The Ladies Lindores · Chapter 28 (2/2)

“That is all very well; but it is of more importance to do no injustice to the living,” said Rintoul, with a sort of sullen solemnity; and he suddenly gave place to the others and went off in the direction of his own den, a little room in which he smoked and kept his treasures. Lord Lindores took his guest into the library, gravely apologetic. “I have never seen Rintoul so upset; his nerves seem to have received a shock. I don’t think he cares to go over the melancholy story again.”

“It is very natural,” said little Millefleurs. “A man who has been always at home, who has never roughed it in the world, naturally loses his head when he first comes in contact with tragedy, don’t you know. I did myself in California the first time I touched actual blood. But that was murder, which is a different sort of thing.”

“Very different,” said Lord Lindores; and he proceeded to satisfy his guest with an account of all the particulars, to which Millefleurs listened very seriously. He had the Scaur described to him with much minuteness, and how it might be possible that such an accident could happen. Instinctively Lord Lindores made it appear that the wonder was it had not happened before. “I warned poor Torrance repeatedly,” he said; although he had in equal good faith expressed his amazement that such a thing could happen to a man who knew the place so well, only a short time before. Millefleurs listened to everything very gravely, giving the profoundest attention to every detail.

The house was full of agitation and excitement, and Lord Lindores sent repeatedly for his son to consult with him over what ought to be done; but Rintoul was not to be found. He had gone out, the servants said; and the general impression was that he had returned to Tinto, though he could only have done that by a long walk through the gloomy night. Millefleurs went out into the grounds while this question was proceeding. He had a great many things to think about. He lit his cigar and wandered about, thoughtfully discussing with himself various questions. Did Edith mean that he should stay? Had he any right to stay in the circumstances of the family? He had a strong desire to do so that was not entirely connected with Edith. To be sure, the suspense in which he was kept, the impossibility of addressing her at such a moment, would have made a passionate lover very restless; but Millefleurs was not the sort of stuff out of which passionate lovers are made. He thought Edith would make him a delightful wife, and that with such a wife he would be a very happy man; but he did not feel that heaven and earth would be changed to him without Edith, and therefore other motives were free to come in. He had something in his mind which for the moment almost obliterated all thoughts of her. He walked up and down in the darkness, turning it over and over in his mind. Vaguely, one way or another, this thought was associated with Edith too. After some time he perceived another red spark in the darkness, and became aware of someone else smoking like himself a thoughtful cigar. He called out to Rintoul and came upon him at the end of an alley. Millefleurs had an internal conviction that Rintoul wished to avoid him, so he went up to him quickly and caught him by the arm.

“It was thought that you had gone back to Tinto,” he said, putting his arm familiarly through his. He had to reach up on tiptoe to do it, but this was what pleased Millefleurs.

“What! walking at this time of night? I am not so eager about it,” said Rintoul. “Besides, what should I do there? Everything is settled so far as it can be for tonight, and my mother and Edith have gone to Carry: there is no need for me.”

“I wish you would tell me all about it, my dear Rintoul.”

“Didn’t my father tell you?”

“Yes, in his way; but that is different. You want the details from an eyewitness, don’t you know. You want to see it through the eyes that have seen it. I have a great curiosity about that kind of thing ever since I have been in California, where it is an incident of everyday life.”

“It is not an incident of everyday life here, and I’m sick of it,” cried Rintoul. “Don’t question me any more⁠—it’s too terrible. It must have been instantaneous they say; that is the only comfort about the business⁠—everything else is hideous from beginning to end.”

“Ah, from the beginning⁠—that is just what I want to talk to you about,” said Millefleurs.

He felt a thrill in the arm he held, and an inclination as if to throw him off, but he was not to be thrown off; he was small but very tenacious, and clung to his hold.

“That is what I want to know. The beginning. Did he meet anyone? had he any dispute or altercation in the wood?”

“None that I know of,” said Rintoul. He spoke sulkily, almost in an undertone, so that Millefleurs had to concentrate his attention upon the voice, which was interrupted by all the sounds in the air, the rustling of the trees, the sough of the river far away.

“Did you see anyone about?” said Millefleurs.

The two men were in the dark⁠—they could not see each other’s faces, yet they stopped and looked at each other, anxiously, suspiciously, each at the red end of the other’s cigar, which disclosed a moustache, a shadow above.

“Anyone about? I don’t think there was anyone about,” said Rintoul, still more sullenly. “What should put that into your mind? You were not there?”

This was a curious question, but Millefleurs made no note of it, his mind being possessed by an entirely different idea. He said, “No, I was not there. I drove home with your mother, don’t you know. To think we should have passed without the least knowing it, the place which so soon was to be the scene of such a tragedy.”

“Don’t romance about it. It’s bad enough as it is. You did not pass the scene. It was on the other road, a long way from yours.”

“At which side?”

“The left side,” said Rintoul, carelessly. “I wish, if you don’t mind, that you would change the subject. My nerves are all wrong. I didn’t know I was such a feeble beggar. I’d rather not dwell upon it, if you don’t mind.”

“The left side?” said Millefleurs, with a sigh⁠—and then there was a pause. “You are quite sure,” he added anxiously, “that you did not see anyone in the wood?”

Rintoul almost thrust this question away. “I tell you I won’t be questioned,” he said. Then, composing himself with an effort, “I beg your pardon, Millefleurs⁠—I never liked the man, though he was my brother-in-law; and to see all at once a fellow whom perhaps you had been thinking badly of two minutes before, wishing no good to⁠—to see him lying there stiff and stark⁠—”

“I beg you a thousand pardons, Rintoul,” Millefleurs said gravely. And they went in together, saying no more.