The Ladies Lindores. Volume 3 of 3

"We must not detain you, Mr Beaufort," Lady Lindores said; "you were going to my husband – or Lord Millefleurs – who is still here."

The last four words were said with a certain significance, as if intended for a hint, – persuade him, they seemed to say, that this is not a time to remain here. "It is getting late, mother," said Edith, with a touch of impatience.

"One moment, Lady Lindores. I must tell you why I have come: not for myself – to ask help for Erskine, whom I have just left in custody, charged with having occasioned somehow – I can't tell you how – the death of – the late accident – your son-in-law," Beaufort stammered out.

The next moment he seemed to be surrounded by them, by their cries of dismay, by their anxious questions. A sharp keen pang of offence was the first feeling in Beaufort's mind, – that John should be so much more interesting to them than he was! It gave him a shock even in the excitement of the moment.

"This was what he meant" – he could at last hear Edith distinctly after the momentary babel of mutual exclamations – "this was what he meant: that we might hear something, which he might not be able to explain, but that we were to believe in him – you and I, mamma."

"Of course we believe in him," cried Lady Lindores; "but something else must be done, something more. Come this way, Mr Beaufort; Lord Lindores is here."

She called him Mr Beaufort without any hesitation now – not pausing, as she had done before, with the more familiar name on her lips. It was John who was in the foreground now – John who, perhaps, for anything they knew, had caused the event which had put them in mourning. With a whimsical mortification and envy, Beaufort exaggerated in his own mind the distress caused by this event. For the moment he looked upon it as a matter of real loss and pain to this unthinking family who showed such interest in the person who perhaps – But the sentiment did not go so far as to be put into words; it resolved itself into a half-indignant wonder at the interest taken in John, and sense of injured superiority on his own account – he, of whom no man could say that he had been instrumental in causing the death even of a dog.

Lady Lindores led the way hastily into the library, where three figures were visible against the dim light in the window as the others came in. Lord Lindores, seated in his chair; little Millefleurs, leaning against the window, half turned towards the landscape; and in front of the light, with his back to it, Rintoul, who was speaking. "With you as bail," he was saying, "he may be set free to-night. Don't let him be a night in that place."

"Are you speaking of John Erskine, Robin, my dear boy? Oh, not a night, not an hour! Don't lose any time. It is too dreadful, too preposterous. Your father will go directly. Take the carriage, which is at the door. If we are a little late, what does it matter?" said Lady Lindores, coming forward, another shadow in the dim light. Millefleurs turned half round, but did not come away from the window on which he was leaning. He was somewhat surprised too, very curious, perhaps a trifle indignant, to see all this fuss made about Erskine. He drew up his plump little person, altogether indifferent to the pronounced manifestation of all its curves against the light, and looked beyond Lady Lindores to Edith, – Edith, who hurried after her mother, swift and silent, as if they were one being, moved by the same unnecessary excitement. Millefleurs had not been in a comfortable state of mind during these last days. The delay irritated him; though Lord Lindores assured him that all was well, he could not feel that all was well. Why should not Edith see him, and give him his answer? She was not so overwhelmed with grief for that brute. What did it mean? And now, though she could not see him on such urgent cause, she was able to interest herself in this eager way on behalf of John Erskine! Millefleurs was very tolerant, and when the circumstances demanded it, could be magnanimous, but he thought he had reason of offence here.

There was a momentary pause – enough to show that Lord Lindores did not share the feeling so warmly expressed. "I am surprised that you should all be so inconsiderate," he said; "you, at least, Rintoul, who generally show more understanding. I have understood that Erskine had laid himself under suspicion. Can you imagine that I, so near a connection of poor Torrance, am the right person to interfere on behalf perhaps of his – murd – that is to say, of the cause – of the instrument – "

"It is impossible," cried Edith, with such decision that her soft voice seemed hard – "impossible! Can any one suppose for a moment – "

"Be silent, Edith," cried her father.

"Why should she be silent?" said Lady Lindores. "Robert, think what you are saying. We have all known John Erskine for years. He is as incapable as I am – as unlikely as any one of us here. Because you are so near a connection, is not that the very reason why you should interfere? For God's sake, think of that poor boy in prison – in prison! and lose no time."

"I will do it, mother," said Rintoul.

"Oh, God bless you, my boy! I knew you were always right at heart."

"Rintoul," said his father, "enthusiasm of this sort is new in you. Let us take a little common-sense into the question. In the first place, nothing can be done to-night – that is evident. Then consider a moment: what does 'in prison' mean? In the governor's comfortable rooms, where he will be as well off as at home; and probably – for he is not without sense – will be taking the most reasonable view of the matter. He will know perfectly well that if he deserves it he will find friends; in short, that we are all his friends, and that everybody will be too glad to assist him – as soon as he has cleared himself – "

"As soon as he wants it no longer," cried Lady Lindores.

"My dear, you are always violent; you are always a partisan," said her husband, drawing back his chair a little, with the air of having ended the discussion; and there was a pause – one of those breathless pauses of helplessness, yet rebellion, which make sick the hearts of women. Lady Lindores clasped her hands together with a despairing movement. "This is the curse of our life," she cried. "I can do nothing; I cannot go against your father, Edith, and yet I am neither a fool nor a child. God help us women! we have to stand by, whatever wrong is done, and submit – submit. That is all that is left for us to do – "

"Submit!" Edith said. She was young and strong, and had not learned her lesson. It galled her beyond endurance. She stood and looked round her, seeing the whiteness of the faces, but little else in the evening gloom. Was it true that there was nothing – nothing in her power? In poetry, a girl can throw herself on her knees, can weep and plead – but only weep and plead; and she, who had not been trained to that, who was conscious of her individuality, her independent mind and judgment in every nerve – heaven above! was she as helpless still? She stood breathless for a moment, with wondering eyes fixed on the darkness, with a gasp of proud resistance to fate. Submit to injustice, to cruel heartlessness of those who could aid, to still more cruel helplessness – impotence, on her own part? She stood for a moment gazing at the blank wall that seemed to rise before her, as the poor, the helpless have to do, – as women have to do in all circumstances. It was her first experience in this kind. She had been proud to know that she was not as Carry, that no tyranny could crush her spirit: but this was different. She had not anticipated such a trial as this. There came from her bosom one sob of supreme pain which she could not keep in. Not for John only, whom she could not help in his moment of need, but for herself also – to feel herself impotent, helpless, powerless as a child.

Millefleurs came forward from the window hurriedly. Perhaps being so much a man of his time it was he who understood that gasp of suffering best. He said, "Lady Edith, if I can help – " quickly, on the impulse of the moment; then, thorough little gentleman as he was, checked himself. "Lady Lindores, though I am a stranger, yet my name is good enough. Tell me what to do and I will do it. Perhaps it is better that Lord Lindores should not commit himself. But I am free, don't you know," he said, with something of the easy little chirrup of more ordinary times. Why was it that, at such a moment, Edith, of all others, in her personal despair, should burst out into that strange little laugh? She grasped her mother's arm with both hands in her excitement. Here was a tragic irony and ridicule penetrating the misery of the crisis like a sharp arrow which pricked the girl to the very heart.

This sympathiser immediately changed the face of affairs. Lord Lindores, indeed, continued to hold himself apart, pushing back his chair once more; but even to Lord Lindores, Millefleurs made a difference. He said no more about enthusiasm or common-sense, but listened, not without an occasional word of direction. They clustered together like a band of shadows against the great window, which was full of the paleness of the night. Beaufort, who was the person most acquainted with all the circumstances, recovered his sense of personal importance as he told his story. But after all, it was not as the narrator of John Erskine's story that he cared to gain importance in the eyes of Carry's family, any more than it was as bail for John Erskine that Lord Millefleurs desired to make himself agreeable to the ladies at Lindores. Both of the strangers, thus caught in the net of difficulties and dangers which surrounded their old comrade, resented it more or less; but what could they do? Edith took no further part in the consultation. She retired behind her mother, whose arm she continued to hold firm and fast in both her hands. When she was moved by the talk going on at her side she grasped that arm tightly, which was her only sign of emotion, but for the rest retired into the darkness where no one could see, and into herself, a still more effectual retirement. Lady Lindores felt that her daughter's two hands clasping her were like a sort of anchor which Edith had thrown out in her shipwreck to grasp at some certainty. She bore the pressure with a half smile and sigh. She too had felt the shipwreck with keen passion, still more serious than that of Edith: but she had no one to anchor to. She felt this, half with a grateful sense of what she herself was still good for; but still more, perhaps, with that other personal sense which comes to most – that with all the relationships of life still round her, mother and wife, she, for all solace and support, was like most of us virtually alone.

CHAPTER XXXV

"Your master is just a young fool. Why, in the name of a' that's reasonable," cried Mr Monypenny, "did he not send for me?"

"Sir," said Rolls, "you're too sensible a man not to know that the last thing a lad is likely to do is what's reasonable, especially when he's in that flurry, and just furious at being blamed."

Mr Monypenny was walking up and down his business room with much haste and excitement. His house was built on the side of a slope, so that the room, which was level with the road on one side, was elevated on the upper floor at the other, and consequently had the advantage of a view bounded, as was general, by "that eternal Tinto," as he was in the habit of calling it. The good man, greatly disturbed by what he heard, walked to his window and stared out as Rolls spoke. And he shook his fist at the distant object of so many troubles. "Him and his big house and his ill ways – they've been the trouble of the country-side those fifteen years and more," cried the excited "man of business"; "and now we're not done with him, even when he's dead."

"Far from done with him," said Rolls, shaking his head. He was seated on the edge of a chair with his hat in his lap and a countenance of dismay. "If I might make so bold as to ask," he said, "what would ye say, sir, would be done if the worst came to the worst? I'm no' saying to Mr Erskine indiveedually," added Rolls – "for it's my belief he's had nothing ado with it – but granting that it's some person and no mere accident – "

"How can I tell – or any man?" said Mr Monypenny. "It depends entirely on the nature of the act. It's all supposition, so far as I can see. To pitch Pat Torrance over the Scaur, him and his big horse, with murderous intent, is more than John Erskine could have done, or any man I know. And there was no quarrel or motive. Culpable homicide – "

"That'll be what the English gentleman called manslaughter."

"Manslaughter is a wide word. It would all depend on the circumstances. A year; maybe six months only – If it were to turn out so – which I do not for a moment believe – " said Mr Monypenny, fixing his eyes upon Rolls with a determination which betrayed internal feebleness of belief.

"Nor me, sir – nor me!" cried Rolls, with the same look. They were like two conspirators regarding each other with the consciousness of the plot, which, even between themselves, each eyeing the other, they were determined to deny.

"But if by any evil chance it were to turn out so – I would advise a plain statement," said Mr Monypenny – "just a plain statement, concealing nothing. That should have been done at the moment: help should have been sought at the moment; there's the error. A misadventure like that might happen to any man. We might any of us be the means of such an accident: but panic is just the worst policy. Panic looks like guilt. If he's been so far left to himself as to take fright – to see that big man on his big horse thunderin' over the Scaur would be enough to make any man lose his head," the agent added, with a sort of apology in his tone.

"If you could think of the young master as in that poseetion," said Rolls.

"Which is just impossible," Mr Monypenny said, and then there was a little pause. "The wisest thing," he went on, "would be, just as I say, a plain statement. Such and such a thing happened. I lost my head. I thought there was nothing to be done. I was foolish enough to shrink from the name of it, or from the coolness it would make between me and my friends. Ay, very likely that might be the cause – the coolness it would make between him and the family at Lindores – "

"You're meaning always if there was onything in it at a'?"

"That is what I'm meaning. I will go and see him at once," Mr Monypenny said, "and that is the advice I will give. A plain story whatever it may be – just the facts; neither extenuate nor set down aught in malice. And as for you, Rolls, that seem to be mixed up in it yourself – "

"Ay, sir; I'm mixed up in it," said Rolls, turning upon him an inquiring yet half-defiant glance.

"It was you that found the body first. It was you that met your master at the gate. You're the most important witness, so far as I can see. Lord bless us, man!" said Mr Monypenny, forgetting precaution, "had you not the judgment, when you saw the lad had been in a tuilzie, to get him out of other folk's sight, and keep it to yourself?"

"There was John Tamson as well as me," said Rolls, very gravely; and then he added, "but ye canna see yet, Mr Monypenny, how it may a' turn."

"I see plenty," said the man of business, impatiently; and then he added, "the best thing you can do is to find out all you can about the ground, and other details. It was always unsafe; and there had been a great deal of rain. Very likely it was worse than ordinary that day. And call to mind any circumstances that might tell on our side. Ye had better come to me and make me acquainted with all your observations. Neglect nothing. The very way the beast was lying, if ye can rightly remember, might be a help. You're not without sense, Rolls. I've always had a high opinion of your sense. Now here's a chance for you to prove it – And come back to me, and we'll judge how the evidence tends. There's no need," he said, standing at the window once more with his back to his pupil, "to bring out any points that might turn – the other way."

"I'm not just such a fool as – some folk think," said Rolls; "and yet," he added, in an undertone, "for a' that, you canna see, Mr Monypenny, how it may all turn – "

"Don't haver, Rolls," said the agent, turning upon him angrily; "or speak out what you mean. There is no man can say how a thing will turn but he that has perfect knowledge of all the circumstances – which is not my case."

"That's what I was saying, sir," said Rolls, with a tranquil assumption which roused Mr Monypenny's temper; but the old man was so solemn in his air of superior knowledge, so full of sorrowful decision and despondency, that anger seemed out of place. The other grew alarmed as he looked at him.

"For God's sake, man," he cried, "if there's anything behind that I don't know, tell it! let me hear the worst. We must know the worst, if it's to make the best of it. Hide nothing from me."

"I give ye my word, sir, I'll hide nothing – when the time comes," said Rolls, with a sigh; "but I canna just unburden my bozume at this moment. There's mair thought needful and mair planning. And there's one thing I would like to make sure of, Mr Monypenny. If I'm put to expenses, or otherwise laid open to risk and ootlay – there's no doubt but it would be made up to me? And if, as might happen, anything serious was to befall – without doubt the young maister would think himself bound to take good care o' Bauby? She's my sister, maybe you'll mind: an aixcellent housekeeper and a good woman, though maybe I should leave her praises to ither folk. You see he hasna been brought up in the midst o' his ain folk, so to speak, or I would have little doubt."

"I cannot conceive what you mean, Rolls. Of course I know Bauby and her cookery both; but what risk you should run, or what she can have to do with it! Your expenses of course," said the agent, with a contemptuous wave of his hand, "you may be sure enough of. But you must have done pretty well in the service of the Dalrulzian family, Rolls. I'm surprised that you should think of this at such a moment – "

"That's just what I expectit, sir," said Rolls; "but maybe I ken my ain affairs best, having no man of business. And about Bauby, she's just what I care for most. I wouldna have her vexed or distresst for siller, or put out of her ordinar. The maister he's but a young man, and no' attached to us as he would have been had he been brought up at hame. It's a great drawback to a young lad, Mr Monypenny" – Rolls broke off his personal argument to say sententiously – "not to be brought up at hame."

"Because he does not get the chance of becoming attached to his servants?" said Mr Monypenny, with an impatient laugh. "Perhaps it may be so, but this is a curious moment to moralise on the subject."

"No' so curious as you think, sir; but I will not weary you," said Rolls, with some dignity. "When I was saying ootlay, I meant mair than just a sixpence here or there. But Bauby's the grand question. I'm in a strange kind of a poseetion, and the one thing I'm clear in is my duty to her. She's been a rael guid sister to me; aye made me comfortable, studiet my ways, took an interest in all my bits o' fykes. I would ill like either scorn or trouble to come to Bauby. She's awfu' soft-hearted," said the old butler, solemnly gazing into vacancy with a reddening of his eyes. Something of that most moving of all sentiments, self-pity, was in his tone. He foresaw Bauby's apron at her eyes for him, and in her grief over her brother, his own heart was profoundly moved. "There will be some things that nobody can save her from: but for all that concerns this world, if I could be sure that nothing would happen to Bauby – "

"Well, Rolls, you're past my comprehension," said Mr Monypenny; "but so far as taking care of Bauby in case anything happens to you – though what should happen to you I have yet to learn."

"That is just so," said Rolls, getting up slowly. There was about him altogether a great solemnity, like a man at a funeral, Mr Monypenny said afterwards. "I cannot expect you to know, sir – that's atween me and my Maker. I'm no' going back to Dalrulzian. I cannot have my mind disturbed at this awfu' moment, as ye say, with weemen and their ways. If ye see the English gentleman, ye'll maybe explain. Marget has a very guid notion o' waitin'; she can do all that's necessary; and for me, I've ither work in hand."

"You must not look at everything in so gloomy a spirit, Rolls," said Mr Monypenny, holding out his hand. He was not in the habit of shaking hands with the butler, but there are occasions when rules are involuntarily broken through.

"No' a gloomy spirit, sir, but awfu' serious," said Rolls. "You'll tell the young maister no' to be down-hearted, but at the same time no' to be that prood. Help may come when it's little looked for. I'm no' a man of mony words, but I've been, as you say, sir, attached to the family all my days, and I have just a feeling for them more than common. The present gentleman's mother – her that married the English minister – was no' just what suited the house. Dalrulzian was nothing to her; and that's what I compleen o', that the young man was never brought up at hame, to have confidence in his ain folk. It would have been greatly for his advantage, sir," continued Rolls, "if he had but had the discernment to see that our bonnie Miss Nora was just the person; – but I mustna think now of making conditions," he said, hurriedly – "we'll leave that to his good sense. Mony thanks to you, sir, for hearing me out, and shaking my hand as ye've done; though there's maybe things I have said that are a wee hard to understand."

"Ay, Rolls," said Mr Monypenny, laughing, "you're just like the other prophets; a great deal of what you've said is Greek and Hebrew to me."

"No doubt, no doubt," said Rolls, shaking his head; there was no smile in him, not a line in his countenance that marked even incipient humour. Whatever he meant it was deadly earnest to Rolls. Mr Monypenny stood and watched him go out, with a laugh gurgling low down in his throat. "He was always a conceited body," he said to himself. But his inclination to laughter subsided as his visitor disappeared. It was no moment for laughing. And when Rolls was gone, the temptation to speculate on his words, and put meaning into them, subsided also, and Mr Monypenny gave himself up with great seriousness to consider the position. He ordered his little country carriage – something of the phaeton order, but not elegant enough for classification – and drove away as quickly as his comfortable cob would consent to go, to where John was. Such a thing had not happened to any person of importance in the county since he could remember. Debt, indeed – debt was common enough, and plenty of trouble always, about money, Mr Monypenny said to himself, shaking his head, as he went along. There had been borrowings and hypothecations of all sorts enough to make a financier's hair stand on end; but crime never! Not that men were better here than in other quarters; but among the gentry that had never happened. The good man ran on, in a rambling inaudible soliloquy, or rather colloquy with himself, as he drove on, asking how it was, after all, that incidents of the kind were so rare among the gentry. Was the breed better? He shook his head, remembering himself of various details which interfered with so easy a solution. Or was it that things were more easily hushed up? or that superior education enforced a greater respect for the world's opinion, and made offences of this sort almost impossible? It was a strange thing (he thought) when you came to think of it. A fellow, now, like the late Tinto would have been in every kind of scrape had he been a poor man; but somehow, being a rich one, he had kept out of the hands of the law. Such a thing never happened from year's end to year's end. And to think now that it was not one of our ordinary Scots lairds, but the pink of education and good breeding, from England and abroad! This gave a momentary theoretical satisfaction to his musings by the way. But immediately after, he thought with self-reproach that it was young Erskine of whom he was permitting himself such criticism: young Dalrulzian, poor lad! all the more to be pitied that he had been brought up, as Rolls said, away from home, and with no father to look after him. The cob was used to take his own way along those roads which he knew so well, but at this point Mr Monypenny touched him with the indignity of a whip, and hurried along. He met Beaufort returning, driving, with a little hesitation at the corner of the road, John's dogcart homeward; and Mr Monypenny thought he recognised the dogcart, but he did not stop to say anything to the stranger, who naturally knew nothing of him. Nor was his interview with John at all satisfactory when he came to his journey's end. The young man received his man of business with that air of levity which, mixed with indignation, had been his prevailing mood since his arrest. He laughed when he said, "This is a curious place to receive you in," and for some time he would scarcely give any heed to the anxious questions and suggestions of Mr Monypenny. At length, however, this veil was thrown off, and John permitted the family friend, of whose faithfulness he could have no doubt, to see the depth of wounded feeling that lay below. "Of course it can be nothing to me," he said, still holding his head high. "They cannot prove a falsehood, however they may wish it; but to think that of all these men with whom I have eaten and drunk, who have professed to welcome me for my father's sake – to think that not one of them would step in to stand by a fellow, or give him the least support – "