It is a strange experience for a man whose personal freedom has never been restrained to find himself in prison. The excitement and amazement of the first day made it something so exceptional and extraordinary, that out of very strangeness it was supportable: and Erskine felt it possible to wind himself up to the necessity of endurance for one night. But the dead stillness of the long, long morning that followed, was at once insupportable and incomprehensible to him. What did it mean? He saw the light brighten in his barred window, and persuaded himself, as long as he could, that it was as yet too early for anything to be done; but when he heard all the sounds of life outside, and felt the long moments roll on, and listened in vain for any deliverance, a cold mist of amazement and horror began to wrap John's soul. Was he to be left there? to lie in jail like any felon, nobody believing him, abandoned by all? He could not do anything violent to relieve his feelings; but it was within him to have dashed everything wildly about the room,—to have flown at the window and broken it to pieces,—to have torn linen and everything else to shreds. He stood aghast at himself as this wild fury of impatience and misery swept over him. He could have beaten his head against the wall. To sit still, as a man, a gentleman, is compelled to do, restraining himself, was more hard than any struggles of Hercules. And those slow sunny moments stole by, each one of them as long as an hour. The sun seemed to be stationary in the sky: the forenoon was a century. When he heard some one at last approaching, he drew a long breath of satisfaction, saying to himself that now at last the suspense would be over. But when it proved to be Miss Barbara with her arms full of provisions for his comfort, her maid coming after, bearing a large basket, it is impossible to describe the disappointment, the rage that filled him. The effort to meet her with a smile was almost more than he was capable of. He did it, of course, and concealed his real feelings, and accepted the butter and eggs with such thanks as he could give utterance to; but the effort seemed almost greater than any he had ever made before. Miss Barbara, for her part, considered it her duty to her nephew to maintain an easy aspect and ignore the misery of the situation. She exerted herself to amuse him, to talk as if nothing was amiss. She told him of Tinto's grand funeral, with which the whole country-side was taken up. "Everybody is there," Miss Barbara said, with some indignation,—"great and small, gentle and simple, as if auld Torrance's son was one of the nobles of the land."
"They care more for the dead than the living," John said, with a laugh. It was well to laugh, for his lip quivered. No doubt this was the reason why no one had leisure to think of him. And his heart was too full of his own miseries to be capable of even a momentary compassion for the fate of Torrance—a man not very much older than himself, prosperous and rich and important—snatched in a moment from all his enjoyments. He had been deeply awed and impressed when he heard of it first; but by this time the honours paid to the dead man seemed to John an insult to his own superior claims—he who was living and suffering unjustly. To think that those who called themselves his friends should have deserted him to show a respect which they could not feel for the memory of a man whom they had none of them respected while he lived! He was no cynic, nor fond of attributing every evil to the baseness of humanity, but he could not help saying now, between his closed teeth, that it was the way of the world.
He had another visitor in the afternoon, some time after Miss Barbara took her departure, but not one of those he expected. To his great surprise, it was the white erect head of old Sir James which was the next he saw. The veteran came in with a grave and troubled countenance. He gave a shudder when he heard the key turn in the door. "I have come to see if there was—anything I could do for you?" Sir James said.
John laughed again. To laugh seemed the only possible way of expressing himself. It is permissible for a man to laugh when a woman would cry, and the meaning is much the same. This expressed indignation, incredulity, some contempt, yet was softened by a gentler sentiment, at sight of the old soldier's kind and benign but puzzled and troubled face. "I don't know what any one can do for me but take me out of this," he said, "and no one seems disposed to do that."
"John Erskine," said the old General solemnly, "the circumstances are very serious. If you had seen, as I have seen, a young, strong man laid in his grave this day, with a little toddling bairn, chief mourner." His voice broke a little, as he spoke. He waved his hand as if to put this recollection away. "And your story was not satisfactory. It did not commend itself to my mind. Have patience and hear me out. I came away from you in displeasure, and I've done nothing but turn it over and over in my thoughts ever since. It's very far from satisfactory; but I cannot find it in my heart to disbelieve you," the old man cried, with a quiver of emotion in his face. He held out his large, soft, old hand suddenly as he spoke. John, who had been winding himself up to indignant resistance, was taken entirely by surprise. He grasped that kind hand, and his composure altogether failed him.
"I am a fool," he cried, dashing the tears from his eyes, "to think that one day's confinement should break me down. God bless you, Sir James! I can't speak. If that's so, I'll make shift to bear the rest."
"Ay, my lad, that's just so. I cannot disbelieve you. You're a gentleman, John Erskine. You might do an act of violence,—any man might be left to himself; but you would not be base, and lie. I have tried to think so, but I cannot. You would never deceive an old friend."
"If I had murdered poor Torrance in cold blood, and meaning it," said John, "there is no telling, I might have lied too."
"No, no, no," said Sir James, putting out his hand—"at the worst it was never thought to be that; but you have no look of falsehood in you. Though it's a strange story, and little like the truth, I cannot disbelieve you. So now you will tell me, my poor lad, what I can do for you. We're friends again, thank God! I could not bide to be unfriends—and my old wife was at me night and day."
"If Lady Montgomery believes in me too——"
"Believes in you! she would give me no rest, I tell you—her and my own spirit. She would not hear a word. All she said was, 'Hoots, nonsense, Sir James!' I declare to you that was all. She's not what you call a clever woman, but she would not listen to a word. 'Hoots, nonsense!' that was all. We could not find it in our hearts."
He was a little disposed, now that he had made his avowal, to dwell upon it, to the exclusion of more important matters; but when at last he permitted John to tell him what his expectations had been, and what his disappointment, as the long, slow morning stole over unbroken, Sir James was deeply moved. "Why did not Monypenny come to me?" he said. "He was taken up, no doubt, with what was going on to-day. But I would have been your bail in a moment. An old friend like me—the friend not only of your father, but of your grandfather before him!" But when he had said so much he paused, and employed a little simple sophistry to veil the position. "The sheriff will be round in the end of the week. I would not trouble him, if I were you, before that. What's three or four days? You will then come out with every gentleman in the county at your back. It's not that I think it would be refused. People say so, but I will not believe it, for one; only I would not stir if I were you. A day or two, what does that matter? My pride would be to bide the law, and stand and answer to my country. That is what I would do. Of course I'll be your caution, and any other half dozen men in the county; but I'll tell you what I would do myself,—I would stand it out if I were you."
"You never were shut up in a jail, Sir James?"
"Not exactly in a jail," said the old soldier; "but I've been in prison, and far worse quarters than this. To be sure, there's an excitement about it when you're in the hands of an enemy——"
"In the hands of an enemy," cried John—"a thing to be proud of; but laid by the heels in a wretched hole, like a poacher or a thief!"
"I would put up with it if I were you. There is nothing disgraceful in it. It is just a mistake that will be put right. I will come and see you, man, every day, and Lady Montgomery will send you books. I hope they will not be too good books, John. That's her foible, honest woman. You seem to be victualled for a siege," Sir James added, looking round the room. "That is Miss Barbara Erskine, I will be bound."
"I felt disposed to pitch them all out of the window," said John.
"Nothing of the sort; though they're too good to fall into the hands of the turnkeys. Keep up your heart, my fine lad. I'll see Monypenny to-night before I dine, and if we cannot bring you out with flying colours, between us, it will be a strange thing to me. Just you keep up your heart," said Sir James, patting John kindly on the back as he went away. "The sheriff will be round here again on the 25th, and we'll be prepared for the examination, and bring you clear off. It's not so very long to wait."
With this John was forced to be content. The 25th was four days off, and to remain in confinement for four days more was an appalling anticipation; but Sir James's visit gave him real cheer. Perhaps Mr Monypenny, too, on thinking it over, might turn to a conviction of his client's truth.
While Sir James rode home, pleased with himself that he had obeyed his own generous impulse, and pleased with John, who had been so unfeignedly consoled by it, Lord Lindores and his son were driving back from Tinto together in the early twilight. There was not a word exchanged between them as they drove down the long avenue in the shadow of the woods; but as they turned into the lighter road, Lord Lindores returned to the subjects which occupied his mind habitually. "That is a business well over," he said, with a sigh of satisfaction. "It is always a relief when the last ceremonies are accomplished; and though Carry chose to meet me with heroics, it is very satisfactory to know that her position is so good. One could never be sure with a man of Torrance's temper. He was as likely as not to have surrounded his widow with annoyances and restraints. He has erred just a little on the other side now, poor fellow! Still he meant it, no doubt, for the best." Lord Lindores spoke to his son with an ease and confidence which he could not feel with the other members of his family. Rintoul himself, indeed, had been somewhat incomprehensible for a little time past; but indigestion, or any other trifling reason, might account for that. "And now that all is over, we must think of other matters," he continued. "This business about Edith must be settled. Millefleurs must have his answer. He has been very patient; but a young fellow like that knows his own importance, and Edith must hear reason. She will never have another such chance."
Rintoul made a little movement in his corner, which was all that stood for a reply on his part; and his father could not even see the expression of his face.
"I can only hope that she will be more amenable to his influence than to mine," said Lord Lindores, with a sigh. "It is strange that she, the youngest of my children, should be the one to give me the most trouble. Rintoul, it is also time that I should speak to you about yourself. It would give your mother and me great satisfaction to see you settled. I married early myself, and I have never had any reason to repent it. Provided that you make a wise choice. The two families will no doubt see a great deal of each other when things are settled between Edith and Millefleurs; and I hear on all hands that his sister, Lady Reseda—you met her several times in town——"
"Yes,—I met her," said Rintoul, reluctantly. He turned once more in his corner, as if he would fain have worked his way through and escaped; but he was secured for the moment, and in his father's power.
"And you admired her, I suppose, as everybody does? She is something like her brother; but what may perhaps be thought a little—well, comical—in Millefleurs, is delightful in a girl. She is a merry little thing, the very person I should have chosen for you, Rintoul: she would keep us all cheerful. We want a little light-heartedness in the family. And though your father is only a Scotch peer, your position is unimpeachable; and I will say this for you, that you have behaved very well; few young men would have conducted themselves so irreproachably in such a sudden change of circumstances. I feel almost certain that though a daughter of the Duke's might do better, you would not be looked upon with unfavourable eyes."
"I—don't know them. I have only met them—two or three times——"
"What more is necessary? You will be Millefleurs's brother-in-law——"
"Are you so sure of that?" asked Rintoul. There was something in his tone which sounded like nascent rebellion. Lord Lindores pricked up his ears.
"I do not willingly entertain the idea that Edith would disobey me," he said with dignity. "She has high-flown notions. They are in the air nowadays, and will ruin the tempers of girls if they are not checked. She makes a fight to have her own way, but I cannot believe that she would go the length of downright disobedience. I have met with nothing of the kind yet——"
"I think you are likely to meet with it now," said Rintoul; and then he added, hastily, "Carry has not been an encouraging example."
"Carry!" said Lord Lindores, opening his eyes. "I confess that I do not understand. Carry! why, what woman could have a nobler position? Perfect control over a very large fortune, a situation of entire independence—too much for any woman. That Carry's unexampled good fortune should be quoted against me is extraordinary indeed."
"But," cried Rintoul, taken by surprise, "you could not hold up to Edith the hope of what might happen if—Millefleurs were to——"
"Break his neck over a scaur," said Lord Lindores, almost with a sneer. He felt his son shrink from him with an inarticulate cry, and with instant perception remedied his error in taste, as he thought it. "I ought not to speak so after such a tragedy; you are right, Rintoul. No: Millefleurs is a very different person; but of course it is always a consolation to know that whatever happens, one's child will be abundantly and honourably provided for. My boy, let us look at the other matter. It is time you thought of marrying, as I say."
Rintoul flung himself against the side of the carriage with a muttered curse. "Marrying!—hanging is more what I feel like!" he cried.
"Rintoul!"
"Don't torture me, father. There is not a more wretched fellow on the face of the earth. Link an innocent woman's name with mine? Ask a girl to?——For heaven's sake let me alone—let me be!"
"What is the meaning of this?" Lord Lindores cried. "Are you mad, Rintoul? I am altogether unprepared for heroics in you."
The young man made no reply. He put his head out to the rushing of the night air and the soft darkness, through which the trees and distant hills and rare passengers were all like shadows. He had looked stolidly enough upon all the shows of the external world all his life, and thought no more of them than as he saw them.
"A primrose by the river's brim,
A yellow primrose was to him."
There had been no images or similitudes in light or darkness; but now another world had opened around him. He had a secret with the silence—the speechless, inanimate things about knew something of him which nobody else knew: and who could tell when they might find a voice and proclaim it to the world? He uncovered his head to the air which blew upon him and cooled his fever. The touch of that cool fresh wind seemed the only thing in earth or heaven in which there was any consolation. As for Lord Lindores, he sat back in his corner, more angry than concerned, and more contemptuous than either. A woman has perhaps some excuse for nerves; but that his son, upon whose plain understanding he could always rely, and whose common-sense was always alive to the importance of substantial arguments, should thus relapse into tragedy like his sisters, was more than he could tolerate. He would not even contemplate the idea that there was any cause for it. Rintoul had always been well behaved. He was in no fear of any secrets that his son might have to reveal.
"Rintoul," he said, after a pause, "if you have got into any scrape, you should know well enough that I am not the sort of man to take it tragically. I have no faith in making molehills into mountains. I don't suppose you have done anything disgraceful. You must be off your head, I think. What is it? You have been out of sorts for some time past."
These words came like beatings of a drum to Rintoul's ears, as he leant out into the rushing and sweep of the night air. There was a composure in them which brought him to himself. Anything disgraceful meant cheating at cards, or shirking debts of honour, or cowardice. Practically, these were about the only things disgraceful that a young man could do. An "entanglement," a heavy loss at cards or on the turf, any other minor vice, could be compounded for. Lord Lindores was not alarmed by the prospect of an explanation with his son. But that Rintoul should become melodramatic, and appeal to earth and heaven, was contemptible to his father. This cool and common-sense tone had its natural effect, Lord Lindores thought. Rintoul drew in his head, sat back in his corner, and was restored to himself.
"I have been out of sorts," he said—"I suppose that's what it is. I see everything en noir. All this business—seeing to things—the black, the house shut up——"
"Let me warn you, Rintoul; don't cultivate your susceptibilities," said his father. "What is black more than blue or any other colour? This sort of thing is all very well for a woman; but I know what it is. It's stomach—that is really at the bottom of all tragedy. You had better speak to the doctor. And now, thank heaven, this Tinto business is over; we can get back to the affairs of life."
The rest of the drive passed in complete silence. And all the time they were together, Rintoul said not a word to his father about John Erskine. His situation was altogether ignored between them. It was not that it was forgotten. If these two men could have opened Dunnottar jail—nay, could they have swept John Erskine away into some happy island where he would have been too blessed to think anything more about them—they would have done it,—the one with joyous alacrity, the other with satisfaction at least. This gloomy incident was over, and Lord Lindores had no desire to hear any more of it. It was just the end that anybody might have expected Torrance to come to. Why could not the officious blockheads of the country-side let the matter alone? But he did not feel that desire to help and right John Erskine which his warm adoption of the young man to his friendship would have warranted. For why? such an incident, however it ended, would certainly spoil young Erskine's influence in the county. He would be of no more advantage to any one. A quarrel was nothing; but to escape from the consequences of that quarrel, to let a man die at the foot of a precipice without sending help to him, that was a thing which all the country-side turned against. It was this that had roused so strong a feeling against John, and Lord Lindores made up his mind philosophically, that though Erskine would probably be cleared of all imputation of blood-guiltiness, yet, innocent or guilty, he would never get over it, and, consequently, would be of no further use in any public projects. At the same time, his own views had changed in respect to the means of carrying these projects out. Lord Millefleurs was a better instrument than country eminence. A seat gained was of course always an appreciable advantage. But it was not certain even that the seat could have been gained; and a son-in-law in hand is better than many boroughs in the bush. The Duke could not ignore Lord Lindores's claims if Edith was a member of the family. This was far more important than anything that could concern John Erskine, though Lord Lindores would have been heartily thankful—now that he was good for nothing but to excite foolish sympathies—if he could have got John Erskine happily out of the way.
Millefleurs had reached Lindores some time before: he had returned direct from the funeral along with Beaufort, who, much marvelling at himself, had stood among the crowd, and seen Carry's husband laid in his grave. The sensation was too extraordinary to be communicated to any one. It had seemed to him that the whole was a dream, himself a spectre of the past, watching bewildered, while the other, whom he had never seen, who was nothing but a coffin, was removed away and deposited among the unseen. He had not been bold enough to go into the house to see Carry, even from the midst of the crowd. Whether she was sorrowing for her husband, or feeling some such thrills of excitement as were in his own bosom at the thought that she was free, Beaufort could not tell; but when he found himself seated at table that evening with her father and brother, he could not but feel that his dream was going on, and that there was no telling in what new scene it might unfold fresh wonders. The four gentlemen dined alone, and they were not a lively party. After dinner they gathered about the fireplace, not making any move towards the forsaken drawing-room. "This is a sad sort of amusement to provide for you," Lord Lindores said. "We hoped to have shown you the more cheerful side of Scotch life."
"I have had a very good time: what you might call a lovely time," said Millefleurs. Then he made a pause, and drawing closer, laid his plump finger on Lord Lindores's arm. "I don't want to make myself a nuisance now; but—not to be troublesome—if I am not likely soon to have an opportunity of addressing myself to Lady Edith, don't you think I had better go away?"
"You may well be tired of us; a house of mourning," said Lord Lindores, with a smile of benevolent meaning. "It was not for this you came into those wilds."
"They are far from being wilds: I have enjoyed myself very much," said little Millefleurs. "All has been new; and to see a new country, don't you know, is always the height of my ambition. But such a thing might happen as that I wasn't wanted. When a lady means to have anything to say to a fellow, I have always heard she lets him know. To say nothing is, perhaps, as good a way of saying no as any. It may be supposed to save a man's feelings——"
"Am I to understand that you have spoken to my daughter, Millefleurs?"
"I have never had the chance, Lord Lindores. On the very evening, you will remember, when I hoped to have an explanation, this unfortunate accident happened. I am very sorry for the gentleman whom, in the best of circumstances, I can never now hope to call my brother-in-law; but the position is perhaps a little awkward. Lady Edith is acquainted with my aspirations, but I—know nothing; don't you know?" said the little Marquis. He had his hand upon his plump bosom, and raised himself a little on one foot as he spoke. "It makes a fellow feel rather small—and, in my case, that isn't wanted," he added, cheerfully. Nothing less like a despairing lover could be imagined; but though he resembled a robin-redbreast, he was a man quite conscious of the dignities of his position, and not to be played with. A cold chill of alarm came over Lord Lindores.
"Edith will return to-morrow, or next day," he said; "or if you choose to go to Tinto, her mother regards you so much as a friend and favourite, that she will receive you gladly, I am sure. Go, then——"
"No," said Millefleurs, shaking his head, "no, that would be too strong. I never saw the poor fellow but once or twice, and the last time I had the misfortune to disagree with him; no—I can't convey myself to his house to learn if I'm to be taken or not. It is a droll sort of experience. I feel rather like a bale of goods, don't you know, on approval," he said with a laugh. He took it with great good-humour; but it was possible that even Millefleurs's good-humour might be exhausted.
"I undertake for it that you shall not have to wait much longer," said Lord Lindores.