah, from the beginning--that is just what I want to talk to you about,"
said Millefleurs.
He felt a thrill in the arm he held, and an inclination as if to throw
him off, but he was not to be thrown off; he was small but very
tenacious, and clung to his hold.
"That is what I want to know. The beginning. Did he meet any one? had
he any dispute or altercation in the wood?"
"None that I know of," said Rintoul. He spoke sulkily, almost in an
undertone, so that Millefleurs had to concentrate his attention upon the
voice, which was interrupted by all the sounds in the air, the rustling
of the trees, the sough of the river far away.
"Did you see any one about?" said Millefleurs.
The two men were in the dark,--they could not see each other's faces,
yet they stopped and looked at each other, anxiously, suspiciously, each
at the red end of the other's cigar, which disclosed a moustache, a
shadow above.
"Any one about? I don't think there was any one about," said Rintoul,
still more sullenly. "What should put that into your mind? You were not
there?"
This was a curious question, but Millefleurs made no note of it, his
mind being possessed by an entirely different idea. He said, "No, I was
not there. I drove home with your mother, don't you know. To think we
should have passed without the least knowing it, the place which so soon
was to be the scene of such a tragedy."
"Don't romance about it. It's bad enough as it is. You did not pass the
scene. It was on the other road, a long way from yours."
"At which side?"
"The left side," said Rintoul, carelessly. "I wish, if you don't mind,
that you would change the subject. My nerves are all wrong. I didn't
know I was such a feeble beggar. I'd rather not dwell upon it, if you
don't mind."
"The left side?" said Millefleurs, with a sigh--and then there was a
pause. "You are quite sure," he added anxiously, "that you did not see
any one in the wood?"
Rintoul almost thrust this question away. "I tell you I won't be
questioned," he said. Then, composing himself with an effort, "I beg
your pardon, Millefleurs--I never liked the man, though he was my
brother-in-law; and to see all at once a fellow whom perhaps you had
been thinking badly of two minutes before, wishing no good to--to see
him lying there stiff and stark----"
"I beg you a thousand pardons, Rintoul," Millefleurs said gravely. And
they went in together, saying no more.