The Ladies Lindores · Chapter 18 (2/2)

Again Lady Caroline made him a little bow. She rose, with some stiffness and slowness, as if in pain. “It grows late, though it is so light. Baby will be better indoors,” she said. She went quickly away, but wavering a little in her gait, as if she were unconscious of obstacles in the way, and disappeared through the window of the old library, which was on the same level as the dining-room. John stood looking after her, with a bewildering sense of guilt, and alarm for he knew not what. All this time Torrance had not said a word; but he had taken in every word that was said, and his jealous eyes had noted the changes in his wife’s face. He watched her go away, as John did. When she had disappeared, both of them listened for a moment in silence. Neither would have been surprised to hear a fall and cry; but there was nothing. Torrance threw himself down heavily in the seat from which she had risen.

“That was a pity, Erskine,” he said; “you saw that well enough. You can tell me the rest about this Beaumont⁠—Beaufort⁠—what do you call him?⁠—that you thought it best not to tell Lady Car.”

“There is nothing to tell about Beaufort,” said John, “which Lady Caroline, or any lady, might not hear.”

“Now just look you here, John Erskine,” said Tinto, projecting his big eyes, “I thought you were he⁠—that is the truth. She told me there was somebody. I thought it was you, and I was determined to be at the bottom of it. Now here’s the man, beyond a doubt, and you know it as well as I do.”

“I don’t know it at all,” cried John, “which probably is as much as you do. Can you suppose I should have spoken to Lady Caroline as I did if I had supposed⁠—believed⁠—known anything at all?”

“I will say,” said Torrance, “that you’re an honest fellow. That stands to reason: you wouldn’t have opened your mouth if you had thought⁠—but then you never thought till after you had spoken. Then you saw it as well as me.”

“Torrance!” cried John, “for heaven’s sake, don’t imagine things that were never thought of! I know nothing about it⁠—absolutely nothing. Even had there been anything in it, it is six years ago⁠—it is all over; it never can have had anything to say to you⁠—”

“Oh, as for that,” said Torrance, “if you think I’ve any fear of Lady Car going wrong, set your mind at rest on that point. No fear of Lady Car. If you suppose I’m jealous, or that sort of thing”⁠—and here he laughed, insolent and dauntless. “I thought it was you,” he said⁠—“I don’t see why I should conceal that⁠—I thought it was you. And if you think I would have shut her ladyship up, or challenged you!⁠—not a bit of it, my fine fellow! I meant to have asked you here⁠—to have seen you meet⁠—to have taken my fun out of it. I’m no more afraid of Lady Car than I am of myself. Afraid!⁠—not one bit. She shall see just as much of him as possible, if he comes here. I mean to ask him to the house. I mean to have him to dinner daily. You can tell him so, with my compliments. You needn’t say any more to Lady Car; but as for me, there’s nothing I’d enjoy more. Tutoring, is he?” Torrance said, with a sort of chuckle of wrathful enjoyment: and he cast an eye over his demesne, with a glow of proud satisfaction upon his face.

The sentiment of the evening calm had altogether disappeared. The peace of nature was broken up; a sense of human torture, human cruelty, was in the air. It was as if a curtain had been lifted in some presence-chamber, and the rack disclosed beneath. Torrance lounged back⁠—with his hands in his pockets, his cheeks inflamed, his great eyes rolling⁠—in the seat from which poor Carry with her baby had risen. His mind, which had been softened, touched to better things, and which had even begun to think of means and ways of making her happier, turned in a moment to more familiar preoccupations. To have him here⁠—he who was merely “tutoring,” a genteel attendant upon a foolish young lord⁠—to exhibit him, probably penniless, probably snubbed by everybody around, a dependant, a man without position or wealth⁠—was an idea altogether delightful to him. It was indeed a fierce delight, a cruel pleasure; but it was more congenial to his mind than the unnatural softness of the hour before.

And was it all John Erskine’s doing?⁠—his foolishness, his want of thought? When he left Torrance in disgust, and hurried away along the now familiar avenue, where he no longer took any wrong turns, his foolishness and thoughtlessness overwhelmed him. To be sure!⁠—a thousand recollections rushed upon his mind. He had known it all along, and how was it that he had not known it? The moment he had committed himself and begun to speak of Beaufort’s letter, that moment he had foreseen everything that followed⁠—just as poor Carry had read what was coming in his first sentence. It was he who had disturbed the evening calm⁠—the rapprochement of the two who, doomed as they were to live their lives together, ought by all about them to be helped to draw near each other. Full of these disquieting thoughts, he was skirting a clump of thick shrubbery at some distance from the house, when something glided out from among the bushes and laid a sudden light touch upon his arm. He was already in so much excitement that he could not suppress a cry of alarm, almost terror. There was no light to distinguish anything, and the dark figure was confused with the dark foliage. Almost before the cry had left his lips, John entreated pardon. “You are⁠—breathing the evening air,” he said, confused, “now that the little one is asleep.”

But she had no leisure for any vain pretences. “Mr. Erskine,” she said, breathless, “do not let him come⁠—ask him not to come! I have come out to tell you. I could not say it⁠—there.”

“I will do whatever you tell me, Lady Caroline.”

“I know you will be kind. This makes me very miserable. Oh, it is not that I could not meet him! It is because I know my husband has an idea⁠—not that he is jealous⁠—and he does not mean to be cruel⁠—but he has an idea⁠—He would like to look on, to watch. That is what I could not bear. Tell him, Mr. Erskine⁠—beg him⁠—of all places in the world, not to come here.”

“He will not come, I am sure, to give you a moment’s uneasiness.”

“Mr. Erskine, I must say more to you,” she said, drawing closer, putting once more her hand on his arm. “It must not be on that ground⁠—nothing must be said of me. Cannot you understand? He must not come; but not because of me⁠—nothing must be said of me. If it was your sister, oh would you not understand?”

He took her hand into his in the profound feeling of the moment. “I will try to do⁠—what I should do if it were my own sister,” he said, resting it in his. “It was my fault; I ought to have known.”

“There was no fault,” she said, faintly; “an accident. I knew it must happen some time. I was⁠—prepared. But, Mr. Erskine, it is not because I could not meet⁠—anyone. Do not think that for me only⁠—It is because⁠—because⁠—But if you understand, that is all.”

“Let me walk back with you to the house,” John said.

“No, no; it is almost wrong to speak to you in this clandestine way. But what can I do? And you who know⁠—all parties⁠—If I said anything to my brother, it might make a breach. There is no one I could speak to but you. I should have had to suffer helplessly, to hold my peace.”

“Believe me⁠—believe me,” cried John, “all that a brother can do, I will do.”

In the midst of this misery, which he felt to the bottom of his heart, there ran through him a secret stir of pleasure. Her brother!⁠—the suggestion went through all his veins. Strange encounter of the dream with the fact! The cold trembling hand he held in his gave him a thrill of warmth and happiness, and yet his sympathy was as strong, his pity as profound, as one human creature ever felt for another. He stood still and watched her as she flitted back to the house, like a shadow in the gathering darkness. His heart ached, yet beat high. If it should ever be so, how different would be the fate of the other daughter of Lindores’s!⁠—how he would guard her from every vexation, smooth every step of her way, strew it with flowers and sweetnesses! He resumed his way more quickly than ever, hastening along in the soft darkness which yet was not dark, by the Scaur⁠—the shortcut which had alarmed his groom. To the pedestrian the way by the Scaur was the best way. He paused a moment when he reached it, to look out through the opening in the trees over the broad country, lying like a dream in that mystical paleness which was neither night nor day. Underneath, the river rushed joyously, noisily, through the night⁠—not still, like a Southern stream, but dashing over the stones, and whirling its white eddies in foam against the bank. The sound of the water accompanied the quick current of his thoughts. He had a long walk before him, having come without preparation and left in haste and displeasure. But seven or eight miles of country road in a night of June is no such punishment. And the thoughts that had been roused in him, made the way short. How different⁠—how different would be the fate of that other daughter of Lindores’s! It was only when he reached his own gate that he woke up with a start to remember indeed how different it would be. The bare little white house, with its little plantation, its clump of firs on the hilltop, its scanty avenue⁠—the little estate, which could almost be said, with scornful exaggeration, to lie within the park of Tinto⁠—the position of a small squire’s wife⁠—was it likely that Lord Lindores would smile upon that for his daughter? John’s heart, which had been so buoyant, sank down into the depths. He began to see that his dream was ridiculous, his elation absurd. He to be the brother, in that sweetest way, of Carry Lindores! But nevertheless he vowed, as he went home somewhat crestfallen, that he would be a brother to her. She had given him her confidence, and he had given her his promise, and with this bond no worldly prudence nor rule of probabilities should be allowed to interfere.