The Ladies Lindores. Volume 3 of 3

"Carry, Carry!" cried her mother in horror – "a comfort to you! when it is only a month, scarcely a month, since – "

"Don't speak of that," Carry cried, putting up her hands. "What if it had only been a day? What is it to me what people think? Their thinking never did me any good while I had to suffer, – why should I pay any attention to it now?"

"But we must, so long as we live in the world at all, pay attention to it," cried Lady Lindores, more and more distressed; "for your own sake, my dearest, for your children's sake."

"My children! – what do they know? they are babies; for my own sake? Whether is it better, do you think, to be happy or to be miserable, mother? I have tried the other so long. I want to be happy now. I mean," said Carry, clasping her hands, "to be happy now. Is it good to be miserable? Why should I? Even self-sacrifice must have an object. Why should I, why should I? Give me a reason for it, and I will think; but you give me no reason!" she cried, and broke off abruptly, her agitated countenance shining in a sort of rosy cloud.

There was a pause, and they sat and gazed at each other, or, at least, the mother gazed at Carry with all the dismay of a woman who had never offended against the proprieties in her life, and yet could not but feel the most painful sympathy with the offender. And not only was she anxious about the indecorum of the moment, but full of disturbed curiosity to know if any determination about the future had been already come to. On this subject, however, she did not venture to put any question, or even suggest anything that might precipitate matters. Oh, if John Erskine would but obey her – if he would close his doors upon the intruder; oh, if he himself (poor Edward! her heart bled for him too, though she tried to thwart him) would but see what was right, and go away!

"Dear," said Lady Lindores, faltering, "I did not say you might not meet – whoever you pleased – in a little while. Of course, nobody expects you at your age to bury yourself. But in the circumstances – at such a moment – indeed, indeed, Carry, I think he would act better, more like what we had a right to expect of him, if he were to consider you before himself, and go away."

"What we had a right to expect! What had you a right to expect? What have you ever done for him but betray him?" cried Carry, in her agitation. She stopped to get breath, to subdue herself, but it was not easy. "Mother, I am afraid of you," she said. "I might have stood against my father if you had backed me up. I am afraid of you. I feel as if I ought to fly away from you, to hide myself somewhere. You might make me throw away my life again, – buy it from me with a kiss and a smile. Oh no, no!" she cried, almost violently; "no, no, I will not let my happiness go again!"

"Carry, what is it? what is it? What are you going to do?"

Carry did not reply; her countenance was flushed and feverish. She rose up and stood with her arm on the mantelpiece, looking vaguely into her own face in the mirror. "I will not let my happiness go again," she said, over and over to herself.

John Erskine carried his own reply to Lady Lindores's letter before she returned from this expedition to Tinto. He, too, was one of those who felt for Lady Car an alarm which neither she nor Beaufort shared; and he had already been so officious as to urge strongly on his guest the expediency of going away, – advice which Beaufort had not received in, as people say, the spirit in which it was given. He had not been impressed by his friend's disinterested motives and anxiety to serve his true interests, and had roundly declared that he would leave Dalrulzian if Erskine pleased, but no one should make him leave the neighbourhood while he could be of the slightest comfort to her. John was not wholly disinterested, perhaps, any more than Beaufort. He seized upon Lady Lindores's letter as the pretext for a visit. He had not been admitted lately when he had gone to Lindores – the ladies had been out, or they had been engaged, or Lord Lindores had seized hold upon him about county business; and since the day when they parted at Miss Barbara's door, he had never seen Edith save for a moment. He set off eagerly, without, it is to be feared, doing anything to carry out Lady Lindores's injunctions. Had he not exhausted every argument? He hurried off to tell her so, to consult with her as to what he could do. Anything that brought him into contact and confidential intercourse with either mother or daughter was a happiness to him. And he made so much haste that he arrived at Lindores before she had returned from Tinto. The servant who opened the door to him was young and indiscreet. Had the butler been at hand, as it was his duty to be, it is possible that what was about to happen might never have happened. But it was a young footman, a native, one who was interested in the family, and liked to show his interest. "Her ladyship's no' at home, sir," he said to John; "but," he added, with a glow of pleasure, "Lady Edith is in the drawing-room." It may be supposed that John was not slow to take advantage of this intimation. He walked quite decorously after the man, but he felt as if he were tumbling head over heels in his eagerness to get there. When the door was closed upon them, and Edith, rising against the light at the end of the room, in front of a great window, turned to him with a little tremulous cry of wonder and confusion, is it necessary to describe their feelings? John took her hands into both of his without any further preliminaries, saying, "At last!" with an emotion and delight so profound that it brought the tears to his eyes. And Edith, for her part, said nothing at all – did not even look at him in her agitation. There had been no direct declaration, proposal, acceptance between them. There was nothing of the kind now. Amid all the excitements and anxieties of the past weeks, these prefaces of sentiment seemed to have been jumped over – to have become unnecessary. They had been long parted, and they had come together "at last!"

It may probably be thought that this was abrupt, – too little anxious and doubtful on his part, too ready and yielding on hers. But no law can be laid down in such cases, and they had a right; like other people, to their own way. And then the meeting was so unexpected, he had not time to think how a lover should look, nor she to remember what punctilios a lady should require. That a man should go down on his knees to prefer his suit had got to be old-fashioned in the time of their fathers and mothers. In Edith's days, the straightforwardness of a love in which the boy and girl had first met in frank equality, and afterwards the man and woman in what they considered to be honest friendship and liking, was the best understood phase. They were to each other the only possible mates, the most perfect companions in the world.

"I have so wanted to speak to you," he cried; "in all that has happened this is what I have wanted; everything would have been bearable if I could have talked it over, – if I could have explained everything to you."

"But I understood all the time," Edith said.

There is something to be said perhaps for this kind of love-making too.

And the time flew as never time flew before – as time has always flown under such circumstances; and it began to grow dark before they knew: for the days were creeping in, growing short, and the evenings long. It need not be said that they liked the darkness – it was more delightful than the finest daylight; but it warned them that they might be interrupted at any moment, and ought to have put them on their guard. Lady Lindores might come in, or even Lord Lindores, which was worse: or, short of those redoubtable personages, the servants might make a sudden invasion to close the windows, which would be worst of all: even this fear, however, did not break the spell which enveloped them. They were at the end of the room, up against the great window, which was full of the grey evening sky, and formed the most dangerous background in the world to a group of two figures very close together, forming but one outline against the light. They might, one would think, have had sense enough to recollect that they were thus at once made evident to whosoever should come in. But they had no sense, nor even caution enough to intermit their endless talking, whispering, now and then, and listen for a moment to anything which might be going on behind them. When it occurred to Edith to point out how dark it was getting, John had just then entered upon a new chapter, and found another branch of the subject upon which there were volumes to say.

"For look here," he said, "what will your father say to me, Edith? I am neither rich nor great. I am not good enough for you in any way. No – no man is good enough for a girl like you – but I don't mean that. When I came first to Dalrulzian and saw what a little place it was, I was sick with disgust and disappointment. I know why now – it was because it was not good enough for you. I roam all over it every day thinking and thinking – it is not half good enough for her. How can I ask her to go there? How can I ask her father?"

"Oh how can you speak such nonsense, John. If it is good enough for you it is good enough for me. If a room is big or little, what does that matter? And as for my father – "

"It is your father I am afraid of," John said. "I think Lady Lindores would not mind; but your father will think it is throwing you away; he will think I am not good enough to tie your shoe – and he will be quite right – quite right," cried the young man, with fervour —

"In that case," said a voice behind them in the terrible twilight – a voice, at the sound of which their arms unclasped, their hands leapt asunder as by an electric shock; never was anything more sharp, more acrid, more incisive, than the sound, – "in that case, Mr Erskine, your duty as a gentleman is very clear before you. There is only one thing to do – Go! the way is clear."

"Lord Lindores!" John had made a step back in his dismay, but he still stood against the light, his face turned, astonished, towards the shadows close by him, which had approached without warning. Edith had melted and disappeared away into the gloom, where there was another shadow apart from the one which confronted John, catching on the whiteness of its countenance all the light in the indistinct picture. A sob, a quickened breathing in the background, gave some consciousness of support to the unfortunate young hero so rudely awakened out of his dream, but that was all.

"Her father, at your service, – entertaining exactly the sentiments that you have attributed to him, and only surprised that with such just views, a man who calls himself a gentleman – "

"Robert!" came from behind in a voice of keen remonstrance; and "Father!" with a cry of indignation.

"That a man who calls himself a gentleman," said Lord Lindores deliberately, "should play the domestic traitor, and steal into the affections – what she calls her heart, I suppose – of a silly girl."

Before John could reply, his outline against the window had again become double. Edith stood beside him, erect, with her arm within his. The touch filled the young man with a rapture of strength and courage. He stopped her as she began to speak. "Not you, dearest, not you; I," he said: "Lord Lindores, I am guilty. It is true what you say, I ought to have gone away. Had I known in time, I should have gone away – ('Yes, it would have been right:' this in an undertone to Edith, who at these words had grasped his arm tighter); but such things are not done by rule. What can I do now? We love each other. If she is not rich she would be happy with me – not great, but happy; that's something! and near home, Lord Lindores! I don't stand upon any right I had to speak to her – perhaps I hadn't any right – I beg your pardon heartily, and I don't blame you for being angry."

Perhaps it was not wonderful that the father thus addressed, with his wife murmuring remonstrance behind him, and his daughter before him standing up in defiance at her lover's side, should have been exasperated beyond endurance. "Upon my soul!" he cried. He was not given to exclamations, but what can a man do? Then after a pause, – "that is kind," in his usual sharp tone, "very kind; you don't blame me! Perhaps with so much sense at your command you will approve of me before all's done. Edith, come away from that man's side – this instant!" he cried, losing his temper, and stamping his foot on the ground.

"Papa! no, oh no – I cannot. I have chosen him, and he has chosen – "

"Leave that man's side. Do you hear me? leave him, or – "

"Robert! Robert! and for God's sake, Edith, do what your father tells you. Mr Erskine, you must not defy us."

"I will not leave John, mother; you would not have left my father if you had been told – "

"I will have no altercation," said Lord Lindores. "I have nothing to say to you, Edith. Mr Erskine, I hope, will leave my house when I tell him to do so."

"Certainly I will, – certainly! No, Edith darling, I cannot stay, – it is not possible. We don't give each other up for that; but your father has the best right in his own house – "

"Oh, this is insupportable. Your sentiments are too fine, Mr Erskine of Dalrulzian; for a little bonnet laird, your magnanimity is princely. I have a right, have I, in my own – "

Here there suddenly came a lull upon the stormy scene, far more complete than when the wind falls at sea. The angry Earl calmed down as never angry billows calmed. The pair of desperate lovers stole apart in a moment; the anxious, all-beseeching mother seated herself upon the nearest chair, and said something about the shortening of the days. This complete cessation of all disturbance was caused by the entrance of a portly figure carrying one lamp, followed by another slimmer one carrying a second. The butler's fine countenance was mildly illuminated by the light he carried. He gave a slight glance round him, with a serenity which made all these excited people shrink, in his indifferent and calmly superior vision. Imperturbable as a god, he proceeded to close the shutters and draw the curtains. John Erskine in the quiet took his leave like any ordinary guest.

The mine had exploded; – the mines were exploding under all the ramparts. This was the night when Rintoul came home from his visit; and Lady Lindores looked forward to her son's composure of mind and manner, and that good sense which was his characteristic, and kept him in agreement with his father upon so many points on which she herself was apt to take different views. It was the only comfort she could think of. Edith would not appear at dinner at all; and her mother was doubly afraid now of the explanation of Carry's sentiments which she would have to give to her husband. But Rintoul, she felt with relief, would calm everything down. He would bring in a modifying influence of outdoor life and unexaggerated sentiment. The commonplace, though it was one of the bitternesses of her life to recognise her son as its impersonification, is dearly welcome sometimes; and she looked forward to Rintoul's presence with the intensest relief. She gave him a hint when he arrived of her wishes: "Occupy your father as much as you can," she said. "He has had several things to think of; try and put them out of his head to-night."

"I think I can promise I will do that, mother," said Rintoul. The tone of his voice was changed somehow. She looked at him with a certain consternation. Was Saul also among the prophets? Had Rintoul something on his mind? But he bore his part at dinner like a man, and talked and told his stories of the world – those club anecdotes which please the men. It was only after she had left the dining-room that Rintoul fell silent for a little. But before his father could so much as begin to confide to him what had happened in the afternoon, Rintoul drew his chair close to the table, planted his elbow upon it to support himself, and looked steadily into his father's face. "I should like to talk to you, if you don't mind – about myself," he said.

CHAPTER XLVII

The profoundest of the many wounds inflicted upon Lord Lindores, at this terrible period of his life, was that which he thus received at the hands of Rintoul: it was so altogether unexpected, so unlike anything that he had imagined of his son, so sudden, that it took away his breath. For the first moment he could not speak in the bitterness of his disappointment and outraged expectations. Rintoul had always been the strictly reasonable member of his family, – he had never given in to any sentimental nonsense. His reasoning had all been upon substantial data, and led to distinct conclusions. He had not looked at things in any visionary way, but as they were contemplated by the world in general. From the point of view of personal advantage and family progress, nothing could have been more judicious or sound than his opinions in respect to Carry and Edith. He had supported the Tinto marriage (which had on the whole turned out so well, better than could have been hoped – the man, the only objectionable feature in it, being now dead and out of the way, and all the substantial advantages secured) quietly but firmly. He had been very earnest about Millefleurs. It was no fault of his if that arrangement had proved unsuccessful. In all these concerns, Lord Lindores had found his son his right hand, supporting him steadily. He could not help reminding him of this now, after the first outburst of his wrath and mortification. "You," he said at length, "Rintoul! I have been prepared for folly on the part of your sisters, but I have always felt I had a tower of strength in you."

"There is no difference in me," said Rintoul, – "I should be just as ready to back you up about the girls as ever I was; but if you will recollect, I never said a word about myself. I consider it as our duty to look after the girls. For one thing, they are not so well qualified to judge for themselves. They see things all from one side. They don't know the world. I wouldn't let them sacrifice their prospects to a bit of silly sentiment; but I never said a word about myself. That's different. A man has a right to please himself as to who he's going to marry, if he marries at all. Most fellows don't marry at all – at least it's usual to say so; I don't know that it's true. If you'll remember, when you spoke to me of Lady Reseda, I never said anything one way or another. I have never committed myself. It has always been my determination in this respect to take my own way."

Lord Lindores was subdued by this calm speech. He was almost cowed by it. It was very different from Carry's tears, and even from Edith's impassioned defiance. Rintoul knew perfectly well what he was about. There was no excitement to speak of in his steady confidence in his own power. And his father knew very well that there was nothing to be done. A family scandal might indeed be made: a breach in their relations, – a quarrel which would amuse the world. He might withdraw Rintoul's allowance, or refuse to increase it, but this, though vexatious, was not in any way final; for the estates were all strictly entailed, and his heir would have little difficulty in procuring what money he needed. It was like fighting against a rock to struggle with Rintoul. When their father worked himself up into a rage, and launched sharp phrases at the girls, bitter cuts and slashes of satire and fierce denunciations, these weapons cut into their tender flesh like knives, and they writhed upon the point of the paternal spear. But Rintoul did not care. A certain amount of vituperation was inevitable, he knew, and he did not mind it. His father might "slang" him as much as he pleased; fierce words break no bones, and he knew exactly how far it could go. Lord Lindores also knew this, and it had the most curious composing and subduing effect upon him. What is the use of being angry, when the object of your anger does not care for it? There is no such conqueror of passion. If nobody cared, the hastiest temper would learn to amend itself. Lord Lindores was aware that Rintoul would hear him out to the end, – that he would never, so to speak, turn a hair, – that he would reply with perfect coolness, and remain entirely unmoved. It would be like kicking against a blank wall, – a child's foolish instinctive paroxysm of passion. Therefore he was not violent with Rintoul, nor sharply satirical, except by moments. He did not appeal to his feelings, nor stand upon his own authority. If indeed he could not keep his exasperation out of his voice, nor conceal his annoyance, he did this only because he could not help it, not with any idea of influencing Rintoul. But it was indeed a very serious blow which he had received, – the most telling of all.

"After this," he said, "why should I go on struggling? What advantage will it be to me to change Lindores into a British peerage? I could not enjoy it long in the course of nature, nor could I afford to enjoy it. And as for my son, he will have enough to do to get bread and butter for his numerous family. A season in town, and a seat in the House of Lords, will after this be perfectly out of the question."

"I suppose it's just as likely as not that the House of Lords will be abolished before my time," said Rintoul calmly, – "at least they say so."

"They say d – d nonsense, sir," cried the earl, touched at his tenderest point. "The House of Lords will outlive you and half a hundred like you. They don't know Englishmen who say so. I had hoped to see my family advancing in power and influence. Here was poor Torrance's death, for instance, coming in providentially to make up for Edith's folly about Millefleurs." Here Lord Lindores made a little pause and looked at his son. He had, beyond expectation, made, he thought, an impression upon him. "Ah," he said, "I see, you forgot the Tinto influence. You thought it was all up with my claims when Millefleurs slipped through our fingers. On the contrary, I never felt so like attaining my point as now."

"That is not what I was thinking, father," said Rintoul in a slightly broken voice. He had risen from his chair and walked to the window, and stood there, keeping his face averted as he spoke. "I cannot tell you," he said more earnestly, "the effect it has upon me when you speak of getting an advantage from – what has happened. Somehow it makes my blood run cold. I'd rather lose everything I have than profit by that – accident. I can't bear the idea. Besides," he added, recovering himself, "I wouldn't build so upon it if I were you. It's all in Carry's hand, and Carry will like to have things her own way."

"This exhibition of sentiment in respect to Pat Torrance takes me altogether by surprise," said Lord Lindores. "I was not aware you had any such friendship for him. And as to Carry. Pooh! Carry has not got a way of her own."

This subject, though it was so painful to Rintoul, brought the conversation to an easier level. But when the young man had left him, Lord Lindores remained for a long time silent, with his head in his hands, and a bitterness of disappointment pervading his mind, which, if it had not a very exalted cause, was still as keen as any tragedy could require. He had let things go much as they would before he came to his kingdom; but when Providence, with that strange sweep of all that stood before him, had cleared his way to greatness, he had sworn to himself that his children should all be made instrumental in bringing the old house out of its humble estate – that they should every one add a new honour to Lindores. Now he said to himself bitterly that it would have been as well if his brothers had lived, – if he had never known the thorns that stud a coronet. What had the family gained? His son would have been quite good enough for Nora Barrington if he had never been more than Robin Lindores; and John Erskine would have been no great match for his daughter, even in the old times. It would have been as well for them if no change had come upon the fortunes of the family, – if all had remained as when they were born. When he thought of it, there was a moment when he could have gnashed his teeth with rage and mortification. To have sworn like a trooper or wept like a woman, would have been some relief to his feelings; or even to clench his hands and his teeth, and stamp about the floor like a baffled villain on the stage. But he did not dare to relieve himself by any of these safety-valves of nature. He was too much afraid of himself to be melodramatic or hysterical. He sat and gnawed his nails, and devoured his own heart. His house seemed to be tumbling about his ears like a house of cards. Why should he take any further trouble about it? Neither money nor importance, nothing but love, save the mark! idiocy – the passing fancy of boys and girls. Probably they would all hate each other in a year or two, and then they would understand what their folly had done for them. He thought of this with a vindictive pleasure; but even of that indifferent satisfaction he could not be sure.