The Ladies Lindores · Chapter 23 (2/2)

This pair were on the happiest terms, fully understanding each other; but it was very different with the others, between whom conversation had wholly ceased. Lady Lindores now drew her shawl round her, and complained that it was getting chilly. “That is the worst of Scotland,” she said⁠—“you can never trust the finest day. A sharp wind will come round a corner all in a moment and spoil your pleasure.” This was most unprovoked slander of the northern skies, which were beaming down upon her at the moment with the utmost brightness, and promising hours of sunshine; but after such a speech there was nothing to be done but to go down hill again to the house, where the carriage was waiting. John, who lingered behind to pull himself together after his downfall, found, to his great surprise, that Edith lingered too. But it seemed to him that he was incapable of saying anything to her. To point the contrast between himself and Millefleurs by a distracted silence, that, of course, was the very thing to do to take away any shadow of a chance he might still have! But he had no chance. What possibility was there that an obscure country gentleman, who had never done anything to distinguish himself, should be able to stand for a moment against the son of a rich duke, a marquis, a millionaire, and a kind of little hero to boot, who had been very independent and original, and made himself a certain reputation, though it was one of which some people might be afraid? There was only one thing in which he was Millefleurs’s superior, but that was the meanest and poorest of all. John felt inclined to burst out into savage and brutal laughter at those soft curves and flowing outlines, as the little man, talking continuously, as he had talked to Edith, walked on in front with her mother. The impulse made him more and more ashamed of himself, and yet he was so mean as to indulge it, feeling himself a cad, and nothing else. Edith laughed too, softly, under her breath. But she said quickly⁠—“We should not laugh at him, Mr. Erskine. He is a very good little man. He has done more than all of us put together. They called him Tommy in America,” said the traitress, with another suppressed laugh. John was for a moment softened by the “we” with which she began, and the gibe with which she ended. But his ill-humour and jealous rage were too much for him.

“He is Marquis of Millefleurs, and he will be Duke of Lavender,” he said, with an energy which was savage, trampling down the tough heather under his feet.

Edith turned and looked at him with astonished eyes. It was a revelation to her also, though for the first moment she scarcely knew of what. “Do you think it is for that reason we like him, Mr. Erskine? How strange!” she said, and turned her eyes away with a proud movement of her head, full of indignation and scorn. John felt himself the pettiness and petulance of which he had been guilty; but he was very unhappy, and it seemed to him impossible to say or do anything by which he might get himself pardoned. So he walked along moodily by her side, saying nothing, while Lord Millefleurs held forth just a few steps in advance. Edith bent forward to hear what he was saying, in the continued silence of her companion, and this was a renewed draught of wormwood and gall to John, though it was his own fault. It was with relief that he put the ladies into their carriage, and saw them drive away, though this relief was changed into angry impatience when he found that Millefleurs lingered with the intention of walking, and evidently calculated upon his company. The little Marquis, indeed, took his arm with friendly ease, and turned him with gentle compulsion towards the avenue. “You are going to walk with me,” he said. “An excellent thing in Scotland is that it is never too warm to walk, even for me. Come and talk a little. I have been telling tales about myself. I have not heard anything of you. The first is such an easy subject. One has one’s little experiences, which are different from anyone else’s; and wherever there are kind women you find your audience, don’t you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” said John, abruptly. “It never occurs to me to talk about myself. I can’t see what interest anybody can have in things that happen to me. Besides, few things do happen for that matter,” he added, in an undertone.

“My dear fellow,” said Millefleurs, “I don’t want to appear to teach you, who are a man of much more intelligence than I. But that ith a mithtake, I must say it. You can always talk best on the subject you know best. Don’t you find it a great difference coming here after knocking about the world? Yes, I feel it; but society is quite fresh to me, as fresh as California while it lasts. Then I have had my eyes opened as to my duties. My father and mother are as kind as possible. A friend of mine tells me, and I am partly convinced, that to keep them comfortable is my chief business. You are of that opinion too? there is much to be said for it. It belongs to civilisation; but so long as civilisation lasts, perhaps⁠—And so I am going to marry and range myself,” Millefleurs said, with his air of ineffable self-satisfaction, turning up the palms of his fat pink-tinged hands.

“Really!” John cried, with faint derision, feeling as if this innocent exclamation were an oath. “And the lady?” he added, with a still more fierce laugh.

Millefleurs gave his arm a little squeeze. “Not settled yet,” he said⁠—“not settled yet. I have seen a great many. There are so many pretty persons in society. If anyone of them would ask me, I have no doubt I should be perfectly happy; but choice is always disagreeable. In America also,” he added, with some pathos, “there are many very pretty persons: and they like a title. The field is very wide. Let us take an easier subject. Is Beaufort coming to you?”

“His answer is very enigmatical,” said John. “I do not know whether he means to come or not.”

“He is enigmatical,” said Millefleurs. “He is the queerest fellow. What is the connection between him and the family here?”

This question took John entirely by surprise. It was so sudden, both in form and meaning. He had expected his companion, before he paused, to go on for at least five minutes more. He hesitated in spite of himself.

“There is no connection that I know of between him and the family here.”

“Oh yes, yes, there is,” said Millefleurs, with gentle pertinacity; “think a minute. Erskine, my dear fellow, forgive me, but you must have Beaufort here. If he is not near me, he will lose the confidence of my papa⁠—who will think Beaufort is neglecting his precious son. I speak to you with perfect freedom. Beaufort and I understand each other. I am in no need of a governor, but he is in want of a protégé. Don’t you see? By this arrangement everything is made comfortable. Beaufort understands me. He knows that control is a mistake in my case. He found me and brought me home, because I was already on my way: he keeps me from harm⁠—for what you call harm has no attraction for me, don’t you know. It is only my curiosity that has to be kept in check, and at present I have plenty to occupy that; but my father does not understand all this. Minds of that generation are a little limited, don’t you know. They don’t see so clearly as one would wish them to see. If Beaufort is long away from me, he will think I am in danger⁠—that I may bolt again. Also, it will interfere with Beaufort’s prospects, which the Duke is to take charge of⁠—”

“But this seems to me rather⁠—not quite straightforward on Beaufort’s part,” said John.

At this little Millefleurs shrugged his plump shoulders. “It is permitted to humour our elders,” he said. “It pleases them and it does no one any harm. Beaufort, don’t you know, is not a fellow to walk alone. He is clever and all that; but he will never do anything by himself. Between him and me it suits very well. So, to save the Duke’s feelings and to help Beaufort on, you must stretch a point and have him here. It will be thought he is watching over me at a little distance like the sweet little cherub, don’t you know, in the song. What objection have they got to seeing him here?”

“None that I know of,” said John steadily, turning his face to the other side to escape the scrutiny of those small black bead-like eyes.

“Oh come, come, come!” said little Millefleurs, remonstrating yet coaxing, patting him lightly on the arm, “one sees it must have been one of the daughters. It will do no harm to tell me. Am I such an ignorant? These things are happening every day. Is it this one here?⁠—”

“What are you thinking of?” cried John, angrily. “Lady Edith was only a child.”

“Ah! then it was the other one,” Millefleurs said, seriously; “that suits me better. It would have been a trifle ridiculous⁠—Beaufort might keep in the background if there is any reason for it: but we must really think of the Duke. He will be in a state of mind, don’t you know, and so will my mother. They will think I have bolted again.”

“And when is it,” said John satirically, for he was sick at heart and irritable in the discovery which he had made, “that Beaufort’s mission is to be accomplished, and the Duke to fulfil his hopes?”

Millefleurs laughed a soft rich laugh, not loud. “My dear fellow,” he said, “that is when I marry, don’t you know. That is my occupation now in the world. When I have a wife, the other will be off duty. I am much interested in my occupation at present. It brings so many specimens of humanity under one’s eyes. So different⁠—for women are just as different as men, though you don’t think so perhaps. It might make a man vain,” he said, turning out his pink-tinged palm, “to see how many fair creatures will take notice of him; but then one remembers that it was not always so, and that takes one down again. In California I was liked, I am proud to say, but not admired. It was, perhaps, more amusing. But I must not be ungrateful: for life everywhere is very entertaining. And here are fresh fields and pastures new,” said the little man. “When you have a pursuit, every new place is doubly interesting. It does not matter whether you are hunting or botanising or⁠—, a pursuit gives interest to all things. Now is the time for the country and rural character. I sometimes think it is that which will suit me best.”

“Then I suppose you are on a tour of inspection, and one of our country young ladies may have the honour of pleasing you,” said John, somewhat fiercely. His companion, looking up in his face with deprecating looks, patted his arm as a kind of protest.

“Don’t be brutal, Erskine,” he said with his little lisp; “such things are never said.” John would have liked to take him in his teeth and shake him as a dog does, so angry was he, and furious. But little Millefleurs meant no harm. He drew his old schoolfellow along with him, as long as John’s civility held out. Then, to see him strolling along with his little hat pushed on the top of his little round head, and all the curves of his person repeating the lines of that circle! John stopped to look after him with a laugh which he could scarcely restrain so long as Millefleurs was within hearing. It was an angry laugh, though there was nothing in the young man to give occasion for it. There was nothing really in him that was contemptible, for to be plump is not an offence by any code. But John watched him with the fiercest derision going along the country road with his cane held in two fingers, his hat curling in the brim, his locks curling the other way. And this was the man whom even Lady Lindores⁠—even she, a woman so superior to worldly motives⁠—condescended to scheme about. And Edith? was it possible that she, too⁠—even she? Everything seemed to have turned to bitterness in John’s soul. Tinto before him in the distance, with its flaunting flag, gave emphasis to the discovery he had made. For mere money, nothing else, one had been sacrificed. The other, was she to be sacrificed, too? Was there nothing but wealth to be thought of all the world over, even by the best people, by women with every tender grace and gift? When he thought of the part in the drama allotted to himself⁠—to entertain Beaufort, who was the keeper of Millefleurs, in order that Millefleurs might be at liberty to follow his present pursuit, John burst into a laugh not much more melodious than that of Torrance. Beaufort and he could condole with each other. They could communicate, each to each, their several disappointments. But to bring to the neighbourhood this man whom Carry dared not see, whom with such tragic misery in her face she had implored John to keep at a distance⁠—and that it should be her parents who were bringing him in cold blood in order to advance their schemes for her sister⁠—was it possible that anything so base or cruel could be?