The Ladies Lindores. Volume 3 of 3

"Not excitement, but deliverance," said Lady Car with solemnity. "Yes, mother, you are right; I should have stood to the end; but do you think that would have been a credit to me? Oh, you don't know how hard falsehood is! Falsehood and slavery – they are the same thing; they make your heart like iron: you have no feeling even when you ought perhaps to have feeling. I am cruel now; I know you think I am cruel: but how can one help it? slaves are cruel. I can afford to have a heart now."

"Come to your room, Carry. It is too dismal for you here."

"No, I don't think it is dismal. It is a fine handsome room – better than a bedroom to sit in. It is not so much like a prison, and the view is lovely. There is poor Edith looking at me with her pitiful face. Do you think I ought to cry? Oh, I could cry well enough, if that were all – it would be quite easy; but there is so much to smile about," said poor Lady Car; then suddenly, leaning upon her mother's shoulder, she burst into a flood of tears.

It was at this moment that the housekeeper came in, solemn in her new mourning, which was almost as "deep" as Carry's, with a housemaid in attendance, to draw up the blinds and see that the great room was restored to order. The gentlemen were to return for the reading of the will, and it was meet that all should be prepared and made ready. And nothing could so much have touched the hearts of the women as to see their mistress thus weeping, encircled in her mother's arms. "Poor thing! he was not over good a man to her; but there's nae rule for judging marriet folk. It's ill to hae and waur to want with them. There's naebody," said the housekeeper, "but must respect my lady for her feeling heart." Lady Caroline, however, would not take the credit of this when she had retired to a more private room. She would not allow her mother and sister to suppose that her tears were tears of sorrow, such as a widow ought to shed. "You were right, mother – it is the excitement," she avowed; "every nerve is tingling. I could cry and I could laugh. If it had not been for your good training, mamma, I should have had hysterics; but that would be impossible to your daughter. When shall I be able to go away? I know: I will not go sooner than is right. I will do nothing I ought not to do; – but you could say my nerves are shattered, and that I want rest."

"And very truly, Carry," said Lady Lindores; "but we must know first what the will is. To be sure, your fortune is secured. You will be well off – better than any of us; but there may be regulations about the children – there may be conditions."

"Could the children be taken from me?" Carry said, but not with any active feeling; her powers of emotion were all concentrated on one thought. Lady Lindores, who was watching her with all a mother's anxious criticism, fearing to see any failure of right sentiment in her child, listened with a sensation of alarm. She had never been contented with herself in this particular. Carry's children had been too much the children of Pat Torrance to awaken the grandmother's worship, which she thought befitting, in her own heart. She felt a certain repulsion when she looked at these black-browed, light-eyed creatures, who were their father's in every feature – not Carry's at all. Was it possible that Carry, too, felt the same? But by-and-by Carry took up that little stolid girl on whom Lady Lindores could not place her tenderest affections, do what she would, and pressed her pale cheek against that undisturbed and solid little countenance. The child's face looked bigger than her mother's, Lady Lindores thought – the one all mind and feeling, the other all clay. She went and gave little Edith a kiss in her compunction and penitence for this involuntary dislike; but fortunately Carry herself was unconscious of it, and caressed her babies as if they were the most delicate and beautiful in the world.

Carry was not present at the reading of the will. She shrank from it, and no one insisted. There were father and brother to look after her interests. Rintoul was greatly shaken by the events of the day. He was ghastly pale, and very much excited and agitated. Whatever his sister might do, Rintoul certainly exhibited the truest sentiment. Nobody had given him credit for half so much feeling. He carried back his little nephew asleep after the long drive home, and thrust him into Carry's arms. "I am not much of a fellow," he said, stooping over her, with a voice full of emotion, "but I'll do a father's part to him, if I'm good enough for it, Carry." Carry by this time was quite calm, and wondered at this exhibition of feeling, at which Lady Lindores shed tears, though in her heart she wondered too, rejoicing that her inward rebellion against Torrance's children was not shared by her son. "Robin's heart was always in the right place," she said, with a warmth of motherly approval, which was not diminished by the fact that Rintoul's emotion made her still more conscious of the absence of "right feeling" in herself. There was not much conversation between the ladies in the small morning room to which they had withdrawn – a room which had never been used and had no associations. Carry, indeed, was very willing to talk; but her mother and sister did their best, with a natural prejudice and almost horror of the manner in which she regarded her own circumstances, to keep her silent. Even Edith, who would have dissolved the marriage arbitrarily, did not like to hear her sister's cry of satisfaction over the freedom which death had brought her. There was something impious and cruel in getting free that way. If it had been by a divorce or separation, Edith would have been as glad as any; but she was a girl full of prejudices and superstitions, and this candour of Carry's was a thing she shrank from as an offence to human nature. She kept behind-backs, often with her little niece on her knee, but sometimes by herself, keeping very quiet, revolving many thoughts in her heart; while Lady Lindores kept close to Carry, like a sick-nurse, keeping watch over all her movements. It was dusk when the reading of the will was over, and the sound in the house of footsteps going and coming began to cease. Then Lord Lindores came in with much subdued dignity of demeanour, like an ambassador approaching a crowned head. He went up to Carry, who lay back in a great easy-chair beside the fire with her hands clasped, pursuing the thoughts which she was not permitted to express, and gave her a formal kiss on the forehead: not that he was cold or unsympathetic as a father, but he had been a little afraid of her since her marriage, and she had not welcomed the condolences he had addressed to her when he saw her first after Tinto's death.

"My dear," he said, "this is not a moment for congratulations: and yet there is something to a woman in having earned the entire confidence of her husband, which must be a subject of satisfaction – "

Carry scarcely moved in her stillness. She looked at him without understanding what he meant. "It would be better, perhaps," she said, "father, not to speak of the circumstances."

"I hope I am not likely to speak in a way that could wound your feelings, Carry. Poor Patrick – has done you noble justice in his will."

A hysterical desire to laugh seized poor Lady Car. Lord Lindores himself was a little confused by the name he had coined on the spot for his dead son-in-law. He had felt that to call him Torrance would be cold, as his wish was to express the highest approval; and Pat was too familiar. But his "Poor Patrick" was not successful. And Carry knew that, even in the midst of her family, she must not laugh that day, whatever might happen. She stopped herself convulsively, but cried, "Papa, for heaven's sake, don't talk to me any more!"

"Do you not see, Robert, that she is exhausted?" said Lady Lindores. "She thinks nothing of the will. She is worn out with – all she has had to go through. Let her alone till she has had time to recover a little."

His wife's interposition always irritated Lord Lindores. "I may surely be permitted to speak to Carry without an interpreter," he said, testily. "It is no doubt a very – painful moment for her. But if anything could make up – Torrance has behaved nobly, poor fellow! It must be gratifying to us all to see the confidence he had in her. You have the control of everything during your boy's minority, Carry. Everything is in your hands. Of course it was understood that you would have the support of your family. But you are hampered by no conditions: he has behaved in the most princely manner; nothing could be more gratifying," Lord Lindores said.

Carry sat motionless in her chair, and took no notice – her white hands clasped on her lap; her white face, passive and still, showed as little emotion as the black folds of her dress, which were like a tragic framework round her. Lady Lindores, with her hand upon the back of her daughter's chair, came anxiously between, and replied for her. She had to do her best to say the right thing in these strange circumstances – to be warmly gratified, yet subdued by the conventional gloom necessary to the occasion. "I am very glad," she said – "that is, it is very satisfactory. I do not see what else he could have done. Carry must have had the charge of her own children – who else had any right? – but, as you say, it is very gratifying to find that he had so much confidence – "

Lord Lindores turned angrily away. "Nerves and vapours are out of place here," he said. "Carry ought to understand – but, fortunately, so long as I know what I am about – the only one among you – "

At this Carry raised herself hastily in her chair. She said "Papa," quickly, with a half gasp of alarm. Then she added, without stopping, almost running her words into each other in her eagerness, "They are my children; no one else has anything to do with them; I must do everything – everything! for them myself; nobody must interfere."

"Who do you expect to interfere?" said her father, sternly. He found himself confronting his entire family as he turned upon Carry, who was so strangely roused and excited, sitting up erect in her seat, clasping her pale hands. Rintoul had gone round behind her chair, beside his mother; and Edith, rising up behind, stood there also, looking at him with a pale face and wide-open eyes. It was as if he had made an attack upon her – he who had come here to inform her of her freedom and her rights. This sudden siding together of all against one is bitter, even when the solitary person may know himself to be wrong. But Lord Lindores felt himself in the right at this moment. Supposing that perhaps he had made a mistake in this marriage of Carry's, fate had stepped in and made everything right. She was nobly provided for, with the command of a splendid fortune – and she was free. Now at least his wisdom ought to be acknowledged, and that he had done well for his daughter. But notwithstanding his resentment, he was a little cowed "in the circumstances" by this gathering of pale faces against him. Nothing could be said that was not peaceful and friendly on the day that the dead had gone out of the house.

"Do you think I am likely to wish to dictate to her," he said, with a short laugh, "that you stand round to defend her from me? Carry, you are very much mistaken if you think I will interfere. Children are out of my way. Your mother will be your best adviser. I yield to her better information now. You are tired, you are unhappy – you are – left desolate – "

"Oh, how do you dare to say such words to me?" cried Carry, rising, coming forward to him with feverish energy, laying her hands upon his shoulders, as if to compel him to face her, and hear what she had to say. "Don't you know – don't you know? I was left desolate when you brought me here, five years – five dreadful years ago. Whose fault is that? I am glad he is dead – glad he is dead! Could a woman be more injured than that? But now I have neither father nor mother," she cried. "I am in my own right; my life is my own, and, my children; I will be directed no more."

All this time she stood with her hands on his shoulders, grasping him unconsciously to give emphasis to her words. Lord Lindores was startled beyond measure by this personal contact – by the way in which poor Carry, always so submissive, flung herself upon him. "Do you mean to use violence to me? do you mean to turn me out of your house?" he said.

"Oh, father! – oh, father! how can I forgive you?" Carry cried, in her excitement and passion; and then she dropped her hands suddenly and wept, and begged his pardon like a child. Lord Lindores was very glad to take advantage of this sudden softening which he had so little expected. He kissed her and put her back in her chair. "I would recommend you to put her to bed," he said to his wife; "she has been overdone." And he thought he had got the victory, and that poor Carry, after her little explosion, was safe in his hands once more. He meant no harm to Carry. It was solely of her good and that of her children that he thought. It could do no harm either to the one or the other if they served his aims too. He drove home with his son soon after, leaving his wife behind him: it was proper that Carry should have her mother and sister with her at so sad a time. And the house of Tinto, which had been so dark all these nights, shone demurely out again this evening, at a window here and there, – death, which is always an oppression, being gone from it, and life resuming its usual sway. The flag still hung half-mast high, drooping against the flagstaff, for there was no wind. "But I'm thinking, my lord, well put it back to-morrow," said the butler as he stood solemnly at the carriage-door. He stood watching it roll down the avenue in that mood of genial exhaustion which makes men communicative. "It's a satisfaction to think all's gane well and everybody satisfied," he said to his subordinate; "for a death in a family is worse to manage than ony other event. You're no' just found fault with at the moment, but it's minded against you if things go wrong, and your 'want o' feelin'.' My lady will maybe think it want o' feelin' if I put up the flag. But why should I no'? For if big Tinto's gane, there's wee Tinto, still mair important, with all the world before him. And if I let it be, they'll say it's neglect."

"My lady will never fash her head about it," said the second in command.

"How do you ken? Ah, my lad, you'll find a change. The master might give you a damn at a moment, but he wasna hard to manage. We'll have all the other family, her family, to give us our orders now."

CHAPTER XXXVII

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 – "