The Ladies Lindores · Chapter 33 (2/2)

He gave a little bow of assent, and stood on the pavement looking after them as they drove away. He stood longer than was necessary for that, till they had disappeared round the corner of the High Street, till the children about⁠—of whom there was always a large supply in Dunearn⁠—began to gape at him with expectations of amusement. “Look at the man glowering frae him,” these spectators cried, and a small pebble tumbled along the flags where he stood⁠—a harmless experiment to see if there was any fun in him. He did not notice this, nor any other outside occurrence, but after a while got slowly under way again, as if the operation was difficult, and went on to the Town-house. When he got there, he went in reluctantly, with evident disinclination. The attendant who had talked to Rolls made way for him respectfully. The other people about opened the doors and took off their hats to the young potentate. A small case which was going on at the time was even suspended while the sheriff, not nearly so great a man, answered his lordship’s questions in his own person. “Yes, there has been an examination,” the sheriff said. “The circumstances are very suspicious. I have thought it best to order that young Erskine should be detained till there can be a more complete investigation. That, it is to be hoped, will clear the matter up; but if not⁠—”

Lord Rintoul’s fair and ruddy countenance was dark with anxiety and pain. “You cannot mean,” he said, “that you believe Erskine⁠—”

“I believe nothing but what there is evidence for,” the sheriff said. “We are not men of theories, Lord Rintoul. Experience shows every day that men do the most unlikely things. I hear he’s shown an animus⁠—and there are two or three points very strange. I saw it my duty to give orders that he should be detained⁠—”

“You have sent him to prison, do you mean?” There was a sharp tone as of personal anguish in Rintoul’s voice. “But you’ll admit him to bail? My father, I, Millefleurs, any gentleman in the country⁠—”

“Will be his bail? I doubt if it’s a bailable offence: but if Lord Lindores were willing to do that, no doubt it would have a good effect. However, nothing can be done before the investigation,” said the sheriff; “a day or two will do the young man no harm.”

This was all he could elicit. The sheriff was a man who had a great idea of his office, and it was not often that he had a case so interesting and important. The attendants thought Lord Rintoul had been drinking, as he stumbled out. He went along the quiet street with an uncertain step, now and then taking off his hat that the air might refresh him. He, too, stopped at Mr. Monypenny’s door, as Rolls had done a very short time before. It was afternoon now, and the shadows were lengthening as he reached Miss Barbara’s house. What a sunny glimpse there was from door to door, across the little hall to the garden, where the brightness of the autumn flowers made a flush of colour! Rintoul saw a figure against the light which was not Miss Barbara’s. There was in him a forlorn desire for consolation. “Don’t tell Miss Barbara I am here just yet,” he said hastily to the maid, and opened the glass-door, beyond which Nora stood among all the geraniums and mignonette. There was no agitation about her. She was not sufficiently interested in John Erskine to be deeply troubled by the idea of annoyance to him as his old aunt was, or alarmed by a passing shadow upon his name. She was serene and calm in this quiet world of flowers and greenness where no trouble was. She welcomed him with a smile. “Miss Barbara is very anxious,” she said. “She has gone upstairs to rest, but I am to let her know when you come.”

“Wait a little,” he said, glad of the interval; “you are not anxious.”

“Not so much. Of course I am interested in my friends’ friends⁠—but I don’t know very much of Mr. Erskine,” said Nora, unable to divest herself altogether of the imaginative offence that lay between John and her. “And it cannot do him much harm, can it? It will only be disagreeable⁠—till the facts are known. Young men,” she said, with a smile, “have a right to have something unpleasant happen to them now and then; they have so much the best of it in other ways.”

“Do you think so,” he said, with a seriousness which put her levity to shame. “To be sent to prison⁠—to have a stigma put upon you⁠—perhaps to be tried for your life!⁠—that is rather worse than mere unpleasantness.”

Nora was greatly impressed, not only by the gravity of what he said, but the air with which he said it. “It surely cannot be so bad as that: and he⁠—is innocent, Lord Rintoul?”

“I have no doubt of it,” cried Rintoul, eagerly⁠—“no doubt of it! If there is anyone to blame, it is someone⁠—whom most likely nobody suspects. What would you think of the man who had done it, and yet said nothing, but let John Erskine suffer for his fault?”

“I do not believe,” said Nora, like Desdemona, “that there could be any such man. It is impossible. You think too badly of human nature. How can you suppose another would do what you know you would not do yourself? Oh no, no, never! Lord Rintoul⁠—” She paused after this little outburst, and drawing a step nearer to him, asked in a low and horror-stricken tone⁠—“Do you really think that poor Mr. Torrance was⁠—murdered?”

“No, no!” he cried almost violently⁠—“no, no!” He stopped short, with a dryness in his throat, as if he could not speak; then resumed, in a quieter tone⁠—“But I think in all likelihood there was, as people imagine, a quarrel, a scuffle⁠—and that somebody⁠—took hold of the mare’s bridle⁠—”

“Some tramp, no doubt,” said Nora, sympathetically, much affected by his emotion, “who perhaps doesn’t even know⁠—”

“That is it,” said Rintoul, eagerly⁠—“who perhaps never dreamt at the moment. And even if he knows now, such a man might think, as you did, that it would come to nothing with Erskine. I believe it will come to nothing⁠—a day, or two days, in prison.”

“But if it should turn out more serious,” said Nora, “even a tramp⁠—would give himself up, surely⁠—would never let an innocent man suffer?”

“We must hope so, at least,” said Lord Rintoul. His countenance had never relaxed all this time. It was almost solemn, set, and rigid⁠—the muscles about his mouth unmoving. “There should not be any question about right and wrong, I know,” he said, “but such a man might say to himself⁠—he might think⁠—Young Erskine is a gentleman, and I’m only a common fellow⁠—they will treat him better than they would treat me. He might say to himself⁠—”

“I cannot believe it,” cried Nora. “In such a case there could be no question of what anyone would do. It is like A.B.C. What! let another man suffer for something you have done! Oh no, no⁠—even in the nursery one knows better than that!”

“I don’t think,” said Rintoul, “that you ever can understand all the excuses a man will make for himself till you’ve been in the same position. Things look so different when you’ve done it⁠—from what they do when someone else has done it. There are so many things to be taken into consideration. Punishment is not the same to all; it might ruin one, and not do much harm to another. A man might feel justified, or at least there would be excuses for him, if he let another bear the punishment which would not hurt him much, but would be destructive to himself. Of course it would be his business to make it up somehow.”

“Lord Rintoul, this is dreadful doctrine!” said Nora; “if it were carried out, then you might do any wickedness you wished, and hire somebody to be punished instead of you.” She laughed half nervously, shaking off the graver turn the conversation had taken. “But this is absurd,” she said; “of course you don’t mean that. I think I know what you mean;⁠—but I must not delay longer, I must tell Miss Barbara.”

“Don’t disturb her now,” said Rintoul, eagerly. “Besides, I really have not time. If you would say that it is unfortunately true⁠—that Erskine is⁠—detained till there can be a full investigation. I am hurrying off to get bail for him, for of course they must accept bail⁠—and it will only be for a few days. The investigation⁠—at which we shall all be examined,” he said, with a nervous tremor⁠—“will clear up everything, I hope.”

“I hope so, with all my heart,” said Nora, waving her hand to him as he hurried away. Rintoul had reached the garden door on his way out, when he suddenly paused, and came back to her, and took that hand, holding it for a moment between his own.

“All this is very hard upon me,” he said, incoherently; “it gives me a great deal of misery. Feel for me⁠—stand by me. Will you, Nora? I don’t care for the rest, if you⁠—”

And he wrung her hand almost violently, dropped it, and hurried away. The girl stood looking after him with wonder and dismay, and yet with a gush of a different kind of feeling, which filled her heart with a confusing warmth. “A great deal of misery!” Was it the tenderness of his heart for his sister, for the unfortunate man who had been summoned out of the world so abruptly⁠—though he did not love him⁠—and for his friend who was unjustly accused, which made Rintoul say this? But anyhow, Nora was not capable of resisting such an appeal. Poor Rintoul: though he did not show it to anyone, how tender he was, how full of sympathy! John Erskine (against whom she could not help entertaining a little grudge) died out of her mind altogether. She was so much more sorry for the other, who felt it so deeply though it was not his concern.